In liceu vorbeam mult de natura umana. De proportiile exacte ale personalitatii si mastii. Sub si Supra eul. Vorbeam in termeni pretentiosi de care nu aveam habar si impresionam lumea. Vorbeam de Masti. Sacrificii. Nevoi si dorinte. Niveluri ale profunzimii emotionale. Intelegerea celuilalt. Eram un Levinas de balta.
Nimic nu s-a schimbat. Doar ca acum imi dau seama de asta si inteleg unde greseam. Incerc mai mult.
Incerc mai mult? E mai bine?
Am ajuns la concluzia ca e degeaba. Analiza psihologica n-are rost. Nu poti citi pe cineva destul niciodata. Cineva ti se poate dezvalui. Maya Desnuda a spiritului cu tot ce e frumos si mai ales cu ce nu e.
Degeaba.
Nu merge. O sa fie intotdeauna bucatica aia din self pe care nu o poti atinge. Alteritatea e un moft, cum ar spune tov. Ilici.
Ce poti spera? Sa intelegi ceva din celalalt in deplina cunostinta de cauza: nu ai cum sa il cunosti.
Psihoistorie? Perhaps.
Poti intelege actiuni, gesturi pozitii ale corpului poti prinde fluxul emotional dintre doua persoane care se plac. Dar nu le vei intelege.
Failure becomes us.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Thursday, December 28, 2006
The gauntlet...
1. Are you male or female?
... waiting f0r the worms to come
2.Describe yourself:
... And the Gods Made Love
3.How do you feel about yourself?
... an open relationship
4.Describe where you currently live:
... vine pupaza si spune ...
5.If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
... where the deer and the antelope play classlessly
6.Your best friend is:
... a tuber, and says loads about me
7.Your favorite colour is:
... not-so-Prussian blue [red if it's on a flagpost]
8.You know that:
... liberal is polite for 'mediocre'
9.What's the weather like?
Hell - Come on down!
10.If your life was a television show, what would it be called?
"Ride the Lightning - Tales of Whiskey on the Jar"
11.What is life to you?
... my only friend, The End
12.What is the best advice you have to give?
"Invatati, invatati, invatati!"
13.If you could change your name, what would you change it to?
xXHeIsTotallyRedXx
... waiting f0r the worms to come
2.Describe yourself:
... And the Gods Made Love
3.How do you feel about yourself?
... an open relationship
4.Describe where you currently live:
... vine pupaza si spune ...
5.If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
... where the deer and the antelope play classlessly
6.Your best friend is:
... a tuber, and says loads about me
7.Your favorite colour is:
... not-so-Prussian blue [red if it's on a flagpost]
8.You know that:
... liberal is polite for 'mediocre'
9.What's the weather like?
Hell - Come on down!
10.If your life was a television show, what would it be called?
"Ride the Lightning - Tales of Whiskey on the Jar"
11.What is life to you?
... my only friend, The End
12.What is the best advice you have to give?
"Invatati, invatati, invatati!"
13.If you could change your name, what would you change it to?
xXHeIsTotallyRedXx
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Craciun, Bucuresti, Europa
In noaptea de Craciun a nins. Cu o seara Inainte nu s-a auzit nici o pocnitoare. Colindatorilor li se scurg ochii de la frig si in loc de gheata pe jos e noroi. in cateva zile intram in Uniunea Europeana. Tiganii trec cu un simulacru de capra pe strada pe langa mine numarandu-si monedele de 0.5 si hartiile de 50. Pe strada a aparut peste noapte un ziggurat de aluminiu pe care scrie mare Romtelecom Broadband. Langa el parcat, un mertan cu iconita pe bord si o mare cruce aurie de plastic atarnata de retrovizoare. B 73 GKU. Gicu.
Romania se schimba si ramane la fel. Pe Lizeanu niste minoritari au improvizat intr-o casa aproape daramata o soba. Cosul evacueaza fumul la nivelul urechilor mele. Daca eram un pic mai inalt as fi primit o gura de aer romanesc in ajun european.
Zece metri mai in fata o cladire noua de otel si sticla se ridica langa un punct de colectat "stcle". Benzinarie noua langa vulcanizare veche. Vila langa cocioaba. RSR, UE.
Pe strada mea, tacere si intuneric. Ajun, Masinile adventistilor de vaza parcate in fata bisericii, rablele ruginind in fata Chop-shop-ului. Casele se inalta, cocioabele cad. Europa se deschide.
De Craciun strazile sunt pustii. Oricine e cineva e in Tunisia sau Maroc. Restul sunt la munte. Cei cativa ramasi in urma au orasul doar pentru ei. Il impart cu politia. Pentru Moment. Exodul se termina. Revelionul vine rapid din urma cu torente de multime, potop de romani in piata Universitatii. Basescu va face o baie de multime, Becali va da niste bani cui stie crezul, Geoana va face ceva dar nu va tine nimeni minte ce. Se vor canta colinde. Se vor canta manele. Se va intona imnul Romaniei. Din loc in loc Guta va fi inlocuit de Beethoven. Nu se va da cu petarde ca se pedepseste prin lege.
Quid est veritas? Va fi Integrare? Tinerete fara batranete? viata fara de moarte termica? Cadouri, Bucurie? taxe, scumpiri? O sa moara economia, o sa devenim tara bananiera? Integrare europeana? Dezintegrare nationala? Globalizare, Incalzire Globala? o sa ne fure ai' reacu da bozgori transilvania? o sa instaureze vadim/becali al patrulea reich, unul, asa, mioritic? Time will tell. Carepe diem mes amis. And happy kwanzaa.
Romania se schimba si ramane la fel. Pe Lizeanu niste minoritari au improvizat intr-o casa aproape daramata o soba. Cosul evacueaza fumul la nivelul urechilor mele. Daca eram un pic mai inalt as fi primit o gura de aer romanesc in ajun european.
Zece metri mai in fata o cladire noua de otel si sticla se ridica langa un punct de colectat "stcle". Benzinarie noua langa vulcanizare veche. Vila langa cocioaba. RSR, UE.
Pe strada mea, tacere si intuneric. Ajun, Masinile adventistilor de vaza parcate in fata bisericii, rablele ruginind in fata Chop-shop-ului. Casele se inalta, cocioabele cad. Europa se deschide.
De Craciun strazile sunt pustii. Oricine e cineva e in Tunisia sau Maroc. Restul sunt la munte. Cei cativa ramasi in urma au orasul doar pentru ei. Il impart cu politia. Pentru Moment. Exodul se termina. Revelionul vine rapid din urma cu torente de multime, potop de romani in piata Universitatii. Basescu va face o baie de multime, Becali va da niste bani cui stie crezul, Geoana va face ceva dar nu va tine nimeni minte ce. Se vor canta colinde. Se vor canta manele. Se va intona imnul Romaniei. Din loc in loc Guta va fi inlocuit de Beethoven. Nu se va da cu petarde ca se pedepseste prin lege.
Quid est veritas? Va fi Integrare? Tinerete fara batranete? viata fara de moarte termica? Cadouri, Bucurie? taxe, scumpiri? O sa moara economia, o sa devenim tara bananiera? Integrare europeana? Dezintegrare nationala? Globalizare, Incalzire Globala? o sa ne fure ai' reacu da bozgori transilvania? o sa instaureze vadim/becali al patrulea reich, unul, asa, mioritic? Time will tell. Carepe diem mes amis. And happy kwanzaa.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Di Lan, Di Tati
Tagged by ivanel pe eternul 360. Rules of engagement: alegi o formatie sau cantautor si raspunzi la urmatoarele doar cu titluri de melodii de la impricinat. As lame as tags are parca nu le poti rezista asa ca intr-un moment de respiro nocturn here goes nothing....
1. Are you male or female?
2.Describe yourself:
3.How do you feel about yourself?
4.Describe where you currently live:
5.If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
6.Your best friend is:
7.Your favorite colour is:
8.You know that:
9.What's the weather like?
10.If your life was a television show, what would it be called?
11.What is life to you?
12.What is the best advice you have to give?
13.If you could change your name, what would you change it to?
Deci, Cu Bobert inainte:
1. Are you male or female?
Man of Constant Sorrow
2. Describe yourself:
Jokerman
3.How do you feel about yourself?
Man of peace
4.Describe where you currently live:
Maggie's Farm
5.If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
All along the Watchtower
6.Your best friend is:
I and I
7.Your favorite colour is:
Tangled up in BLUE
8.You know that:
One of us must know (sooner or later)
9.What's the weather like?
Hurricane
10.If your life was a television show, what would it be called?
Ballad of a Thin Man
11.What is life to you?
Ugliest girl in the world
12.What is the best advice you have to give?
Don't think twice, it's all right
13.If you could change your name, what would you change it to?
Queen Jane Aproximately
Acum observ ca am mai fost taguit undeva, din nou pe y360, si doamne fereste sa fac ceva util noaptea (cum ar fi chiar motivul nedormirii) asa ca:
1. Grab the NEAREST book.
2. Open it to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 4 sentences on your blog along with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig for that cool or intellectual book in your bookshelves.
Tag-ul asta o sa fie scurt. Dupa o masuratoare cu ruleta, la 42 de cm de mine se afla Prospero's Cell De Lawrence Durell, o carte cu si despre Corfu din seria Insulelor lui Durell,
7.4.38
Coming over the crest of the Hill behind Kastellani we see that a dance is in progress. From the grassy glades below, the shadow of the olive tree is broken by clouds of dust and the afternoon silence by the terrific giggling of donkeys - like pantomime comedians. Smoke from the fires, upon which whole kids are turning upon spits, rizes lazily. Through the hum of human voices one can hear the scratch and squeak of the violin and guitars and the hollow beat of the drum, resonant and vulgar as a full stomach struck with the palm of the hand.
A doua carte era Papillon iar in opusa directie la doar 10 cm in plus Catch-22 de Heller si Plato cu the Republic. Prospero fu sa fie.
Din ciclul sa sufere si altii, il aleg pe amicul meu marxist d-acilea precum si pe mandra Maria ca tot a zis ca uraste ceste chestionare.
1. Are you male or female?
2.Describe yourself:
3.How do you feel about yourself?
4.Describe where you currently live:
5.If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
6.Your best friend is:
7.Your favorite colour is:
8.You know that:
9.What's the weather like?
10.If your life was a television show, what would it be called?
11.What is life to you?
12.What is the best advice you have to give?
13.If you could change your name, what would you change it to?
Deci, Cu Bobert inainte:
1. Are you male or female?
Man of Constant Sorrow
2. Describe yourself:
Jokerman
3.How do you feel about yourself?
Man of peace
4.Describe where you currently live:
Maggie's Farm
5.If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
All along the Watchtower
6.Your best friend is:
I and I
7.Your favorite colour is:
Tangled up in BLUE
8.You know that:
One of us must know (sooner or later)
9.What's the weather like?
Hurricane
10.If your life was a television show, what would it be called?
Ballad of a Thin Man
11.What is life to you?
Ugliest girl in the world
12.What is the best advice you have to give?
Don't think twice, it's all right
13.If you could change your name, what would you change it to?
Queen Jane Aproximately
Acum observ ca am mai fost taguit undeva, din nou pe y360, si doamne fereste sa fac ceva util noaptea (cum ar fi chiar motivul nedormirii) asa ca:
1. Grab the NEAREST book.
2. Open it to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 4 sentences on your blog along with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig for that cool or intellectual book in your bookshelves.
Tag-ul asta o sa fie scurt. Dupa o masuratoare cu ruleta, la 42 de cm de mine se afla Prospero's Cell De Lawrence Durell, o carte cu si despre Corfu din seria Insulelor lui Durell,
7.4.38
Coming over the crest of the Hill behind Kastellani we see that a dance is in progress. From the grassy glades below, the shadow of the olive tree is broken by clouds of dust and the afternoon silence by the terrific giggling of donkeys - like pantomime comedians. Smoke from the fires, upon which whole kids are turning upon spits, rizes lazily. Through the hum of human voices one can hear the scratch and squeak of the violin and guitars and the hollow beat of the drum, resonant and vulgar as a full stomach struck with the palm of the hand.
A doua carte era Papillon iar in opusa directie la doar 10 cm in plus Catch-22 de Heller si Plato cu the Republic. Prospero fu sa fie.
Din ciclul sa sufere si altii, il aleg pe amicul meu marxist d-acilea precum si pe mandra Maria ca tot a zis ca uraste ceste chestionare.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Matrioska I
"I am the great white hunter, conqueror of the west. I am the Winchester wielding, Chevy driving king of the world.
She screeched to a halt in the middle of the night, a lone driver in the middle of a lonely night.
She walked into my store like she owned it, a cigerette pressed between her lips sunglasses on her face even in the dead of night.
Her arrogance alone would have brought the wrath of the Lord upon her, were she not so beautiful, were she not angelic.
Oh, and that she was. She was more beautiful than anything I had ever seen, an angel walking the face of the earth. Dressed in white. Pristine.
She smiles at me and I begin to melt like icecream left out in the sun. She asks me for the restroom in a voice as soft as velvet but I can barely hear her under the thumping of my heart. I point it out, between shards of fantasy and dreams and nearly faint as i catch a whiff of her perfume.
I am in love.
She enters the toilet in the back of the store and Jeremy loses it. Jeremy has no self control. I panic as I feel him guiding my hand towards the axe. He picks it up and swings it over my shoulder. We walk to the bathroom. She is beauty incarnate, do not do this to her, Jeremy. Please, I beg of you.. there are others... please Jeremy. Just forget this one... For our sake...
For a second i feel him struggling. He also has his doubts, I know that. I can control him.
But then he hears her flushing. His animal instincts take over and i can't do anything for her anymore.
It was over in a heartbeat. The axe split her head in half, her beautiful features covered in blood, her white suit soaked in red. Jeremy smiled. God had told him to kill the whore he says. he lichs his bloodied fingers and tells me we have to clean up. The feast of flesh can wait, he says. Jeremy scares me sometimes. God scares me.
I hate being evil. I sometimes wish I was normal. Jeremy threatens to hurt me then. Jeremy Needs me. The Lord needs me. I am the Great white hunter, conqueror of the west.
Lying there, in her pool of blood, she looks like a fallen angel."
"At this point the tip of the pencil broke off That's how intense writing this was... "
"Whoa"
"That must have taken a lot of pain to write, Darkus"
"Totally, all the pain i felt this entire month, all distilled in this page of dark thoughts"
"You are sooo dark, Darkus"
"I know, Scabia, pain is... a mind opener. You just need enough."
She screeched to a halt in the middle of the night, a lone driver in the middle of a lonely night.
She walked into my store like she owned it, a cigerette pressed between her lips sunglasses on her face even in the dead of night.
Her arrogance alone would have brought the wrath of the Lord upon her, were she not so beautiful, were she not angelic.
Oh, and that she was. She was more beautiful than anything I had ever seen, an angel walking the face of the earth. Dressed in white. Pristine.
She smiles at me and I begin to melt like icecream left out in the sun. She asks me for the restroom in a voice as soft as velvet but I can barely hear her under the thumping of my heart. I point it out, between shards of fantasy and dreams and nearly faint as i catch a whiff of her perfume.
I am in love.
She enters the toilet in the back of the store and Jeremy loses it. Jeremy has no self control. I panic as I feel him guiding my hand towards the axe. He picks it up and swings it over my shoulder. We walk to the bathroom. She is beauty incarnate, do not do this to her, Jeremy. Please, I beg of you.. there are others... please Jeremy. Just forget this one... For our sake...
For a second i feel him struggling. He also has his doubts, I know that. I can control him.
But then he hears her flushing. His animal instincts take over and i can't do anything for her anymore.
It was over in a heartbeat. The axe split her head in half, her beautiful features covered in blood, her white suit soaked in red. Jeremy smiled. God had told him to kill the whore he says. he lichs his bloodied fingers and tells me we have to clean up. The feast of flesh can wait, he says. Jeremy scares me sometimes. God scares me.
I hate being evil. I sometimes wish I was normal. Jeremy threatens to hurt me then. Jeremy Needs me. The Lord needs me. I am the Great white hunter, conqueror of the west.
Lying there, in her pool of blood, she looks like a fallen angel."
"At this point the tip of the pencil broke off That's how intense writing this was... "
"Whoa"
"That must have taken a lot of pain to write, Darkus"
"Totally, all the pain i felt this entire month, all distilled in this page of dark thoughts"
"You are sooo dark, Darkus"
"I know, Scabia, pain is... a mind opener. You just need enough."
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
The Nicotine Patch
"Not that which goeth into the mouth defileth a man; but that which cometh out of the mouth, this defileth a man." [Matthew 15:10-11]
Si cu epiderma ce facem dar?
Iata pacatul fumatului, redus la esenta lui primara. Dregandu-ne dorul neostoit de paradisuri artificiale prin diluarea sa din ce in ce mai mare, radacina viciului totusi ramane. In speranta ca scapam de pacatul distrugerii trupului nostru prin nicotinizare, ne amagim si ne otravim cu plasturi care, vanduti fiind cu titlu de leac, ajuta la perpetuarea raului; o, cumplita slabiciune omeneasca! Caci prin ce prelungim agonia caderii noastre, daca nu prin nicotina cutanata? Cum sunt mrejele viciului mai slabite, daca prin trei-patru plasturi care au intru ei asa-zisa scapare ajungem de unde am plecat, inglodati in mlastina neputintei noastre? Numai libera noastra constiinta ne poate scapa de fumat! Can i get an A-men? Can i get a Hallelujah?
Si daca ar fi vorba de iubita noastra Prostie in loc de nicotina?
O mai veche obsesie revine pe tapet. (Sau mai bine zis nu revine, caci e doamna mare si clasica pe deasupra.) Asadar ganditi-va doar ce ar fi daca in comert am gasi, ca sa ne dezvete de tampenia maladiva, Stupidity Patches [TM] ? Cumparate pe ascuns si cu rusine inocenta de cei care sau descotorosit de mandrie si acum vor sa faca asijderea si cu slabiciunea mintii, aplicate ca vaccin pe intreaga suprafata a scalpului (cat mai multe deodata, ca sa fie!), vor oferi pentru scurt timp, printr-un efect placebo, iluzia vindecarii. Apoi, intrand intr-un sevraj al tampeniei, temerarul utilizator isi mai pune un rand, inca unul si inca unul.
La fel ca si cu fumatul, trebuie vointa multa.
Ca e pacat...
Si cu epiderma ce facem dar?
Iata pacatul fumatului, redus la esenta lui primara. Dregandu-ne dorul neostoit de paradisuri artificiale prin diluarea sa din ce in ce mai mare, radacina viciului totusi ramane. In speranta ca scapam de pacatul distrugerii trupului nostru prin nicotinizare, ne amagim si ne otravim cu plasturi care, vanduti fiind cu titlu de leac, ajuta la perpetuarea raului; o, cumplita slabiciune omeneasca! Caci prin ce prelungim agonia caderii noastre, daca nu prin nicotina cutanata? Cum sunt mrejele viciului mai slabite, daca prin trei-patru plasturi care au intru ei asa-zisa scapare ajungem de unde am plecat, inglodati in mlastina neputintei noastre? Numai libera noastra constiinta ne poate scapa de fumat! Can i get an A-men? Can i get a Hallelujah?
Si daca ar fi vorba de iubita noastra Prostie in loc de nicotina?
O mai veche obsesie revine pe tapet. (Sau mai bine zis nu revine, caci e doamna mare si clasica pe deasupra.) Asadar ganditi-va doar ce ar fi daca in comert am gasi, ca sa ne dezvete de tampenia maladiva, Stupidity Patches [TM] ? Cumparate pe ascuns si cu rusine inocenta de cei care sau descotorosit de mandrie si acum vor sa faca asijderea si cu slabiciunea mintii, aplicate ca vaccin pe intreaga suprafata a scalpului (cat mai multe deodata, ca sa fie!), vor oferi pentru scurt timp, printr-un efect placebo, iluzia vindecarii. Apoi, intrand intr-un sevraj al tampeniei, temerarul utilizator isi mai pune un rand, inca unul si inca unul.
La fel ca si cu fumatul, trebuie vointa multa.
Ca e pacat...
Ma Viseaza Femeile
O prietena imi spune pe Messenger ca m-a visat.
reactia mea e bineinteles: "oooh, kinky"
Apoi , povestea mi se dezvaluie devoid of any kinkyness.
Ea era intr-o cladire inalta, cu sali mari, pe scurt o facultate (atata timp cat nu se cheama FSPUB, unde Amfiteatrul e cat o baie de McDonalds). Si acolo pe podium stateam EU tinandu-i EI o prelegere despre Kant in stilul superior, holier-than-thou al pastorilor si reverenzilor revivalisti americani.
Apoi, am trecut la interogatoriu si visul ia turnura de cosmar. Ca intr-un episod din Dexter din copilaria mea salbatica Avatarul meu incepe sa turmenteze fata, intreband-o filozofie pe un ton amenintator. Un munte metafizic de rau in stare primara. Ea in spirit pur freudian nu isi aminteste nimic iar eu, eu precum Hamlet I turn her eyes into her very soul:
"O, speak to me no more;
These words, like daggers, enter in mine ears;
No more, sweet Hamlet!"
Incetul cu incetul uita totul pana nu isi mai aminteste nimic, nici macar propriul nume. Memoria ii dispare ca Bush in perioade de criza nationala. Iar EU o astept sa iasa din intuneric, pentru a o putea impinge la loc in ignoranta. Etern. Intunecat. Cthulhu.
Apoi ea se trezeste si isi aminteste ca are de dat CPE-ul in cateva zile. Ma injura scurt si deschide Michael Vince.
Nu e chiar ce speram dar e un inceput... Ladies, dream a little dream of me >:)...
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Of Man And Woman
Prologue: The Age Of Aquarius?
When the moon is in the Seventh House
And Jupiter aligns with Mars
Then peace will guide the planets
And love will steer the stars
This is the dawning of the age of Aquarius
The age of Aquarius
First Movement: A man of constant sorrow
I am a man of constant sorrow
I've seen trouble all my days
I'll say goodbye to Colorado
Where I was born and partly raised.
I smile when I'm angry.
I cheat and I lie.
I do what I have to do
To get by.
But I know what is wrong,
And I know what is right.
And I'd die for the truth
In My Secret Life.
I'm coming out of my cage
And I've been doing just fine
Gotta gotta be down
Because I want it all
I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take
When people run in circles it's a very very
mad world
Standing on the gallows with my head in a noose
Any minute now I'm expecting all hell to break loose
People are crazy and times are strange
I'm locked in tight, I'm out of range
I used to care, but things have changed
Mr. Jinx and Miss Lucy, they jumped in the lake
I'm not that eager to make a mistake
I listen to the wind, to the wind of my soul
Where I'll end up, well I think only God really knows
Second Movement: Espresso Love
A lovestruck Romeo sings a streetsuss serenade
Laying everybody low with a lovesong that he made
Finds a convenient streetlight steps out of the shade
Says something like you and me babe how about it?
In a screaming ring of faces I seen her standing in the light
She had a ticket for the races just like me she was a victim of the night
I put my hand upon the lever said let it rock and let it roll
I had the one arm bandit fever there was an arrow through my heart and my soul
And the big wheel keep on turning neon burning up above
And I'm just high on the world
Come on and take a low ride with me girl
On the tunnel of love
Wendy let me in I wanna be your friend
I want to guard your dreams and visions
Just wrap your legs 'round these velvet rims
and strap your hands across my engines
Together we could break this trap
We'll run till we drop, baby we'll never go back
Will you walk with me out on the wire
`Cause baby I'm just a scared and lonely rider
But I gotta find out how it feels
I want to know if love is wild
girl I want to know if love is real
Let's fall in love
Why shouldn't we fall in love
Our hearts are made of it, let's take a chance
Why be afraid of it
Let's close our eyes
And make our own paradise
Little we know of it, still we can try
To make a go of it
I'm walking, walking on air
For I've left all my blue days behind me
I've learned how to care (yes, yes!)
And there's love, really love on my mind
I'm the world's most happy creature,
Tell me, what can worry me?
I'm crazy 'bout my baby,
Baby's crazy 'bout me!
Well, I woke up in the morning
There's frogs inside my socks
Your mama, she's a-hidin'
Inside the icebox
Your daddy walks in wearin'
A Napoleon Bonaparte mask
Then you ask why I don't live here
Honey, do you have to ask?
Met a girl, thought she was grand
fell in love, found out first hand
went well for a week or two
then it all came unglued
in a trapp trip I can't grip
never thought I'd be the one who'd slip
then I started to realize
I was living one big lie
Day after day, love turns grey
Like the skin of a dying man.
Night after night, we pretend its all right
But I have grown older and
You have grown colder and
Nothing is very much fun any more.
And I can feel one of my turns coming on.
I feel cold as a razor blade,
Tight as a tourniquet,
Dry as a funeral drum.
So run here baby, put your little hands in mine
I've got something to tell you, I know you're gonna change your mind
When things go wrong, so wrong with you
It hurts me too
But baby Since I've Been Loving You
I'm about to lose my worried mind.
I was never faithful
And I was never one to trust
Borderlining schizo
And guaranteed to cause a fuss
I was never loyal
Except to my own pleasure zone
I'm forever black-eyed
A product of a broken home
I'm walkin' down that long, lonesome road, babe
Where I'm bound, I can't tell
But goodbye's too good a word, gal
So I'll just say fare thee well
I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don't mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don't think twice, it's all right
The last that ever she saw him,
Carried away by a moonlight shadow.
He passed on worried and warning,
Carried away by a moonlight shadow.
Lost in a riddle that Saturday night,
Far away on the other side.
Third Movement: Wendy Laments
Love of my life you've hurt me
You've broken my heart and now you leave me
Love of my life can't you see
Bring it back bring it back
Don't take it away from me
Because you don't know
What it means to me
I guess nothin' can last forever - forever, no
And now the times are changin'
Look at everything that's come and gone
Sometimes when I play that old six-string
I think about ya wonder what went wrong
An angel's smile is what you sell
You promise me heaven then put me through hell
Chains of love, got a hold on me
When passion's a prison you can't break free
You're a loaded gun ... yeah
There's nowhere to run
No-one can save me, the damage is done
Shot through the heart, and your to blame
You give love a bad name
This pain in my stomach
Won't go away
I assume this is punishment
For the mistakes I've made
In a world where my actions
Speak louder than words
I know people than could ever be
What lesson I've learned from it all
Fortune and fame are disguised as your friend
Cause I'm lonlier now than I've ever been
She can see him on the jetty where they used to go
She can feel him in the places where the sailors go
When she's walking by the river and the railway line
She can still hear him whisper
Let's go down to the waterline
When I read the letter you wrote, it made me mad mad mad
When I read the news that it brought me
It made me sad sad sad, But I still love you so
I can't let you go, I love you- ooh baby I love you.
MAY GOD BLESS YOU AND KEEP YOU ALWAYS
MAY YOUR WISHES ALL COME TRUE
MAY YOU ALWAYS DO FOR OTHERS
AND LET OTHERS DO FOR YOU
MAY YOU BUILD A LADDER
TO THE STARS
AND CLIMB ON EVERY RUNG
AND MAY YOU STAY
FOREVER YOUNG
The trees that whisper in the evening,
Carried away by a moonlight shadow.
Sing a song of sorrow and grieving,
Carried away by a moonlight shadow.
All she saw was a silhouette of a gun,
Far away on the other side.
He was shot six times by a man on the run
And she couldn't find how to push through.
Epilogue: The Future?
Give me back my broken night
my mirrored room, my secret life
it's lonely here,
there's no one left to torture
Give me absolute control
over every living soul
And lie beside me, baby,
that's an order!
Give me crack and anal sex
Take the only tree that's left
and stuff it up the hole
in your culture
Give me back the Berlin wall
give me Stalin and St Paul
I've seen the future, brother:
it is murder.
When the moon is in the Seventh House
And Jupiter aligns with Mars
Then peace will guide the planets
And love will steer the stars
This is the dawning of the age of Aquarius
The age of Aquarius
First Movement: A man of constant sorrow
I am a man of constant sorrow
I've seen trouble all my days
I'll say goodbye to Colorado
Where I was born and partly raised.
I smile when I'm angry.
I cheat and I lie.
I do what I have to do
To get by.
But I know what is wrong,
And I know what is right.
And I'd die for the truth
In My Secret Life.
I'm coming out of my cage
And I've been doing just fine
Gotta gotta be down
Because I want it all
I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take
When people run in circles it's a very very
mad world
Standing on the gallows with my head in a noose
Any minute now I'm expecting all hell to break loose
People are crazy and times are strange
I'm locked in tight, I'm out of range
I used to care, but things have changed
Mr. Jinx and Miss Lucy, they jumped in the lake
I'm not that eager to make a mistake
I listen to the wind, to the wind of my soul
Where I'll end up, well I think only God really knows
Second Movement: Espresso Love
A lovestruck Romeo sings a streetsuss serenade
Laying everybody low with a lovesong that he made
Finds a convenient streetlight steps out of the shade
Says something like you and me babe how about it?
In a screaming ring of faces I seen her standing in the light
She had a ticket for the races just like me she was a victim of the night
I put my hand upon the lever said let it rock and let it roll
I had the one arm bandit fever there was an arrow through my heart and my soul
And the big wheel keep on turning neon burning up above
And I'm just high on the world
Come on and take a low ride with me girl
On the tunnel of love
Wendy let me in I wanna be your friend
I want to guard your dreams and visions
Just wrap your legs 'round these velvet rims
and strap your hands across my engines
Together we could break this trap
We'll run till we drop, baby we'll never go back
Will you walk with me out on the wire
`Cause baby I'm just a scared and lonely rider
But I gotta find out how it feels
I want to know if love is wild
girl I want to know if love is real
Let's fall in love
Why shouldn't we fall in love
Our hearts are made of it, let's take a chance
Why be afraid of it
Let's close our eyes
And make our own paradise
Little we know of it, still we can try
To make a go of it
I'm walking, walking on air
For I've left all my blue days behind me
I've learned how to care (yes, yes!)
And there's love, really love on my mind
I'm the world's most happy creature,
Tell me, what can worry me?
I'm crazy 'bout my baby,
Baby's crazy 'bout me!
Well, I woke up in the morning
There's frogs inside my socks
Your mama, she's a-hidin'
Inside the icebox
Your daddy walks in wearin'
A Napoleon Bonaparte mask
Then you ask why I don't live here
Honey, do you have to ask?
Met a girl, thought she was grand
fell in love, found out first hand
went well for a week or two
then it all came unglued
in a trapp trip I can't grip
never thought I'd be the one who'd slip
then I started to realize
I was living one big lie
Day after day, love turns grey
Like the skin of a dying man.
Night after night, we pretend its all right
But I have grown older and
You have grown colder and
Nothing is very much fun any more.
And I can feel one of my turns coming on.
I feel cold as a razor blade,
Tight as a tourniquet,
Dry as a funeral drum.
So run here baby, put your little hands in mine
I've got something to tell you, I know you're gonna change your mind
When things go wrong, so wrong with you
It hurts me too
But baby Since I've Been Loving You
I'm about to lose my worried mind.
I was never faithful
And I was never one to trust
Borderlining schizo
And guaranteed to cause a fuss
I was never loyal
Except to my own pleasure zone
I'm forever black-eyed
A product of a broken home
I'm walkin' down that long, lonesome road, babe
Where I'm bound, I can't tell
But goodbye's too good a word, gal
So I'll just say fare thee well
I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don't mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don't think twice, it's all right
The last that ever she saw him,
Carried away by a moonlight shadow.
He passed on worried and warning,
Carried away by a moonlight shadow.
Lost in a riddle that Saturday night,
Far away on the other side.
Third Movement: Wendy Laments
Love of my life you've hurt me
You've broken my heart and now you leave me
Love of my life can't you see
Bring it back bring it back
Don't take it away from me
Because you don't know
What it means to me
I guess nothin' can last forever - forever, no
And now the times are changin'
Look at everything that's come and gone
Sometimes when I play that old six-string
I think about ya wonder what went wrong
An angel's smile is what you sell
You promise me heaven then put me through hell
Chains of love, got a hold on me
When passion's a prison you can't break free
You're a loaded gun ... yeah
There's nowhere to run
No-one can save me, the damage is done
Shot through the heart, and your to blame
You give love a bad name
This pain in my stomach
Won't go away
I assume this is punishment
For the mistakes I've made
In a world where my actions
Speak louder than words
I know people than could ever be
What lesson I've learned from it all
Fortune and fame are disguised as your friend
Cause I'm lonlier now than I've ever been
She can see him on the jetty where they used to go
She can feel him in the places where the sailors go
When she's walking by the river and the railway line
She can still hear him whisper
Let's go down to the waterline
When I read the letter you wrote, it made me mad mad mad
When I read the news that it brought me
It made me sad sad sad, But I still love you so
I can't let you go, I love you- ooh baby I love you.
MAY GOD BLESS YOU AND KEEP YOU ALWAYS
MAY YOUR WISHES ALL COME TRUE
MAY YOU ALWAYS DO FOR OTHERS
AND LET OTHERS DO FOR YOU
MAY YOU BUILD A LADDER
TO THE STARS
AND CLIMB ON EVERY RUNG
AND MAY YOU STAY
FOREVER YOUNG
The trees that whisper in the evening,
Carried away by a moonlight shadow.
Sing a song of sorrow and grieving,
Carried away by a moonlight shadow.
All she saw was a silhouette of a gun,
Far away on the other side.
He was shot six times by a man on the run
And she couldn't find how to push through.
Epilogue: The Future?
Give me back my broken night
my mirrored room, my secret life
it's lonely here,
there's no one left to torture
Give me absolute control
over every living soul
And lie beside me, baby,
that's an order!
Give me crack and anal sex
Take the only tree that's left
and stuff it up the hole
in your culture
Give me back the Berlin wall
give me Stalin and St Paul
I've seen the future, brother:
it is murder.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Clasic
Clasic. Ofera un etalon pentru celelalte prin fermitatea trasaturilor pe care le intruchipeaza. Economia formei, eleganta continutului. Ce e clasic prinde in mod natural, poate fiindca aduce a Forma perfecta, recognoscibila imediat de catre spiritul uman. De ce toate astea suna a metafora pentru prostia umana in urechile multora? Sa fie oare simtul ironiei supradimensionat cu care natura i-a harazit? Imediat recognoscibila in enumeratia de mai sus: Prostia. Prostia, ca Idee primordiala, diluata in toate destul incat sa trezeasca reactia intuitiei. Prostia, clasica. Clasic e ceea ce este mereu actual. Si stim cat de perena e 'mneaei. Din demonstratia de mai sus reiese ca prostia [cu majsucula?] este unica valoare cu adevarat clasica. Ce a marcat istoria omenirii mai des decat lust for the other guy's goat, woman and such? Unadulterated stupidity. Pare-se, nu Multiplul [opus lui Unu] este definitorie pentru lumea noastra. Multiplul deriva din Unu, dar nu Multiplul sare in ochii oricui. Prostia, insa, este subinteleasa sau constientizata macar in fundul cortexului de catre tot ce misca. Daca esti prost, simti macar ca prostia iti prieste, chit ca nu te identifici cu ea. Daca nu esti chiar prost, simti cum te inglodeste in realitatea de zi cu zi. Either way, prost sa fii, caci esti mai aproape de o Idee esentiala. Si esti, cum ar spune clasicii, clasic.
Luceste
La Vasiliada, Stau si citesc. Beau un ceai, Earl Grey Blue Flower, indulcit cu zahar brun si citesc Marte Rosu de Kim Stanley Robinson. Citesc in secret din motive de rusine. Mi-e rusine sa citesc SF la vasiliada, ca sa nu mai vorbesc de ultimul numar din Top Gear din geanta sau de campania la DnD under construction. Cand nu citesc Ma uit la oamenii care intra si ies. Literati, in general. Cei mai multi religiosi. Eu, ca agnostic nu ma simt in largul meu.
Usa se deschide si intra o fata si un baiat. Amandoi pe la 20 de ani, amandoi in geci de vinilin si blugi cu sclipici. Ea are par cu suvite , sateno-blondo-roscato-brunete, el negru cu tepi. Intra ca intr-o cripta, pasind cu grija, isi fac ostentativ cruce la una dintre icoane. Se uita nedumeriti dupa daemon locus.
Acesta, un tinerel cu un inceput de barba preoteasca ii intampina.
El pare un pic dezorientat, de parca ar fi trait toata viata in imponderabilitate si acum greutatea ideilor din rafturi il atrage cu multipli g. Ea preia initiativa:
"Nu va suparati, aveti cartea (coboara vocea) Luceste "
Tipul, nedumerit, intreaba ce carte.
"Cartea Luceste" revine tipa.
Vanzatorul se incrunta: "Stiti cumva in ce colectie?"
Ea Zambeste gales: "hihi, nu." (un fel de , hai ma, las-o moarta, am eu fata?).
"Stiti Autorul?"
Fata Zambeste cu gura pana la urechi, tipul ranjeste. Ea completeaza.
"Luceste de Mircea Lucescu!"
Nedumerit, Daemon Locus se duce sa se uite. Cei doi schimba priviri apoi se uita in jur la cartile ce-i inconjoara. Singuri impotriva tuturor.
Tipul se intoarce, dand din cap.
Cei doi parasesc libraria.
Tipul se intoarce la ale sale lecturi. Cum s-a intunecat afara, aprinde lumina jos. Apoi la etaj.
Becul de deasupra mea se aprinde. Luceste.
Platesc si plec.
Usa se deschide si intra o fata si un baiat. Amandoi pe la 20 de ani, amandoi in geci de vinilin si blugi cu sclipici. Ea are par cu suvite , sateno-blondo-roscato-brunete, el negru cu tepi. Intra ca intr-o cripta, pasind cu grija, isi fac ostentativ cruce la una dintre icoane. Se uita nedumeriti dupa daemon locus.
Acesta, un tinerel cu un inceput de barba preoteasca ii intampina.
El pare un pic dezorientat, de parca ar fi trait toata viata in imponderabilitate si acum greutatea ideilor din rafturi il atrage cu multipli g. Ea preia initiativa:
"Nu va suparati, aveti cartea (coboara vocea) Luceste "
Tipul, nedumerit, intreaba ce carte.
"Cartea Luceste" revine tipa.
Vanzatorul se incrunta: "Stiti cumva in ce colectie?"
Ea Zambeste gales: "hihi, nu." (un fel de , hai ma, las-o moarta, am eu fata?).
"Stiti Autorul?"
Fata Zambeste cu gura pana la urechi, tipul ranjeste. Ea completeaza.
"Luceste de Mircea Lucescu!"
Nedumerit, Daemon Locus se duce sa se uite. Cei doi schimba priviri apoi se uita in jur la cartile ce-i inconjoara. Singuri impotriva tuturor.
Tipul se intoarce, dand din cap.
Cei doi parasesc libraria.
Tipul se intoarce la ale sale lecturi. Cum s-a intunecat afara, aprinde lumina jos. Apoi la etaj.
Becul de deasupra mea se aprinde. Luceste.
Platesc si plec.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
The Life and Death of Borat Sagdiyev
"There used to be a real me, but I had it surgically removed."
Peter Sellers
Borat: The Cultural Learnings of America for Make Use of Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan.
It's all in the name.
Let's break it down.
Borat.
Borat is Sacha Baron Cohen And Sacha Baron Cohen Is Borat. He is also Bruno, Jean Girard (Taladega Nights is rescued by his performance, despite inept acting by John C Reilly And Will Farell) and last but not least the Infamous ALI G. He made a name for himself in the Uk through this last character and now he is assaulting "the US and A" as Borat Sagdiyev, Kazakstani reporter.
Cohen is a very rare sight: a Cambridge Educated Jewish British Comedian that rivals Peter Sellers in Character Immersion. He does not play Borat Sagdiyev, he becomes Borat Sagdiyev, he IS Borat. Out on a rampage. Assaulting the likes of Linda Stein or Alan Keyes (" a real chocolate-face, no make-up!"), and creating a special blend of humour: sarcasm, faux-naivite and toilet jokes working together as one.
The Cultural Teachings Of America.
The Purpose of Comedy is to make you laugh. And with Borat you are guaranteed to laugh. However one man's humour is often another's temple. Such is the case with this movie, Borat slowly unravelling the web of dreams and wishful thinking surrounding America. Because Borat is on a Quest. To discover "Deep America" ( And marry/kidnap/rape Pamela Anderson). Borat's humour come s in many shapes and sizes, from nude wrestling a fat guy in various homophobia-inducing positions to chasing people around New York just to try and say hello. But the Funniest moments in the entire movie stem from the fundamental difference, the Huntingtonial Clash of Civilisations. When Borat gets a solid round of applause after saying "I hope President Bush drinks the blood of every man, woman, and child in Iraq!" but is booed off after messing up the Anthem at a Rodeo, you start to laugh but you also start to wonder. Sure, stuff like "Jagshemash! My name a Borat. I like you. I like sex, it's nice. These are my country of a Kazakhstan." is fun but when Borat goes to the "shit-hole" in the middle of a formal Southern Style Dinner, and is complimented ad absentia as "a very nice man" who can "very easily be turned into a real american", only to return with a bag of shit moments later, that my friends is beyond toilet humour, going into those gray areas that show how, despite the technological gap and cultural differences, we humans are all alike. America is deconstructed and its "cultural teachings" of jingoism, xenophobia, homophobia and its pretended superiority are revealed for what they are. Borat is simply the magnifying glass, "distorting the image" so that we can see
it in all its glory.
For make Benefit glorious nation of Kazakhstan.
The great nation of Kazakhstan insists that Borat Be banned, not realising that they are causing more damage to their image than the Mock-kazakh, Borat is. They shut down his site and the media howled, they deliberately countered him with statements as bland and idiotic as "Kazakhstan does not export Potassium, we export oil", causing greater publicity for him
and a media disaster for the country. Meanwhile the Kazakhstan we know and love is closer than we thought. It is in Romania. The Gypsies and the "pizda ma-tii" gave it up. But are we so in denial as to simply say "oh that's not Romania", just as Kazakhstan did. Brush up on your Crimele de la ora 5 and feel the pain.
This movie is disgusting, inept and gut-popping fun. And, yes, that translates as a must-see.
Borat lives on as a living testament that every man has his skeletons, as does every nation. His in-depth character study and his shell of coarse naivite brush off the thin layer of politically-correct varnish off anybody revealing the strong beliefs underneath: the anti-semitism, xenophobia and intollerance in us all. And just as the world remembers Clouseau and not Sellers, they will talk about Borat long After Cohen is Forgotten.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Web-ul ca o Prada 1: Ars Bloggetica
Incercam acum vreo cateva zile sa explic in termeni pseudo-tehnici tot conceptul de Web 2.0 unor cunoscuti de la facultatea de filozofie. Asta, bineinteles pentru a dezbate ramificatiile extinderii sociale a internetului. Auzindu-ma vorbind, incercand sa explic destul de detaliat concepte ca Folksonomies si diferentele majore dintre www si web 2.0 mi-am dat seama intr-un scurt si atat de rar moment de luciditate ca nu am de fapt cel mai mic habar. Maybe, la fel ca la Cthulu the stars were right, maybe de vina era jumatatea (de sticla) de votca dar mi-am dat seama ca ceva trebuia facut. Asa ca, in ciuda partialelor de la scoala, in ciuda cartilor care ma asteapta in a neat stack pe noptiera ba chiar si in ciuda obligatiilor sociale, am decis sa ma avant cu toate panzele sus (vb. lui Tudoran) in fenomen.
To tread carefully am decis sa take it slow, soft-porn even si am inceput cu celula-ou. Blogul.
Blogs come in all shapes and sizes. De la blogul adolescentului care e sau ar trebui sa fie pe Litiu la blogul rece, factual, (nothing personal, just business- been there, done that, got the t-shirt) si extinzandu-se in aberatii pretentioase, pseudo-academic mumbo jumbo precum blogul de fata.
Blogul e atat un instrument cat si o arma, un mod de relaxare, un statement, un rant sau de multe ori un pathetic way of begging for attention. Sau mai multe deodata. Sau toate.
Blogurile sunt peste tot azi (Met a girl who asked me if I read the blog I was writing, stiu zeci de oameni who read hers) deci varietatea e aproape infinita. But why? Why Blog?
Cool people blog to show how cool they are , emo people blog to tell the world how pitiful their lives are, pretentious sods have pretentious blogs. And the list goes on.
Blogurile sunt si o unealta de networking, Blogroll-ul e un studiu social on it's own, e-versiunea zicalei cu "birds of a feather" si caseta cu "pretenari" in acelasi timp. Blogs can help you make friends, extend your social circles, make you see new sides of people you know. Who knows, you may even fall in love.
Blogs can boost your career sau daca deja esti faimos pentru a career, pot arata o alta fata a ta (Norman Mailer blogs, Weird Al Yankovic blogs). Blogurile deschid calea pentru anonimi in fata lumii si deschid lumea pentru personalitati.
Dar cel mai important lucru la bloguri e ca sunt dincolo de constrangeri. Sunt gratuite si libere. Oricine poate scrie orice despre orice. Nici o cenzura pe langa autocenzura, nici un angry editor, nimic. No limits.
In plus, la fel ca scriitorul, bloggerul adopta o persona. Aceasta persona poate (sau nu) avea ceva in comun cu personalitatea sa. In all the beauty of the greek theatre tradition, masca si nu actorul primeaza. Persona ne vorbeste prin blog. It is the whiny emo-kid or the pretentious know-it-all. In real life, Gigel poate fi prostul scolii dar seara, la fel ca Batman, Batman, isi pune masca si capa si vorbeste , nay, educa masele ignorante despre ramificatiile copilariei lui Kurt Cobain in opera sa ca unicul NirvanaFan89.
Andrei Plesu vorbeste despre dezresponsabilizarea cuvantului scris via Internet. NirvanaFan89,
intr-o incercare (esuata) de analiza politica, poate spune ca Basescu e poponar. Daca CTP-ul ar zice asta ar pupa un proces de calomnie, NirvanaFan89 o pupa pe mami inainte sa mearga la scoala ca are teza la mate. Indeed, ORICINE poate SCRIE ORICE despre ORICE.
Dar oare asta e ceva rau? Cuvantul scris a suparat intotdeauna, de la Modest Proposal-ul lui Swift la Dan Brown si a sa constipatie a Graalului. Masca, pseudonim-ul nu e ceva nou iar "parerile noastre personale" daca nu se scriu pe net, se spun la birt si tot se transmit. Lipsa de responsabilitate de pe net nu face decat sa simplifice un pic treaba si sa-ti permita sa emiti pareri fara sa vezi lumina soarelui
Iar paradoxal e ca datorita acestei lipse de responsabilitati, persona-ul , masca, e adeseori mai apropiata de sentimentele adevarate ale individului decat masca sociala pe care o purtam cu totii, i don't care how rebel-ish you think you are.
Povestea blogului e povestea soapbox-ului din Hyde Park. ORICINE poate SCRIE ORICE despre ORICE. Atata timp cat nu spui ceva nou sau ceva vechi mai bine si nu apuci sa transmiti ceea ce spui la n altii NU O SA TE ASCULTE NICI DRACU'. Cati prim ministri britanici si-au inceput cariera politica de pe soapbox?
Ajungem la vorba lui Tzestos cu al sau cinism cirotic de ASE-ist de la Finante. "Mda, blog, alta ocupatie de om la douaj' de ani..." In definitiv are dreptate: blog-ul e un paradox. Mananca timp, nu da aproape niciodata nimic bun inapoi si totusi il privim cu atata patos . E ca un copil: Inutil dar il iubim, ca-i al nostru.
Blog-ul e un pass-time. And the time has passed. And now it is way past my bedtime.
So keep on blogging in the free world.
To tread carefully am decis sa take it slow, soft-porn even si am inceput cu celula-ou. Blogul.
Blogs come in all shapes and sizes. De la blogul adolescentului care e sau ar trebui sa fie pe Litiu la blogul rece, factual, (nothing personal, just business- been there, done that, got the t-shirt) si extinzandu-se in aberatii pretentioase, pseudo-academic mumbo jumbo precum blogul de fata.
Blogul e atat un instrument cat si o arma, un mod de relaxare, un statement, un rant sau de multe ori un pathetic way of begging for attention. Sau mai multe deodata. Sau toate.
Blogurile sunt peste tot azi (Met a girl who asked me if I read the blog I was writing, stiu zeci de oameni who read hers) deci varietatea e aproape infinita. But why? Why Blog?
Cool people blog to show how cool they are , emo people blog to tell the world how pitiful their lives are, pretentious sods have pretentious blogs. And the list goes on.
Blogurile sunt si o unealta de networking, Blogroll-ul e un studiu social on it's own, e-versiunea zicalei cu "birds of a feather" si caseta cu "pretenari" in acelasi timp. Blogs can help you make friends, extend your social circles, make you see new sides of people you know. Who knows, you may even fall in love.
Blogs can boost your career sau daca deja esti faimos pentru a career, pot arata o alta fata a ta (Norman Mailer blogs, Weird Al Yankovic blogs). Blogurile deschid calea pentru anonimi in fata lumii si deschid lumea pentru personalitati.
Dar cel mai important lucru la bloguri e ca sunt dincolo de constrangeri. Sunt gratuite si libere. Oricine poate scrie orice despre orice. Nici o cenzura pe langa autocenzura, nici un angry editor, nimic. No limits.
In plus, la fel ca scriitorul, bloggerul adopta o persona. Aceasta persona poate (sau nu) avea ceva in comun cu personalitatea sa. In all the beauty of the greek theatre tradition, masca si nu actorul primeaza. Persona ne vorbeste prin blog. It is the whiny emo-kid or the pretentious know-it-all. In real life, Gigel poate fi prostul scolii dar seara, la fel ca Batman, Batman, isi pune masca si capa si vorbeste , nay, educa masele ignorante despre ramificatiile copilariei lui Kurt Cobain in opera sa ca unicul NirvanaFan89.
Andrei Plesu vorbeste despre dezresponsabilizarea cuvantului scris via Internet. NirvanaFan89,
intr-o incercare (esuata) de analiza politica, poate spune ca Basescu e poponar. Daca CTP-ul ar zice asta ar pupa un proces de calomnie, NirvanaFan89 o pupa pe mami inainte sa mearga la scoala ca are teza la mate. Indeed, ORICINE poate SCRIE ORICE despre ORICE.
Dar oare asta e ceva rau? Cuvantul scris a suparat intotdeauna, de la Modest Proposal-ul lui Swift la Dan Brown si a sa constipatie a Graalului. Masca, pseudonim-ul nu e ceva nou iar "parerile noastre personale" daca nu se scriu pe net, se spun la birt si tot se transmit. Lipsa de responsabilitate de pe net nu face decat sa simplifice un pic treaba si sa-ti permita sa emiti pareri fara sa vezi lumina soarelui
Iar paradoxal e ca datorita acestei lipse de responsabilitati, persona-ul , masca, e adeseori mai apropiata de sentimentele adevarate ale individului decat masca sociala pe care o purtam cu totii, i don't care how rebel-ish you think you are.
Povestea blogului e povestea soapbox-ului din Hyde Park. ORICINE poate SCRIE ORICE despre ORICE. Atata timp cat nu spui ceva nou sau ceva vechi mai bine si nu apuci sa transmiti ceea ce spui la n altii NU O SA TE ASCULTE NICI DRACU'. Cati prim ministri britanici si-au inceput cariera politica de pe soapbox?
Ajungem la vorba lui Tzestos cu al sau cinism cirotic de ASE-ist de la Finante. "Mda, blog, alta ocupatie de om la douaj' de ani..." In definitiv are dreptate: blog-ul e un paradox. Mananca timp, nu da aproape niciodata nimic bun inapoi si totusi il privim cu atata patos . E ca un copil: Inutil dar il iubim, ca-i al nostru.
Blog-ul e un pass-time. And the time has passed. And now it is way past my bedtime.
So keep on blogging in the free world.
Summa
Iata inca un episod din "Moartea lui Homo Faber", serial de mare audienta, scris pe genunchii unei minti grabite. Ideea incoltita in miez de noapte, dupa un asediu prelungit asupra notiunii de cunoastere completa, este una simpla. Omul a ajuns in stadiul in care a pierdut conexiunea cu ideea de summa, de cunoastere sumativa. Relationarea a ceea ce creeaza intr-un sistem coerenet si comprehensiv suna stupid, nu? Prea bine, iata sistemul nostru scolar, prasind cunoasterea enciclopedica. Trebuie sa stim totul oricum, de-a valma, ignorand ideile celor care cu milenii in urma *bla bla* au venit cu draftu' a ceea ce azi numim noi scoala, sperand ca stiind geometrie, filosofie si alte asemeni ne facem oameni (si nu prin diluarea nivelului de pregatire pe o arie curriculara extinsa, ca sa spoim cu var chirpiciu'). Coerenta a ceea ce ni se vinde ca fiind un surogat satisfacator de curiozitate [trasatura ale carei gene nu s-au mai perpetuat] este, pare-se, cu totul si cu totul secundara cand vine vorba de mentinerea aparentei unei continuitati a cunoasterii. Ne furam caciula? Absolut. Asta-i neincrederea in metanarative postmoderna: cand suntem prea smecheri sa mai si credem sincer ca facem ceva bun si inaltator cu naivitatea celui care are curaj sa spuna ca regele e-n pielea goala. Respingem povestea "cunoasterii complete" prin alaptarea progeniturii ei degenerate, invatamantul modern. Na-ti-o franta, ca ti-am dres-o, homo faber!
Rant 1: Radiohead to Pokemon
An Evening Well Spent. A Rant Amongst Friends. A Blog Release. A Whole Lotta Fun. Remember that show, Connections? Here's our version: Radiohead to Pokemon & Beyond in a few easy steps.
Trotsky: radiohead? appreciation or desrved scorn?
Tsavatar: eh radiohead is complex
Tsavatar: it is musical onanism played by a gay, neurotic british combo
Tsavatar: with emo lyrics
Tsavatar: and nirvana guitars
Tsavatar: + synthesyzers
Trotsky: yet inextricably linked to any and all musical progress in the 90s
Tsavatar: hmmm
Tsavatar: call your bluff
Tsavatar: de ce?
Trotsky: well dealing the deathblow to the first wave of britpop from the inside
Trotsky: for starters
Tsavatar: true
Trotsky: and thusly concluding the grunge wars
Tsavatar: opening the road for today's indie-rock-lo-fi-hipster tripsters
Trotsky: by assimilating grunge dynamics. un pic ca dubioasa romanizare a dacilor
Trotsky: tripsters? i fail to see where yorkie would dare inject anything
Trotsky: mayhaps on his bulging forhead during his wholehearted renidition of some tribal dance
Trotsky: now that they're all electro
Tsavatar: come on
Tsavatar: a guy don't get that thin by dieting
Tsavatar: they are, aren't they?
Trotsky: he's free from the tyrany of the guitar he used to hang on to for dear life
Tsavatar: what ever happened to the good ol' radiohead of pablo honey and ok computer
Tsavatar: those were the queerest days ever
Tsavatar: but at least they made sense
Tsavatar: acum cu vocal synths galore
Trotsky: well that's my point
Trotsky: they'll turn into geeky nazis
Tsavatar: si dickslapping on the guitar whilst shaving his pubes with the c chord
Trotsky: sehr gut, herr kommandant
Trotsky: ich habe eine indie pubiss
Tsavatar: ja, ja spritzen mein assen'
Trotsky: ein relikv
Trotsky: now really
Trotsky: what IS left
Trotsky: of the good ol days
Trotsky: ?
Tsavatar: indie pubis ist deutsch for dick refuses to grow. Hair too. Shave dog and buy superglue and carrot
Tsavatar: nu prea mai e nimic left
Trotsky: stuck in one big tapeloop of yorke's flacid asscheeks
Tsavatar: i mean radiohead used to be good ol
Tsavatar: slit your wrists and die without being pathetic enough to listen to emo
Tsavatar: music
Tsavatar: now it's just cat scratches on a guitar and reverb orgy, puncture your ear drums music
Tsavatar: not to fret though
Tsavatar: mayhaps coldplay shall fill those shoes
Tsavatar: after a few more years
Tsavatar: of make trade fair lameness
Trotsky: well emo as it may sound, i find coldplay's antics a tad worrying
Tsavatar: ?
Trotsky: they're hybridising u2's gayness
Trotsky: with radiohead's
Trotsky: surely this can’t be right
Trotsky: i mean the edge and bono... why splice them with selway and yorke
Tsavatar: well didja listen to the castles b-side compilation
Tsavatar: not bad
Tsavatar: dar i must agree
Tsavatar: there is only room for one bono i this world
Trotsky: this is the ultimate decebal+traian thing
Trotsky: castles b-side compilation?
Trotsky: whose?
Tsavatar: coldplay
Tsavatar: deci daca chris martin goes bono on us
Tsavatar: the world will explode
Trotsky: or better yet
Trotsky: he'll go the edge on us
Tsavatar: get himself a keytar
Trotsky: and become some sort of carefully constructed “true-to-life”-ish stage personna
Tsavatar: and take the band out for a little elevation cover
Trotsky: well by all means
Tsavatar: yeees?
Trotsky: let's think of it in freudian terms
Trotsky: we have an oedipus complex, right?
Tsavatar: why?
Tsavatar: ah
Tsavatar: you mean all of us
Trotsky: in the music world
Trotsky: we find the edge as the paternal figure
Trotsky: threatening c. martin with castration
Trotsky: the edge as all-mother
Trotsky: and of course
Tsavatar: then again we have
Tsavatar: the edge and
Tsavatar: The EDGE
Tsavatar: aka occam
Trotsky: i wonder
Trotsky: is it occamian to commit suicide?
Trotsky: being an emo kid
Trotsky: after all
Trotsky: it IS getting rid of unnecessary baggage
Trotsky: burdening the train of thought
Trotsky: of society
Tsavatar: the simplest sollution is, i think to go on living and continue to be a pain in the ass
Tsavatar: a bane in the ass cheek of the world
Tsavatar: dying implies unnecessary thinking
Tsavatar: and you know, emos are like
Tsavatar: braaaaaaain
Tsavatar: must eat braaaaaaaaiiiiiiinnnn
Tsavatar: but what's the pooooiiiint
Tsavatar: live is braaaaiiii...uh...paaaaiiiiinnn
Trotsky: they all deny the brain sustenance
Trotsky: are unabashedly gay
Trotsky: i wonder if we'll ever see the day when hairmetal, emo and manele merge
Tsavatar: that'll be the day
Tsavatar: replace keytar with tzambaltar
Trotsky: are self-refferentially hetero
Tsavatar: wear makeup
Tsavatar: curl your hair
Tsavatar: wear a 2kg gold(plated) cross
Tsavatar: spike your wavy hair
Tsavatar: pune-ti salupe, start playback
Trotsky: and above all use apparel that is or will be deniend entry in thrift-shops in the next 20 years
Tsavatar: ah
Tsavatar: gay
Tsavatar: happy
Tsavatar: queer
Tsavatar: strange
Tsavatar: cornholer
Tsavatar: Cucuruzator
Tsavatar: Fitter, Happier
Trotsky: balls-out for castration
Tsavatar: castration?
Tsavatar: i think not!
Trotsky: well oedipianly yours
Trotsky: their secret longing
Tsavatar: we are not animals my dear trotsky
Tsavatar: they need their balls
Trotsky: to be punished gaily by their dads
Tsavatar: you know
Tsavatar: i know from a very reliable source
Tsavatar: that
Tsavatar: when in a high stress situation
Trotsky: balls retract
Tsavatar: yes their balls detach and turn into eggs
Trotsky: dar nu e stres aci
Trotsky: pana si emo au faza cu pretenarii
Trotsky: chit ca sunt inanimate objects
Tsavatar: the creatures emerged from the eggs are called emospawn
Trotsky: gen lame
Tsavatar: they blame their emo parents for their pitiful emo lives
Tsavatar: they try to listen to velvet underground as revenge
Tsavatar: but, c'mon
Tsavatar: they're not THAT lame
Trotsky: sounds like the latest in pokemon reproduction
Trotsky: are pokemon emo?
Tsavatar: well, you gotta catch em all
Trotsky: i remember my 4th grade mates
Tsavatar: so they may be
Tsavatar: but naah
Tsavatar: they may be gay
Tsavatar: but they're too colourful to be emo
Trotsky: scrambling for the latest in cards
Tsavatar: plus they don't wear converse
Trotsky: hold on
Tsavatar: or paint their fingernails black
Trotsky: are’nt those cards more or less blades
Trotsky: the colours wash away
Tsavatar: what cards?
Trotsky: trading cards
Trotsky: y’know
Trotsky: razorian in nature
Trotsky: take away the colour
Trotsky: and voila
Trotsky: emoness
Trotsky: this is a novel approache
Tsavatar: aa
Trotsky: i must saye
Tsavatar: yup but they're not emo
Trotsky: methinks
Trotsky: that we have found seeds of emo
Tsavatar: it's a group things and it doesn't involve gay kissing
Trotsky: in this seemingly emo-free world of preteen TCG
Trotsky: but it does evolve into gay orgies known as d&d later on
Tsavatar: ahemm!!!!
Tsavatar: thou slall not make fun of DND
Tsavatar: or PELOR shall smite thee
Tsavatar: and ST. Cuthbert shall stick his cudgel in your as...damn
Tsavatar: it is gay
Trotsky: sounds like the pee-lor that gives me spasms when i drink my milk
Trotsky: see
Trotsky: it all winds up into twisted sister
Trotsky: thus our philosophical system is complete
Trotsky: being circular in nature
Trotsky: a la blaga
Tsavatar: more like bleaga
Tsavatar: …i think efectul is complet, the Circle is Complete, Obi-Wan.
Trotsky: emo-pokemon-radiohead-manea-hairmetal thing. kewl.
Trotsky: radiohead? appreciation or desrved scorn?
Tsavatar: eh radiohead is complex
Tsavatar: it is musical onanism played by a gay, neurotic british combo
Tsavatar: with emo lyrics
Tsavatar: and nirvana guitars
Tsavatar: + synthesyzers
Trotsky: yet inextricably linked to any and all musical progress in the 90s
Tsavatar: hmmm
Tsavatar: call your bluff
Tsavatar: de ce?
Trotsky: well dealing the deathblow to the first wave of britpop from the inside
Trotsky: for starters
Tsavatar: true
Trotsky: and thusly concluding the grunge wars
Tsavatar: opening the road for today's indie-rock-lo-fi-hipster tripsters
Trotsky: by assimilating grunge dynamics. un pic ca dubioasa romanizare a dacilor
Trotsky: tripsters? i fail to see where yorkie would dare inject anything
Trotsky: mayhaps on his bulging forhead during his wholehearted renidition of some tribal dance
Trotsky: now that they're all electro
Tsavatar: come on
Tsavatar: a guy don't get that thin by dieting
Tsavatar: they are, aren't they?
Trotsky: he's free from the tyrany of the guitar he used to hang on to for dear life
Tsavatar: what ever happened to the good ol' radiohead of pablo honey and ok computer
Tsavatar: those were the queerest days ever
Tsavatar: but at least they made sense
Tsavatar: acum cu vocal synths galore
Trotsky: well that's my point
Trotsky: they'll turn into geeky nazis
Tsavatar: si dickslapping on the guitar whilst shaving his pubes with the c chord
Trotsky: sehr gut, herr kommandant
Trotsky: ich habe eine indie pubiss
Tsavatar: ja, ja spritzen mein assen'
Trotsky: ein relikv
Trotsky: now really
Trotsky: what IS left
Trotsky: of the good ol days
Trotsky: ?
Tsavatar: indie pubis ist deutsch for dick refuses to grow. Hair too. Shave dog and buy superglue and carrot
Tsavatar: nu prea mai e nimic left
Trotsky: stuck in one big tapeloop of yorke's flacid asscheeks
Tsavatar: i mean radiohead used to be good ol
Tsavatar: slit your wrists and die without being pathetic enough to listen to emo
Tsavatar: music
Tsavatar: now it's just cat scratches on a guitar and reverb orgy, puncture your ear drums music
Tsavatar: not to fret though
Tsavatar: mayhaps coldplay shall fill those shoes
Tsavatar: after a few more years
Tsavatar: of make trade fair lameness
Trotsky: well emo as it may sound, i find coldplay's antics a tad worrying
Tsavatar: ?
Trotsky: they're hybridising u2's gayness
Trotsky: with radiohead's
Trotsky: surely this can’t be right
Trotsky: i mean the edge and bono... why splice them with selway and yorke
Tsavatar: well didja listen to the castles b-side compilation
Tsavatar: not bad
Tsavatar: dar i must agree
Tsavatar: there is only room for one bono i this world
Trotsky: this is the ultimate decebal+traian thing
Trotsky: castles b-side compilation?
Trotsky: whose?
Tsavatar: coldplay
Tsavatar: deci daca chris martin goes bono on us
Tsavatar: the world will explode
Trotsky: or better yet
Trotsky: he'll go the edge on us
Tsavatar: get himself a keytar
Trotsky: and become some sort of carefully constructed “true-to-life”-ish stage personna
Tsavatar: and take the band out for a little elevation cover
Trotsky: well by all means
Tsavatar: yeees?
Trotsky: let's think of it in freudian terms
Trotsky: we have an oedipus complex, right?
Tsavatar: why?
Tsavatar: ah
Tsavatar: you mean all of us
Trotsky: in the music world
Trotsky: we find the edge as the paternal figure
Trotsky: threatening c. martin with castration
Trotsky: the edge as all-mother
Trotsky: and of course
Tsavatar: then again we have
Tsavatar: the edge and
Tsavatar: The EDGE
Tsavatar: aka occam
Trotsky: i wonder
Trotsky: is it occamian to commit suicide?
Trotsky: being an emo kid
Trotsky: after all
Trotsky: it IS getting rid of unnecessary baggage
Trotsky: burdening the train of thought
Trotsky: of society
Tsavatar: the simplest sollution is, i think to go on living and continue to be a pain in the ass
Tsavatar: a bane in the ass cheek of the world
Tsavatar: dying implies unnecessary thinking
Tsavatar: and you know, emos are like
Tsavatar: braaaaaaain
Tsavatar: must eat braaaaaaaaiiiiiiinnnn
Tsavatar: but what's the pooooiiiint
Tsavatar: live is braaaaiiii...uh...paaaaiiiiinnn
Trotsky: they all deny the brain sustenance
Trotsky: are unabashedly gay
Trotsky: i wonder if we'll ever see the day when hairmetal, emo and manele merge
Tsavatar: that'll be the day
Tsavatar: replace keytar with tzambaltar
Trotsky: are self-refferentially hetero
Tsavatar: wear makeup
Tsavatar: curl your hair
Tsavatar: wear a 2kg gold(plated) cross
Tsavatar: spike your wavy hair
Tsavatar: pune-ti salupe, start playback
Trotsky: and above all use apparel that is or will be deniend entry in thrift-shops in the next 20 years
Tsavatar: ah
Tsavatar: gay
Tsavatar: happy
Tsavatar: queer
Tsavatar: strange
Tsavatar: cornholer
Tsavatar: Cucuruzator
Tsavatar: Fitter, Happier
Trotsky: balls-out for castration
Tsavatar: castration?
Tsavatar: i think not!
Trotsky: well oedipianly yours
Trotsky: their secret longing
Tsavatar: we are not animals my dear trotsky
Tsavatar: they need their balls
Trotsky: to be punished gaily by their dads
Tsavatar: you know
Tsavatar: i know from a very reliable source
Tsavatar: that
Tsavatar: when in a high stress situation
Trotsky: balls retract
Tsavatar: yes their balls detach and turn into eggs
Trotsky: dar nu e stres aci
Trotsky: pana si emo au faza cu pretenarii
Trotsky: chit ca sunt inanimate objects
Tsavatar: the creatures emerged from the eggs are called emospawn
Trotsky: gen lame
Tsavatar: they blame their emo parents for their pitiful emo lives
Tsavatar: they try to listen to velvet underground as revenge
Tsavatar: but, c'mon
Tsavatar: they're not THAT lame
Trotsky: sounds like the latest in pokemon reproduction
Trotsky: are pokemon emo?
Tsavatar: well, you gotta catch em all
Trotsky: i remember my 4th grade mates
Tsavatar: so they may be
Tsavatar: but naah
Tsavatar: they may be gay
Tsavatar: but they're too colourful to be emo
Trotsky: scrambling for the latest in cards
Tsavatar: plus they don't wear converse
Trotsky: hold on
Tsavatar: or paint their fingernails black
Trotsky: are’nt those cards more or less blades
Trotsky: the colours wash away
Tsavatar: what cards?
Trotsky: trading cards
Trotsky: y’know
Trotsky: razorian in nature
Trotsky: take away the colour
Trotsky: and voila
Trotsky: emoness
Trotsky: this is a novel approache
Tsavatar: aa
Trotsky: i must saye
Tsavatar: yup but they're not emo
Trotsky: methinks
Trotsky: that we have found seeds of emo
Tsavatar: it's a group things and it doesn't involve gay kissing
Trotsky: in this seemingly emo-free world of preteen TCG
Trotsky: but it does evolve into gay orgies known as d&d later on
Tsavatar: ahemm!!!!
Tsavatar: thou slall not make fun of DND
Tsavatar: or PELOR shall smite thee
Tsavatar: and ST. Cuthbert shall stick his cudgel in your as...damn
Tsavatar: it is gay
Trotsky: sounds like the pee-lor that gives me spasms when i drink my milk
Trotsky: see
Trotsky: it all winds up into twisted sister
Trotsky: thus our philosophical system is complete
Trotsky: being circular in nature
Trotsky: a la blaga
Tsavatar: more like bleaga
Tsavatar: …i think efectul is complet, the Circle is Complete, Obi-Wan.
Trotsky: emo-pokemon-radiohead-manea-hairmetal thing. kewl.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Teveu' de dincolo de realitate
Hipertrofierea unei trasaturi-cheie a insemnat moartea multor pradatori de succes. Mana-n mana cu hiperspecializarea pe un segment de vanat, tigrul cu colti sabie si multi alti confrati ai sai au pierit datorita exacerbarii coltilor care, pentru a o spune pe sleau, erau o fudulie ce sfida deja bunul-simt. Era logic, deci, sa moara, nu? O analogie nu prea stupida se poate face si cu situatia vajnicului plasmoi cu Ambilite, daca stam sa ne gandim. Iata cum un mare omnivor devine un carnivor de nisa, impodobit cu colti si toate cele - all show and ridicule.
Caci despre ridicol e vorba - ridicolul subtilizarii si remixarii unui spectacol deja regizat (desi televiziunea ne este vanduta ca "immitation of life"[hats off to REM]) este simptomatic pentru ceea ce arta imaginii a ajuns in mainile noastre. Aspiratia de a recrea realitatea in conditii de laborator pentru a ne putea fura in siguranta caciula atunci cand ne-o vindem tot noi de buna e de o candoare copilareasca ce ne arata imaturitatea. Installment no. 2 din homo faber mortus est, am putea zice - caci iata inca un pacat capital al nostru vizavi de responsabilitatea noastra creativa ca specie: nu (mai?) avem masura realului in arta.
Teveu', in sine benign ca inventie, a ajuns sa nu mai fie centerpiece-ul unei sezatori de mahala (suna mai sanatos decat pare), ci masinaria de furat caciula. S-ar zice ca pradatorul s-a eficientizat, daca victimele cad prada mai repe. Nu cred. Daca acum prada e mai fraiera, nu e meritul pradatorului, care nu mai are stil, eficienta sau demnitate. Conceptul de televiziune a murit prin materializarea, fie si simbolica, a aspiratiei ultime, obscene, de a detrona realitatea. Artificiul sfidator de bun-simt intrupat de luminitele dashtepte care dau vezi-Doamne un aer mai cu suspans si fiori lirici canned laughter-ului e semnul ca am dat de filonul unei grave alienari. Sau poate doar de ignoranta. Prefer sa cred ca e a doua (asa de alienat sunt).
Caci despre ridicol e vorba - ridicolul subtilizarii si remixarii unui spectacol deja regizat (desi televiziunea ne este vanduta ca "immitation of life"[hats off to REM]) este simptomatic pentru ceea ce arta imaginii a ajuns in mainile noastre. Aspiratia de a recrea realitatea in conditii de laborator pentru a ne putea fura in siguranta caciula atunci cand ne-o vindem tot noi de buna e de o candoare copilareasca ce ne arata imaturitatea. Installment no. 2 din homo faber mortus est, am putea zice - caci iata inca un pacat capital al nostru vizavi de responsabilitatea noastra creativa ca specie: nu (mai?) avem masura realului in arta.
Teveu', in sine benign ca inventie, a ajuns sa nu mai fie centerpiece-ul unei sezatori de mahala (suna mai sanatos decat pare), ci masinaria de furat caciula. S-ar zice ca pradatorul s-a eficientizat, daca victimele cad prada mai repe. Nu cred. Daca acum prada e mai fraiera, nu e meritul pradatorului, care nu mai are stil, eficienta sau demnitate. Conceptul de televiziune a murit prin materializarea, fie si simbolica, a aspiratiei ultime, obscene, de a detrona realitatea. Artificiul sfidator de bun-simt intrupat de luminitele dashtepte care dau vezi-Doamne un aer mai cu suspans si fiori lirici canned laughter-ului e semnul ca am dat de filonul unei grave alienari. Sau poate doar de ignoranta. Prefer sa cred ca e a doua (asa de alienat sunt).
Double Entendre?
Discovery, show about Architecture and Engineering:
"As the module element is set into its place the USS "George H. W Bush" is one step closer to completion. It is the end of an era. This will be the last Nimitz class carrier to ever come out of a shipyard. The next carriers will be smaller, more technologically advanced and more automatized"
Acum, I know ca H W a fost Daddy Bush, nu Dubya but am I the only one that sees a camouflaged Joke here? Urmatoarea generatie de dupa H W WAS SMALLER (in thought and in grandeur) , it had the benefit of more advanced tech and was TOTALLY dependent on outside Intelligence (hello Condi). And Yet what did he achieve. Considering the Congress statistics this Bush will probably only get a Zodiac inflatable named after him: USS Dubya.
"As the module element is set into its place the USS "George H. W Bush" is one step closer to completion. It is the end of an era. This will be the last Nimitz class carrier to ever come out of a shipyard. The next carriers will be smaller, more technologically advanced and more automatized"
Acum, I know ca H W a fost Daddy Bush, nu Dubya but am I the only one that sees a camouflaged Joke here? Urmatoarea generatie de dupa H W WAS SMALLER (in thought and in grandeur) , it had the benefit of more advanced tech and was TOTALLY dependent on outside Intelligence (hello Condi). And Yet what did he achieve. Considering the Congress statistics this Bush will probably only get a Zodiac inflatable named after him: USS Dubya.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
The amazing antics of one Kilgore Trout
There is such a thing as Kilgore Trout.He is neither fat nor thin, He is not black, nor white, nor green or yellow either. He is a writer and a damn good one too, he writes all kinds of fiction. He writes about love and pain and chocolate cheese cakes. He once wrote a book that inspired a man to destroy the world, he wrote a book Pacino read. In a movie. He had three kids and loved them dearly. He spooned with mr. Rosewater. He never got to Galapagos, he was not from Indiana.
He has gray hair and thick eyebrows, blue deep eyes with a spark of madness. He was strong chiseled features and a brain the size of a whale calf. He has rough hands with fingernails bitten to the flesh and a broad, red white and blue back. Kilgore Trout is a Republican. He is also a patriot and an artist of world renown.
He is a nice man, he is. Striking in his youth he is now mottled and aged he writes about the trials of German American War Criminals. He is a good man.
In his little cot in his little room in a Mental Asylum in America, Kilgore Trout sits wide awake and dreams...
Darth Trout stares through his Troutvisor in his Troutship from a Troutsand trouts above the planet Trout. Earth, trout and fire surround him. He can rain trout on the Trout whenever he desires, he is the trout trouts are made of, and his little trout is rounded with a trout. The troutcoats were coming and he trout3d them all. He is faster than a speeding trout, in the trout, a trout, a trout, trouterman. He trouts around like there is no troutmorrow like...like...like the very trout of trout can be untrouted at the very mention of his trout. Like the only trout trouting the world together is the immense trouter of his sheer trout. He does not believe in Trout. He IS Trout. Kilgore Trout. Double-oh-trout.
He is Trout, hear him roar.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Art Brut
"Those works created from solitude and from pure and authentic creative impulses - where the worries of competition, acclaim and social promotion do not interfere - are, because of these very facts, more precious than the productions of professions. After a certain familiarity with these flourishings of an exalted feverishness, lived so fully and so intensely by their authors, we cannot avoid the feeling that in relation to these works, cultural art in its entirety appears to be the game of a futile society, a fallacious parade." - Jean Dubuffet.
Nu am crezut ca o sa gasesc un citat care sa legitimeze conceptul de "indieness", atat de ridicat in slavi de lumea in care ne ducem veacul. Binenteles, indie la modul mai inainte-mentionat nu exista decat ca deziderat in mintea celor care au puterea de a mai crede in asa ceva, mai ales in conditiile in care pana si D[o] I[t] Y[ourself], fratele voit comercial al indie-ului a esuat lamentabil. Daca tov. Dubuffet se referea la the art of the lucidly challenged [indie supreme!], ce ne face oare sa credem ca, fiind amintrilea, putem atinge acelasi nivel de sinceritate si dezinteres? "Dezinteres", bineinteles, nu fata de produsul finit, tinand cont ca si hipercosmetizarea din pura horror vacui a rezultatului muncii de creatie este o izbitura zdravana in mecla intelegerii conceptului de telos artistic in egala masura in care miile de exemple de "art without input" ale cimpanzeilor manjiti cu tempera sunt vandute pe bani grei. Sa intelegem, dar, ca homo faber a murit? Posibil. Daca ceea ce se chema odata constiinta actului de creatie se regaseste acum numai la cei dusi oleaca pe Teleajen in jos cu pluta, inseamna ca avem o problema cu intelegerea realitatii, bat-o vina.
Nu am crezut ca o sa gasesc un citat care sa legitimeze conceptul de "indieness", atat de ridicat in slavi de lumea in care ne ducem veacul. Binenteles, indie la modul mai inainte-mentionat nu exista decat ca deziderat in mintea celor care au puterea de a mai crede in asa ceva, mai ales in conditiile in care pana si D[o] I[t] Y[ourself], fratele voit comercial al indie-ului a esuat lamentabil. Daca tov. Dubuffet se referea la the art of the lucidly challenged [indie supreme!], ce ne face oare sa credem ca, fiind amintrilea, putem atinge acelasi nivel de sinceritate si dezinteres? "Dezinteres", bineinteles, nu fata de produsul finit, tinand cont ca si hipercosmetizarea din pura horror vacui a rezultatului muncii de creatie este o izbitura zdravana in mecla intelegerii conceptului de telos artistic in egala masura in care miile de exemple de "art without input" ale cimpanzeilor manjiti cu tempera sunt vandute pe bani grei. Sa intelegem, dar, ca homo faber a murit? Posibil. Daca ceea ce se chema odata constiinta actului de creatie se regaseste acum numai la cei dusi oleaca pe Teleajen in jos cu pluta, inseamna ca avem o problema cu intelegerea realitatii, bat-o vina.
Killing a Dead Man
Iraqi Prime Minister Nouri Maliki has told the BBC he expects Saddam Hussein to be executed by the end of 2006.
Asta declara domnul Maliki pentru BBC, in acelasi timp rugand the whole world sa respecte the judicial system of Iraq. Saddam, judecat pentru nshpe mii de capete de acuzare, toate purtand pedeapsa capitala, cerea ca toti irakienii sa reconcile cum a zis Profetul. Forgiveness i thell thee. Toata aceasta circoteca cu tirani executati si criminali pocaiti avand ca deznodamant o iluzie a dreptatii dar si o nevoie disperata de normalitate si razbunare. Saddam in perioada lui de glorie executa oameni la micul dejun, iar acei oameni vor dreptate acum, nu? Executia dictatorului o sa aduca o noua epoca de stabilitate in istoria Irakului. Irakul se va lepada de trecut ca de Diavol si calea ii va fi batuta
Nope.
Saddam a fost odata. Acum tot ce a mai ramas din el este o epava, umbra acelui batranel cu barba pana la buric ascunzandu-se intr-o groapa din Irak. Nimanui nu ii mai pasa de Saddam, executia sa e un moft, nedemn de prima pagina a ziarelor. Saddam is history, un dictator decazut.
Castro inca face primele pagini ale ziarelor pentru ca si-a aratat popoul zbarcit maretei natiuni Americane si lived to tell the tale dar popoul usor mai rotofei ai lui Saddam l-a vazut o planeta intreaga pe prima pagina din The Sun. Nimic interesant.
Si atunci de ce sa-l executam pe batranelul acela tupeist? Irak-ul are alte belele momentan cum ar fi un regim marioneta si niste insurgenti nervosi rau de tot. Surely, executia lui Saddam nu e destul. Irak-ul nu e Israel, Saddam nu e in floarea varstei. Lock him up in solitary, lasa-l sa-si scrie memoriile si mai scoate-l prin oras in chiloti tanga just for laughs. We killed our dictator cand era inca "proaspat", imaginea sa starnea frica ura si regret. Saddam starneste doar mila.
Saddam e mort. Antiteza lui Castro, este dictatorul ingenunchiat, umilit, inexistent. Executia sa e o sarada bolnava, un alt mod prin care fragilul guvern irakian isi arata supunerea fata de SUA si nu in ultimul rand, o franghi irosita, franghie cu care poti face atatea lucruri minunate, de la priponirea cailor la Bondage.
Asta declara domnul Maliki pentru BBC, in acelasi timp rugand the whole world sa respecte the judicial system of Iraq. Saddam, judecat pentru nshpe mii de capete de acuzare, toate purtand pedeapsa capitala, cerea ca toti irakienii sa reconcile cum a zis Profetul. Forgiveness i thell thee. Toata aceasta circoteca cu tirani executati si criminali pocaiti avand ca deznodamant o iluzie a dreptatii dar si o nevoie disperata de normalitate si razbunare. Saddam in perioada lui de glorie executa oameni la micul dejun, iar acei oameni vor dreptate acum, nu? Executia dictatorului o sa aduca o noua epoca de stabilitate in istoria Irakului. Irakul se va lepada de trecut ca de Diavol si calea ii va fi batuta
Nope.
Saddam a fost odata. Acum tot ce a mai ramas din el este o epava, umbra acelui batranel cu barba pana la buric ascunzandu-se intr-o groapa din Irak. Nimanui nu ii mai pasa de Saddam, executia sa e un moft, nedemn de prima pagina a ziarelor. Saddam is history, un dictator decazut.
Castro inca face primele pagini ale ziarelor pentru ca si-a aratat popoul zbarcit maretei natiuni Americane si lived to tell the tale dar popoul usor mai rotofei ai lui Saddam l-a vazut o planeta intreaga pe prima pagina din The Sun. Nimic interesant.
Si atunci de ce sa-l executam pe batranelul acela tupeist? Irak-ul are alte belele momentan cum ar fi un regim marioneta si niste insurgenti nervosi rau de tot. Surely, executia lui Saddam nu e destul. Irak-ul nu e Israel, Saddam nu e in floarea varstei. Lock him up in solitary, lasa-l sa-si scrie memoriile si mai scoate-l prin oras in chiloti tanga just for laughs. We killed our dictator cand era inca "proaspat", imaginea sa starnea frica ura si regret. Saddam starneste doar mila.
Saddam e mort. Antiteza lui Castro, este dictatorul ingenunchiat, umilit, inexistent. Executia sa e o sarada bolnava, un alt mod prin care fragilul guvern irakian isi arata supunerea fata de SUA si nu in ultimul rand, o franghi irosita, franghie cu care poti face atatea lucruri minunate, de la priponirea cailor la Bondage.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Un monstru bicefal se ridica, punand in umbra si la indoiala mai tot ce e sub soare. Cum Marea Revolutie din Octombrie a avut loc in noiembrie, nu simtim cum ca am fi intarziat prea mult, ba dimpotriva, niciodata nu poate fi prea tarziu pentru o forta a naturii sa se faca simtita. Nu v-am tansformat in stalpi de sare, fie si numai pentru ca aveti curajul sa va lasati retina necalita sa priveasca macelul prin care scufundam cetatea voastra; ba, mai mult, oferim locuri front-row-center. Popcornul vi-l luati si voi.
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