Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Things I will not be doing this summer:
WATCHING IN THE MOVIE THEATRES:
WATCHING ON TV:
READING:
- Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen
Now, I'm not saying I have high expectations when it comes to most action movies being beacons of racial and gender equality, but when people are saying it's even worse than the first one, HOW is that even possible? I just can't reward that amount of fail. - Brüno
Hahahahah... see it's funny because this white heterosexual male is throwing out all the homophobic jokes and stereotypes to prove ... well... something. FSM, with allies like this, who needs enemies? - The Year Oneover (aka the Hangover and Year One).
I am so sick and tired of comedies about doodly doodz incapable of growing up. It's insulting, mostly to all the wonderful men in the world. And also insulting to comedy in general, since all these movie concepts are as overdone as the burgers my aunt once turned to charcoal because she was afraid we'd otherwise die from them being undercooked.
WATCHING ON TV:
- The Philanthropist
Really? This is what producers think we need on tv? Because what? We don't have enough of this "white man's burden" BS in real life ruining things? - Royal Pains
Look! It's a rich white male doctor forced to tend to all these awful rich people, but gosh darnit, he also has a heart of gold and will help out 'the poor.' - Merlin
Smallville a la dark ages. I'd be happy that there's a fantasy show on tv, if it weren't for the complete lack of respect for even the most basic plot elements of the original myth. No sword in the stone, no tragic tale of how Arthur was begotten. Heck Merlin is the same age as Arthur - and it all takes place in a 15th century castle. When even Jerry Bruckheimer's "King Arthur" movie is closer to historical accuracy, that results in an EPIC MYTHOLOGICAL FAIL.
READING:
- Outliers: The Story of Success, The Tipping Point, Blink, and pretty much anything ever written by Malcolm Gladwell
Am I the only one disconcerted over Gladwell's constant assertion that people shouldn't think, and how he takes random stories and extrapolates far-fetched theories from them? Because considering his books are always on the best-selling list, I really sometimes feel like I am. - Shakedown: How Our Government is Undermining Democracy in the Name of Human Rights by Ezra Levant.
Coming from a Canadian writer trying to prolong his 15 minutes of fame after a poorly written, lazy, misleading article in a national magazine that was filled with stereotypes about Muslims people and -surprise- made people upset. Yet he loathes the Human Rights Tribunal, despite it siding with him. Life is so unfair being a white male.
Take time to count the number of blatant contradictions in the title alone. Because you know, the basic tenets of human rights have nothing to do with democracy. Well, except for Article 18 of the Universal Declaration. Or 19. Or 20. Or 21. Or you know the whole thing, really in general. - The Twilight Saga Collection
Because a 108 year old virgin who still lives with his parents, who is a stalker, is abusive etc. etc. does not spell romance. It spells "Wacko vampire who should be staked."
Monday, July 06, 2009
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Byron the Water Puppy
Byron going for a swim at Caliper Provincial Park (Sioux Narrows/Nestor Falls). Byron thinks I am his girlfriend. He is an odd, yet lovable creature.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Random Poetry Favourites
My favourite Margaret Atwood poem.
Discuss.
The Loneliness of the Military Historian
By Margaret Atwood
Confess: it’s my profession
that alarms you.
This is why few people ask me to dinner,
though Lord knows I don’t go out of my way to be scary.
I wear dresses of sensible cut
and unalarming shades of beige,
I smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser’s:
no prophetess mane of mine,
complete with snakes, will frighten the youngsters.
If I roll my eyes and mutter,
if I clutch at my heart and scream in horror
like a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene,
I do it in private and nobody sees
but the bathroom mirror.
In general I might agree with you:
women should not contemplate war,
should not weigh tactics impartially,
or evade the word enemy,
or view both sides and denounce nothing.
Women should march for peace,
or hand out white feathers to arouse bravery,
spit themselves on bayonets
to protect their babies,
whose skulls will be split anyway,
or, having been raped repeatedly,
hang themselves with their own hair.
These are the functions that inspire general comfort.
That, and the knitting of socks for the troops
and a sort of moral cheerleading.
Also: mourning the dead.
Sons, lovers, and so forth.
All the killed children.
Instead of this, I tell
what I hope will pass as truth.
A blunt thing, not lovely.
The truth is seldom welcome,
especially at dinner,
though I am good at what I do.
My trade is courage and atrocities.
I look at them and do not condemn.
I write things down the way they happened,
as near as can be remembered.
I don’t ask why, because it is mostly the same.
Wars happen because the ones who start them
think they can win.
In my dreams there is glamour.
The Vikings leave their fields
each year for a few months of killing and plunder,
much as the boys go hunting.
In real life they were farmers.
They come back loaded with splendour.
The Arabs ride against Crusaders
with scimitars that could sever
silk in the air.
A swift cut to the horse’s neck
and a hunk of armour crashes down
like a tower. Fire against metal.
A poet might say: romance against banality.
When awake, I know better.
Despite the propaganda, there are no monsters,
or none that can be finally buried.
Finish one off, and circumstances
and the radio create another.
Believe me: whole armies have prayed fervently
to God all night and meant it,
and been slaughtered anyway.
Brutality wins frequently,
and large outcomes have turned on the invention
of a mechanical device, viz. radar.
True, valour sometimes counts for something,
as at Thermopylae. Sometimes being right—
though ultimate virtue, by agreed tradition,
is decided by the winner.
Sometimes men throw themselves on grenades
and burst like paper bags of guts
to save their comrades.
I can admire that.
But rats and cholera have won many wars.
Those, and potatoes,
or the absence of them.
It’s no use pinning all those medals
across the chests of the dead.
Impressive, but I know too much.
Grand exploits merely depress me.
In the interests of research
I have walked on many battlefields
that once were liquid with pulped
men’s bodies and spangled with exploded
shells and splayed bone.
All of them have been green again
by the time I got there.
Each has inspired a few good quotes in its day.
Sad marble angels brood like hens
over the grassy nests where nothing hatches.
(The angels could just as well be described as vulgar
or pitiless, depending on camera angle.)
The word glory figures a lot on gateways.
Of course I pick a flower or two
from each, and press it in the hotel Bible
for a souvenir.
I’m just as human as you.
But it’s no use asking me for a final statement.
As I say, I deal in tactics.
Also statistics:
for every year of peace there have been four hundred
years of war.
Discuss.
The Loneliness of the Military Historian
By Margaret Atwood
Confess: it’s my profession
that alarms you.
This is why few people ask me to dinner,
though Lord knows I don’t go out of my way to be scary.
I wear dresses of sensible cut
and unalarming shades of beige,
I smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser’s:
no prophetess mane of mine,
complete with snakes, will frighten the youngsters.
If I roll my eyes and mutter,
if I clutch at my heart and scream in horror
like a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene,
I do it in private and nobody sees
but the bathroom mirror.
In general I might agree with you:
women should not contemplate war,
should not weigh tactics impartially,
or evade the word enemy,
or view both sides and denounce nothing.
Women should march for peace,
or hand out white feathers to arouse bravery,
spit themselves on bayonets
to protect their babies,
whose skulls will be split anyway,
or, having been raped repeatedly,
hang themselves with their own hair.
These are the functions that inspire general comfort.
That, and the knitting of socks for the troops
and a sort of moral cheerleading.
Also: mourning the dead.
Sons, lovers, and so forth.
All the killed children.
Instead of this, I tell
what I hope will pass as truth.
A blunt thing, not lovely.
The truth is seldom welcome,
especially at dinner,
though I am good at what I do.
My trade is courage and atrocities.
I look at them and do not condemn.
I write things down the way they happened,
as near as can be remembered.
I don’t ask why, because it is mostly the same.
Wars happen because the ones who start them
think they can win.
In my dreams there is glamour.
The Vikings leave their fields
each year for a few months of killing and plunder,
much as the boys go hunting.
In real life they were farmers.
They come back loaded with splendour.
The Arabs ride against Crusaders
with scimitars that could sever
silk in the air.
A swift cut to the horse’s neck
and a hunk of armour crashes down
like a tower. Fire against metal.
A poet might say: romance against banality.
When awake, I know better.
Despite the propaganda, there are no monsters,
or none that can be finally buried.
Finish one off, and circumstances
and the radio create another.
Believe me: whole armies have prayed fervently
to God all night and meant it,
and been slaughtered anyway.
Brutality wins frequently,
and large outcomes have turned on the invention
of a mechanical device, viz. radar.
True, valour sometimes counts for something,
as at Thermopylae. Sometimes being right—
though ultimate virtue, by agreed tradition,
is decided by the winner.
Sometimes men throw themselves on grenades
and burst like paper bags of guts
to save their comrades.
I can admire that.
But rats and cholera have won many wars.
Those, and potatoes,
or the absence of them.
It’s no use pinning all those medals
across the chests of the dead.
Impressive, but I know too much.
Grand exploits merely depress me.
In the interests of research
I have walked on many battlefields
that once were liquid with pulped
men’s bodies and spangled with exploded
shells and splayed bone.
All of them have been green again
by the time I got there.
Each has inspired a few good quotes in its day.
Sad marble angels brood like hens
over the grassy nests where nothing hatches.
(The angels could just as well be described as vulgar
or pitiless, depending on camera angle.)
The word glory figures a lot on gateways.
Of course I pick a flower or two
from each, and press it in the hotel Bible
for a souvenir.
I’m just as human as you.
But it’s no use asking me for a final statement.
As I say, I deal in tactics.
Also statistics:
for every year of peace there have been four hundred
years of war.
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