Incidental Acts of Spontaneous Cerebral Violence

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

It sounds to me as if they're just pissed that he spilled the beans

Pat Robertson calls for the assassination of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez and all the State Department has to say is that the comment is "inappropriate."

Let's see . . . Chavez is a two-time democratically elected pseudo-socialist who constantly criticizes U.S. policies toward Iraq, terrorism and developing countries. We applauded - and likely funded - the failed 2002 coup attempt against Chavez and would like nothing better than to Monroe Doctrine him out of the hemisphere. And it's not like we don't have a bit of experience when it comes to terminating Latin American heads-of-state with extreme prejudice. (See Allende, Salvador; Chile, U.S. intervention in)

Robertson Suggests U.S. Kill Venezuela's Leader [via NY Times]

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

It might just be a case of the Tuesdays

A good friend/partner-in-crime just finished telling me all about his weekend:

Friday- Drunk.

Saturday- Stoned. And Drunk.

Sunday- Wired. And Drunk. And then Stoned.

A different sketchy friend told me all about his weekend when bailing out on an invitation to a private SFU finale screening:

Friday- Drunk. And Stoned.

Saturday- Drunk. Stoned. Drunk again. [Random call from 22 y.o. Russian plaything.] Rolling. Stoned.

Sunday- Stoned. ["What time is it? Six-thirty? For real? Dude, I didn't get to sleep until 9:30 this morning. Do you have any vicodin at your place?"] Hydrocodoned.

If I'm not mistaken I left my apartment for a grand total of 75 minutes from Friday night through Sunday and ingested a grand total of one Pacifico during that span. Although I envy their level of activity, I certainly don't want that existence. I really truly don't. There must be a happy medium, right? There has to be. When you subsist in a world of extremes how do you avoid the all-or-nothing, binary, zero-sum existence and simply enhance your every day.

Well, I'm all ears.

Monday, August 22, 2005

Mourning has broken

The official obits:

Nathaniel Samuel Fisher, Jr.

Nate Fisher died of natural causes on Saturday, May 21 at the age of 40. The Fisher family struggles with the profound loss of their beloved son and brother. Nate also leaves behind his wife Brenda Chenowith and his precious daughter Maya Fisher.

Nate was born January 8, 1965 to Nathaniel and Ruth Fisher in Los Angeles. His warmth, sense of humor, and adventurous spirit earned him friends everywhere he went. After graduating from Bonaventure High School and attending U.C. Santa Cruz, Nate traveled through Europe and later settled in Washington State, where he managed the largest organic food co-op in Seattle.

From a very young age, Nate searched to find beauty in the world. He had a deep respect for the earth and the people living on it, always striving for honesty in his relationships with others. Nate found an outlet for his natural gift of helping those in need when he joined his brother David to run the family's mortuary business in 2001.

A memorial Service will be held on Monday, May 23 at 2 p.m. at Fisher and Diaz 2302 W. 25th Street in Los Angeles. Private burial to follow.
David James Fisher

Born January 20, 1969. Died at the age of 75 in Echo Park. He was proud owner and operator of Fisher & Sons Funeral Home of Los Angeles for over forty years. After retiring in 2034, he went on to perform in dozens of local theater productions, including Weill and Brecht's "Threepenny Opera," Rossini's "The Barber of Seville," and as Ebenezer Scrooge in Dickens' "A Christmas Carol." David leaves behind his partner Raoul Martinez, his beloved sons Durrell and Anthony Charles-Fisher, his sister Claire Fisher and his three precious grandchildren Matthew, Keith, and Katie. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Southern California Opera Association
Claire Simone Fisher
1983 - 2085

Born March 13, 1983. Died February 11, 2085 in Manhattan. Claire grew up in Los Angeles and studied art at LAC-Arts College. She worked as an advertising and fashion photographer and photojournalist for nearly fifty years, creating several memorable covers for Washington Post magazine, W, and The Face. Claire often exhibited her work in New York and London art galleries and in a time when nearly everyone else in her field had turned to digital scanning and computer-driven imaging, she continued to use a silver-based photographic process. Claire began teaching photography as a faculty member at New York University's Tisch School of the Arts in 2018, earning tenure in 2028. She's pre-deceased by her beloved husband Ted Fairwell.
It's more than a bit disconcerting that entire lives - lives we've known so intimately and in such detail over the past five years - can be condensed into such heartless, functional paragraphs. Inevitably, there, too, go us all. No matter the roar of our every breath, the end, at best, is a ripple.

As much as I hoped/prayed/implored that Claire's Prius would be the end (and the beginning), I'll concede that I share the sentiments of Jess, Spence and, in particular, Heff:
In fact, the whole overwrought montage was at least half ludicrous, and almost half lovely. But that precious ratio - which recalls the balance of silliness and beauty in Trollope and some of Hardy - has always been the show's strong suit, a 19th-century tone ingeniously invented and confidently maintained over five seasons. It's rare that a sensibility remains so unified and so unshy on a fancy soap opera; melodramatists too often get scared of being called hysterics and betray their genre, blowing it off for dumb stunts or trying, in some 11th hour, to sober up and turn manly. But the producers of "Six Feet Under" never cared about impressing the "Wire" or "Deadwood" audiences. They had their ratio, and they saw it through. "Six Feet Under" was a beautiful series, and its finale will suffice.
Goodbye, farewell and amen.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Lunar Park

The fictional BEE has a fictional ex-wife who fictionally starred as Phlox, one of my all-time favorite fictional characaters, in a fictional motion picture adaptation of one of my recent favorite fictional works written by one of my favorite fiction authors.

It appears that the new HP will continue to decorate my coffee table for another couple of weeks.

Check out Tony Scott's review of Lunar Park, Bret's 30-minute chat with Michael Silverblatt on KCRW's Bookworm and an audio excerpt of the novel read by the author himself.

Saturday, August 13, 2005

You may be in a bit of a rut . . .

when TV Land's "Night Court" marathon is the highlight of your Saturday night.

To think I forgot how upset I was back when Selma died. And just three months after Coach.

Fuck me. What the hell happened to the last twenty years?

Friday, August 12, 2005

Yeah, I've kissed that chick. Really.

So sayeth the Bard:

"As chance would have it, I have won the Pulitzer Prize, and so I am qualified. Speaking in my official capacity as a Pulitzer Prize winner, Mr. Schneider, your movie sucks."

Damn. That almost ranks right up there alongside the poetry of "North":
"I hated this movie. Hated hated hated hated hated this movie. Hated it. Hated every simpering stupid vacant audience-insulting moment of it. Hated the sensibility that thought anyone would like it. Hated the implied insult to the audience by its belief that anyone would be entertained by it."
I guess I'll have to settle for "Junebug" and "Broken Flowers" this weekend.

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