Drinks

Staying Afloat: Homelessness in Winchester

2011-05-11T08:30:00.001-07:00

Brian was abandoned at eight months old. Throughout his childhood, he bounced around foster homes, care services, and different social systems. He was adopted, but when his adoptive father died, he had no one else. He has had a string of drug addictions and relapses, but for now, he is clean. He was diagnosed with clinical depression, and has psychotic episodes. He also has a silver award from the Chelsea flower show. Brian is 34 years old, and he is homeless.

“Where I was originally from, I had an axe put through my door. I got my house robbed to bits. I got bullied. I ran away from home. All people get on the streets is the night shelter, or a hostel, which means if you’ve got a drink or drug problem, you’re never going to get clean because you’re stuck in a situation where it’s just never going to happen.”

For Brian, every day is a monumental struggle, as he attempts to get enough money to buy himself a cup of tea, or something to eat. As I talk to him, he rolls a cigarette in his grubby hands and his dog, whose name I don’t know, huddles and shivers in the gap between Brian and me as we lean on the windows of HMV.

“People get dealers coming to live in their house. They get scared. They’re forced to either sell drugs, or leave,” he explains, muttering afterwards. “Who would choose this life?” he mutters.

I have just told him about the Westminster City agenda to “cure” homelessness, arguing that providing food and shelter to the less fortunate “encourages” them to be homeless.

“Its bullshit” Brian argues, shaking his head. “I’ve been sleeping rough for years. People don’t choose to be homeless. A lot of people on the streets have got a lot of mental illnesses. How can they say they’ve got a choice?”

He’s right, but unfortunately, Brian’s story is nothing new. For years and years, there have been people like Brian sleeping rough, not knowing if they’re going to survive the next winter, or even the next week. And whilst there are people on the streets, there will always be systems in place to try and combat the homelessness cycle. And again, as long as these systems exist, there will be people both supporting and opposing them.

It seems that even people who have absolutely nothing are being affected by the government budget cuts. Michelle Price is Manager of the Winchester Churches Night Shelter, and as she hurriedly puts me in a room that is to be the new communal centre, complete with a coffee machine and a television, she rushes around, talking to a medley of construction workers, volunteers, and other administrative staff. The place is busy, and there aren’t even any residents. She sits down, then leaps up again, shouting goodbye to a fellow volunteer leaving for another town.

“Have you taken your bunny? HAVE YOU TAKEN YOUR BUNNY?!” She is referring to a chocolate bunny, much to my relief.

My main observation of this place is that it does not look like a night shelter at all. Instead, it looks more like a community centre, or a recreation centre, with open spaces, light and facilities to help people regain a modicum of control over their lives; Television, computers, Internet. Everything we know we take for granted. Even something as ludicrously arbitrary as a tea machine somehow seems like a luxury.

Compared to other shelters, this is like a five-star resort, with many shelters in the area getting rid of any comforts for housing space. A volunteer explained to me the differences between here and another shelter she had worked at, that instead of a seating space, shared rooms, IT suites or tea machines, it was more reminiscent of a psychiatric hospital from a horror movie; dark, barred off windows, and beds crammed in rows like army barracks.

“Sure they’ve got their capacity up, but are they doing anything other than giving them a bed? Are they helping them with their lives?”

I can’t help but feel the answer must be a resounding no.

Finally Michelle sits down, and explains with a heavy sigh the forthcoming reductions in their budget;

“Right now our funding is a third from the Hampshire Supporting People fund, a third housing benefit, and a third donations. I don’t know what the future is going to be like, but the Hampshire Supporting People Fund is going in the next 2 years, and with the current economic climate, donations are going to stop.”

It seems that this is coming at the worst possible time for the shelter, with records showing that they have had to turn away more and more people each year.

“I don’t think things are going to improve,” Michelle adds. “Most people come here because of family breakdown, abuse, or foster care. If you’ve been in care until 18 years old, when the support stops, where do you go? You have nowhere.”

The shelter has recently undergone massive changes, with the entire place under construction, with the money having been raised last year during their “Big Sleep Out” campaign, in which many residents of Winchester slept on the streets to raise money for the night shelter. The team has taken a voluntary hit, making their old offices into space for two extra beds, and making their new offices a smaller and cramped room.

The staff is not above taking risks to get results, with a viewing around the premises showing a bed in a room that technically should not be there,

“It’s listed as a crash bed, because technically we can’t have more than two beds in every room,” further adding “it’s not supported. We’re breaking the rules.”

It isn’t the first time the rules have been slightly broken, with an incredibly bitter winter of 2010 making most people living in houses cold and miserable, the homeless population were left to starve and freeze in alleys, but with a monetary contribution by the council, the night shelter was able to house and feed many more people than it is usually able to. Not enough, but the nature of the beast is that there is never enough.

Whilst there are concerns, here there is a general air of optimism. Spirits are high, and with the construction, people are hopeful. A resident, Stewart, happily bounds in telling his important news to anyone that will listen.

“I got an interview for the Prince’s Trust!” he squawks, running into his room to put his stuff down before disappearing off again. The Prince’s Trust is a voluntary organisation, which helps 19-25 year olds with courses of personal development, often if they are out of work, education or training. I’ve seen what the Prince’s Trust can achieve; Stewart’s interview can only lead to better things.

The shelter is not just a place of temporary accommodation, as their massive schedule maintains, they also offer a wide range of courses for personal development and rehabilitation.

It’s all very encouraging, but it’s a small help to a very large system of dysfunction, as the future of these courses is left unclear. Councillor Lucille Thompson is portfolio holder for communities in Winchester City Council, and with a sigh that I am all too familiar with by now, Lucille expresses her shock and disappointment at Westminster City Council’s plans. Concordantly, Winchester seems remarkably different.

“At the moment, we have no plans to reduce the spending on the homeless. We are increasing the options available.”

“We have approval for a program called Winchester Lets. It allows people on the streets to find houses that the estate agents might be reluctant to let to, instead going through the council, and having us pay the fees, claiming it back as benefits.”

The housing scheme offers council houses to those who desperately need them, but with a system like this, there are always problems. In this case, it’s that the waiting list comprises of three thousand people. Families and expectant mothers are high priority, and whilst this is of course understandable, with finite housing, people like Brian are left to wait years in band three. Not enough of a priority to house right away. Not so low a priority to have other options.

Lucille is the first to acknowledge the hundreds of problems like these;

“There is a lot more that can be done. We can always plough money into it, but we only have finite resources. Is this enough to cope? Inevitably, probably not, but we have to consider ways to address the situation with what we have.”

Despite fundraising, diligent volunteers, or even councils that want to help; the situation as it remains is in a downward spiral. Occasionally there is a flash of optimism; a renovated charity that could offer better opportunities, a teenager residing at a shelter who is excited about the possibility of getting himself back on his feet, a system willing to break the rules in order to give someone a place to sleep. All of this however, with its capability to lift people’s spirits, its opportunity to show people that perhaps things are getting better, all of it is brought to a hideous and sickening silence with the crystallizing image of a man, huddled against his knees, a hat at his feet containing a paltry 20 pence, nowhere to go but down.

Before I left Brian to continue his day as he had almost every other, struggling to maintain what little he had, he left me with a strangely insightful and prophetic warning;

“What the new government wants is what they’ve always wanted, to make us the enemy. If Winchester goes the way of Westminster, people who were criminals will be again, and people who aren’t will be forced to steal to survive.”

DOOMSDAY: How today’s NHS could be unrecognisable in four years.

2011-05-11T08:29:00.000-07:00

It’s no secret that today’s current economic climate has not been particularly kind to the British National Health Service. Despite the government pledging to maintain NHS spending, in real terms the NHS will have to make £20 billion of ‘efficiency savings’ to stay financially even. Even considering regular reports, press releases, and political figures making their opinion on the matter very well known, none of these stories really stick. Instead, the public gets a bit worried, and is then quelled by terms like “efficiency savings”, or assurances that health services will not by government politicians.

Whether it is wishful thinking, ignorance, the news calendar, or lack of proper resources, the stories never progress, meaning that the real situation doesn’t get told. It’s a sad fact that every story that comes close to this very real doomsday scenario is also immediately shut down, whether by the aforementioned leaders, or the massive amount of news generated by other events produce. I’d be the first to agree that swine flu is important, or new cancer treatment is newsworthy. It’s also worth noting that in the recent months there have been several high profile stories that have taken precedence over the long term future of the NHS. For example, the death of Joanna Yeates, and the discovery of her body on Christmas Day is a tragic story that should definitely be told. Important world news must be reported. It can be argued that there is a sensationalist tendency in some tabloids, which means that difficult and complex issues like NHS reform may not be reported.

The issue is that high profile NHS stories have been in the news relatively infrequently. It is crucial for the public to understand what the implications of proposed NHS change means in the long term as well as the short term. Just a bit of warning, this is not good news. In fact it’s pretty depressing. But don't worry; it is, according to the Government, just pessimistic speculation. However, if that’s the case, its speculation based on the opinions of health care professionals, their professional organizations, such as the British Medical Association, Royal College of Nursing and Professions Allied to Medicine, plus think tanks like The Kings’ Fund and NHS insiders. Even the Chief Executive of the NHS is opposing the proposed ‘reforms’.

It all started with a White Paper, now a parliamentary Bill.

The White Paper, a government document proposing changes and future plans for the NHS is entitled ‘Equality and Excellence: Liberating the NHS. With sections like “putting patients and the public first” and ‘Autonomy, accountability and democratic legitimacy’, one could be forgiven for thinking that this paper is entirely devoted to making everything better. Indeed, superficially, it appears the only objective is for the good of the public. But there’s something lurking under the language. Something sinister and Orwellian. It doesn’t seem right, in this economic climate that there is cause for celebration in the proposals. We must examine what is meant by the repeated phrase;

“Increasing efficiency”

It’s right up there in the world of creepy double meaning. Just like the change from “Ministry of War” to “Ministry of Defence”, “Increasing efficiency” is one of those phrases you cannot dislike. Efficiency is good! And they are increasing it, which is a positive outcome because we get more? Right? Well, that may be true, but what it really means is “Cuts.”

The worrying parts of the White Paper consist of plans to, “liberate the NHS” .One clause explicitly deals with this liberation stating that the present Strategic Health Authorities, responsible for delivering regional strategic health planning to provide key high level care such as heart surgery, organ transplantation, neurological care and so on, will be dismantled. At the county level, the Primary Care Trusts, currently commissioning services on behalf of GPs and their patients, will be replaced by GP consortia. These consortia will be encouraged to purchase services directly from “any willing provider” on behalf of the patient. There will be financial incentives to consortia to buy services from the private sector, which means that in future diagnostics such as pathology tests, x rays, scans, really any type of operation that a company is willing to provide, can be bought from any provider.

Now, this may include the NHS, but it also might include ‘social enterprise businesses’, or private medical companies like Nuffield or Bupa. While this all sounds quite good, in reality hospitals will be left with difficult and expensive care, with the common, easy procedures being ‘cherry picked’ by the private sector.

This may liberate the NHS, in the sense that GP's may buy services at a lower price, saving money for the NHS. Unfortunately, due to how public finance and how the NHS works, it also takes money away.

NHS funding works on a cycle system, working with Strategic Health Authorities and Primary Care Trusts. It is hugely complicated, which is the problem with the NHS in general; it requires so much management because of all the services it provides. One must understand that Foundation Trust hospitals, whilst they are financed by the NHS, are a business. They need to make money (or revenue) by providing efficient and economical services for which the department of Health pays. A specialist hospital that focuses on heart surgery will often have chosen this focus in order to provide an essential regional service of a high caliber, generating income, as in NHS finance, the money follows the patient. E.g. Southmead Hospital in North Bristol is a leading renal unit, because it has developed this service to a very high level.

Hospitals also have to make money, to expand services and fund new buildings and facilities. Funding comes from the primary health care providers; GP's, who purchase services from the hospitals, which gives the hospitals money, which is provided by the Primary Care Trusts, whose focus is dealing with the money provided by the government and procuring services for patients. As I say; a cycle.

But this cycle is awkward. Money is lost in bureaucracy, but it does ensure that the right services are provided for patients. However, as demographic change, technological and pharmaceutical advances and diminishing resources collide, the costs are more than the money provided. A new MRI scanner costs more than £1million (An ordinary purchase).

The new White Paper has no incentive to buy services such as scans from hospitals. Instead, there is an incentive to buy from the third party providers, who offer this care more cheaply because they have much smaller overheads. This means that the Department of Health funds that were used to power the previously mentioned cycle, instead go in a straight line to third-party providers.

Presumably, the cycle therefore starves, and breaks.

This would be terrible on its own, but yet more factors exacerbate the situation. First, the conglomeration of GP’s called the GP consortia. With the White Paper, they are granted power that allows them to choose who to buy their services from, making competition inevitable between third-parties and NHS hospitals. And with the third-parties having better rates and lower overheads, the foundation trust hospitals would end up losing revenue. This proposes that should a hospital fail to balance its budget due to increased demand and inadequate funding, it will be allowed to ‘fail’. Also known as ‘going bankrupt’. However, the White Paper says nothing of what will happen to the patients or staff of the hospital.

Second, thanks to the economic climate, the NHS has to make ‘efficiency savings’ of £20 billion across the board. The official line by the government is that cutting administrations and management will mean that frontline clinical staff will be safe. However, NHS sources say that 75% of a hospitals budget is spent on staff, including management, and only 25% on consumables. They also say that 95% of staff are clinical, which means that if 20% of the budget is to be cut, where is this coming from? Well, clinical staff.

It is also worth stating that an average foundation trust has a similar budget to a FTSE 250 company, like WH Smith, the Daily Mail, and Easy Jet. No company that large would be able to function without a respectable amount of good managers, so even cutting management and administration would cause the workings of the NHS to suffer.

Whilst some jobs can be removed, people know that quality of care will suffer if too many clinical staff are fired, and financial success will suffer if too many administration staff go, both of which would undermine the governments standpoint. Instead, according to confidential sources, the plan of action is a jobs freeze. This means that vacant posts aren’t filled, and new posts are forbidden. No one is hired, and no-one is replaced. Staff will drip out slowly, care will suffer, and hospitals will be forced to stop certain services, specialist or otherwise.

But even with all of these actions, essential services and frontline staff will still be cut. With this, healthcare may become a postcode lottery. Hospitals with a catchment of less than 500,000 (government figures) may be classed as unviable, leading to their patients being absorbed into a larger hospital, which may be unable to deal with the influx of new patients. With this lack of hospitals in an increased catchment area, regardless of age, people will have to travel further for routine and emergency care. This means that it will be less of a postcode lottery, and more of a lottery as to whether people get to hospitals, or die in ambulances.

A final casualty of this fragmentation of patient care, brought about by the “efficiency savings”- competition, the stagnation of services available, and the lack of human resources, is patient records. When any NHS body delivers care, free at the point of delivery, but paid for by all through taxation, as it should be, records are kept. Regardless of where someone receives care, the healthcare professionals know one’s problems. One’s medical history is laid bare, greatly reducing the possibility of medical errors and actively improving care. If care is provided by third parties, records are unavailable to the NHS except by request. In an emergency situation, this may at best be a nuisance and at worst be life threatening. For example, a patient might need an emergency MRI, only to be severely injured because the NHS doctors were not aware of her heart pacemaker, inserted in a private hospital.

No healthcare system anywhere in the world has ever had to institute major systemic reform in an environment of diminishing resources and efficiency savings on a massive scale, whilst still maintaining patient care. No evidence exists to prove that this could happen, but a lot exists to prove that it couldn’t.

Aneurin Bevan, the post WW2 Minister for Health and creator of the NHS in 1948, said it should be the foundation of a welfare state ‘from the cradle to the grave’. In “liberating the NHS”, an organization we all rely on, NHS staff and patients have been hindered, handcuffed, and hung up to dry.

True Englishmen, Guns and Pride

2011-05-11T08:27:00.000-07:00

Shooters, hunters, stalkers and gun users are a rare breed these days it seems. Whilst once they represented all that was “proper” and “British”, now they represent, in public opinion, nutters in flat caps. And green jackets. And occasionally, Wellington boots.

Back in July, in an attempt to meet some real life gun owners, and just maybe quell the stigma, I went on a very short journey to see what these people were really all about, whether the myth was abstract or blatant reality, and it was nothing short of a little scary. This is the story of how an attempt to do a rational article about people who own guns became something different entirely…something harrowing.

On a hot morning when the weather had already reached its peak, sticky and incredibly uncomfortable in a way that would make most people short tempered and crabby. And so it seemed right I was wearing shorts. Now, there’s nothing wrong with a man wearing shorts. Not the subtlest clothing, maybe, but I was hoping that the shabbiness of my appearance would distract whoever I was talking to, giving me the upper hand in any conversation. It was a risky move that has almost never paid off in the past, but I was still confident.

I was very aware that I was entering a shop that carried not just its outward appearances or scariness, but with it a huge world, full of controversy, anger, pride, pain, death and nationality. And I was wearing shorts. Admittedly, I was also wearing a satchel, with pens, paper and other things jingling and rattling inside which made me look like I was at least pretending to be an adult.

The heat inside the shop on Southgate Street in Winchester, was even more muggy than outside, which was if nothing else an incredible feat of engineering, considering I could see that they had air conditioning, and so instead of looking just slightly dishevelled, I looked like I had a horrible fever. If someone new met me, they would probably think I was about to die, or maybe have a dump.

The first noticeable thing about the store, officially called a “Gunmakers” was the incredible amount of green and brown. Everywhere. This was presumably to lull any animals that might wander into the store into a false sense of security, so that they are easier to hunt and kill in the faux woodland. One side of the store was covered in hanging clothes, green and brown jackets mostly, the sort that country folk use to…well, I don’t think anyone really knows. There were also a few shirts that frightened me, just because many of them resembled ones I wear much of the time. The horror.

Where there were not clothes, there were rows and rows of guns, and where there were not guns, there were counters of things to clean guns, things to re-load guns, things to make guns more efficient. The guns were behind glass counters and inside glass cases, much like rings in a jewellers shop, and given the prices, they were just as precious. I was under the impression that guns were cheap, but apparently a standard “J. Woodward & Sons 12 bore sidelock ejector, circa 1911, 29" barrels, fine condition, straight hand stock with double triggers” can cost up to £11,000. I don’t think I’ve even seen that much money in my whole life, and for a frame of reference, here are some other things you can buy for £11,000;

· Boston Whaler 160 Dauntless 2003 (A large boat)

· A 1962 Chevrolet Impala

· A Summer House (Can be used as a Home Office, Log Cabin or a Golf Shop)

But we’re not here to talk about owning a kickass boat, a bitchin’ car or a totally badass summer house/log cabin, we’re here about the gun men, the men without these boats, cars, or houses.

The startling thing was the distinctive lack of animal carcasses. This is to say, there were only two that I could see. Two?! I thought this was a gun shop, not a flower store. What happened to the manly feel that was introduced by the guns, and cemented by the abundance of flat caps? I felt cheated, jilted even, but before I even had time to complain, I was set upon by a man.

He had come as if from nowhere, gliding on a haze of hunting prowess and skill. Perhaps this was a skill he had developed over years of sneaking up on elk and bear in the Alaskan countryside, but whatever the situation, he was as silent as the breeze. He stood beside me and asked without a hint of kindness;

“Can I help you?”

“Yes. Hi.” I replied trying to sound professional, but probably sounding (and looking) like a giant dick. Not like a journalist at all. All the brown satchels in the world couldn’t save me; “I’m a journalist from the University, I’m doing an article on gun ownership, who uses guns, what they’re like, that sort of thing, and I thought this was a good place to start.”

His demeanour instantly changed, he almost seemed excited, “You’ve come to the right place,” he said, proceeding to laugh for a while, and then turning back to me, asking; “do you need any literature?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I have these things here.”

He pointed to a rack of pamphlets that contained information on hunts, gun prices, second hand guns and cartridge prices, which startled me, not because of the pamphlets, but because of the American man with the giant fucking shotgun pointed directly at my face. This, to say the least, was incredibly terrifying. To say the most; holy Jesus shit!

“Don’t worry,” he beamed at me, his lips curdling into a grim smile, “It’s not loaded.”

This was probably the most ironic thing I have ever seen, and I’ve been to a rainy wedding. He was standing about two feet away from me, in front of the counter, behind which stood a man in an apron, presumably another employee. He proceeded to hit the butt of the gun on the counter, dropping it through his fingers until it slammed down, making me jump like a terrified cat, staring into the face of a particularly vicious dog.

“See, there’s a rattling noise when I hit it” He said to the man behind the counter, before picking the gun up and aiming it at imaginary elk in the sky.

The man behind the counter repeated his procedure with the gun precisely, agreeing with him about the rattling, before handing the gun back and turning his sights to me as I awkwardly shuffled through different leaflets.

“So what’s this article about then?” He blasted.

I shuffled on the spot, trying to maintain his eye-line and look at my feet in the same instance. “It’s about the sort of people who use guns, why they do it, and why some people don’t like it and think they should be illegalised, that sort of thing. It’s all up in the air at the moment.”

He paused for a second, squinting his eyes in what I imagined to be contemplative fury. Guns surrounded me. It was not a good place for me to be nervous, or him to be angry.

“If guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns,” He replied.

“You stole that from us!” The American said, laughing. “I hope this article will have a positive stance?” he asked me, holding his gun by the trigger, resting it on his hip like some strange khaki-clad cowboy. This was a man wearing a blue pastel shirt and Birkenstocks and still I was sweating in fear. “Well I think it should be neutral. Journalistic integrity and all that, but it’s going to be from my perspective.”

The American laughed, and leant towards me, as though he were about to whisper a terrible secret into my ear, and I tried to resist the urge to look intrigued, and also resist the possibility of crapping myself;

“The French have been neutral for a hundred years, and look at them!”

I laughed nervously, undecided whether he was just having a laugh or committing a bit of causal mid-morning racism. I looked at the pamphlets whilst the man behind the counter tinkered with the gun for about half a minute before handing it back to the American, who proceeded to aim at imaginary elk once more, this time aiming a couple of inches to the right of my head across my shoulder, and pulling the trigger, resulting in a sinister click.

“You fixed it!” he said excitedly.

The man behind the counter leant his shoulder on a ledge, crossing his arms in satisfaction, replying, “That’s why they call me God.”

Open letters to books I have read

2011-02-06T10:52:00.000-08:00

Dear Six Dinner Sid,

I read you when I was very young, and therefore quite naive. I totally believed that a cat could

have the brain power to con six separate people. I mean, thats a pretty big con. Thats worthy of like, Oceans Eleven, if Oceans Eleven was about cats and not about casinos or whatever. But there was something I didn't get, if they all lived on the same street, how did they not at least see the cat going into someone else's house? Do these people not go outside? Was it a grim warning of the dangers and the perils of agoraphobia? I'm glad you were keeping people aware.

Yours with kindness,

Luke

Dear Captain Corelli's Mandolin,

I am a big fan of your stiff, decisive descriptions of the Greek. The huge dude had a pretty awesome name for a huge dude. I mean, if a guy can lift two men, one on each shoulder, and also a brass cannon, he truly deserves the name "Megalo". I also promise to stop using you as a coaster. Maybe.

Yours faithfully,

Luke

Dear Crime and Punishment,

You are so depressing. I was so depressed reading you. It was actually so depressing that I had to stop reading half way through, before I got to the "punishment" part. I read it in the end, but it still haunts me as to how depressing it is. Russia sounds like a very sad place, so I guess the one good thing to come out of reading you is that I now know I should probably not go there, for fear of being really, really sad all of the time. I guess th

ats why everyone there drinks so much vodka? Is that why?

Eagerly awaiting your reply,

Luke

Dear Fight Club,

Dude, you've got some problems. You're seriously messed up! I actually was quite angry when I started reading you, but then half way through was like "man, I am the most angry!" It was quite a weekend. But think you had some good points, and the twist was really good. I liked how you kept us guessing by making us think that the narrator was really, really gay for Tyler Durden. I did not expect that...

Yours angrily,

Luke

Dear Grapes of Wrath,

Did you know that my lecturer doesn't like you? What a joke right?! Who doesn't like you, you're a straight up guy! What a weird thing to not like you. Well, you are pretty massive, and you do scare people with the heady-ness of your topic, and after all, you are pretty dreary. But still, that font? Whoo boy, that is one hell of a...font.

Yours confusedly,

Luke

Dear Breakfast at Tiffany's,

Fuck you man! You think you're better than everyone Holly Golightly? You think you're all that? Give the dude a chance, he just loves you, he loves you so much! Thank you soooooo much, for making me completely dead inside. You're like the Sylvia Plath of up-beat bohemian East Coast fiction.

Fuck you!

Yours sincerely,

Luke.

Danger: A Reference Guide

2011-02-02T08:49:00.001-08:00

"How much danger am I in?"

This is a question that everybody asks in certain situations; Kayaking, or setting off fireworks. Its dangerous, we all know this, they can explode in your face, and no one wants that. But what many people don't consider is the danger of situations and circumstances that they might be in every day. Speaking as a constant worrier, I present to you the round up of the five most dangerous places to be in England, the ones that are right under your nose, and that will probably kill your nose. And probably the rest of your face.

5. Up-Market Chain Coffee shop

The usual dangers can be spotted right away. A hot cup of liquid can give you a nasty scald. This is something the managers will have prepared for, with messages like "This beverage is incredibly hot", but this is merely a distraction. The windows in most of these shops aremassive. Have you ever thought how much of an invitation to criminals this is? The place is warm, condensation lightly dusts the edges of these gigantic windows, showing just how delightfully cosy the inside is, like the inside of a sleeping bag. This is where rich people are designed to be, and therefore they can be instantly found by terrifying criminals. But this is not the most present danger; Those windows are massive! If a bird saw the cosy inside of that shop, and the bugger flew into the the window, in a sweet spot it could shatter, covering you and your family in shards of deadly, deadly glass!

4. Bus Stops

Bus stops are damn dangerous, and don't let any persuasive words from your local council tell you otherwise. Those things are hardly safe, and are made of about a ton of metal. Have you seen how they are designed? A flap of heavy metal supported by one sheet of flimsy, wussy metal? No thanks Death, I'd rather walk.

3. Swimming Pools

Have you seen that one episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, where Xander joins the swimming team and it turns out that his team-mates are actually terrifying, monstrous sea creatures? I'm not saying its going to happen now, but I am saying why risk it, when its almost certain to happen eventually?

2. At a rubbish Amateur Indie-rock gig

At this sort of place, boredom is the most dangerous factor. This, and cheap, stale beer fished out from the back of Wetherspoons (where it was deemed "not good enough". InWetherspoons) is almost like spending a night being slowly suffocated by Carbon Monoxide, but with worse lighting.

1. Garden Centers

These are basically designed to be like artificial forest lodges, with lots of wood around, and lots of trees and plants. You know what likes those sorts of places? God damn Bears.

DO YOU SEE?! DON'T GO OUTSIDE!

The Crests and the Breaks - The Highs and Lows of a Career in Comedy - by Luke Garratt

2010-12-16T03:39:00.001-08:00

Above - (left to right) Graham Chapman, Bernard McKenna, Terry Jones and John Cleese

Bernard McKenna, in person, is imposing. His stature and his demeanor is one of a person who clearly knows many things. This does not mean that he is rude, or boastful. The first thing he does when he sees me sitting in the cafe where we have agreed to meet is offer me a cup of tea. This is not the first time that I have spoken to Bernard before, he has taught me, but it is the first time we have spent any time together in a professional capacity. He seems

keenly aware.

"his beard, as always, bushy. Same as it was in the 1970's"

We sit in the university bar, where he proceeds to leisurely and confidently lean back on his seat, his scarf draped around his neck, his beard, as always, bushy, the same as it was in the 1970s.

Born in Scotland, he grew up in Wales and Southsea before moving back to Scotland. “It played havoc with my accent. I ended up with an English accent, and my parents were very broad Scots.” Fortunately this gave him an ear for accents “I got very good at pulling out an accent when I had to”. This, and seeing Richard Burton on stage, was what gave him “the bug for acting”.

In his teenage years, Bernard went on an exchange trip to France, discovering French wine, French women, and an appetite for adventure. Formal educationwas not his thing, and a 15 year old Bernard would travel to Glasgow every day instead of school on a forged train ticket and go to museums, art galleries, cinemas and libraries, educating himself.

Of course, nowadays the work that Bernard is most known for is with film and television comedy. He got his start on through a stint of deception, saying that he had worked on many previous films and television shows, and with a ballsy move when being asked to edit a script, he instead wrote completely new scenes, and was soon following hot on the heels of writers like John Cleese, Graham Chapman, and Peter Cook, writing and finding sketches for Ronnie Barker, further getting to know the future members of the Monty Python troupe whilst working on the series Doctor in the House.

This relationship with his friends

would result in a few parts in Life of Brian.The Pythons atthe time preferred Bernard to actualactors, who would “overact”.

Above - Bernard McKenna and Eric Idle sharing a laugh on the set of The Life of Brian

However, whilst every career has highs, every career inevitably has lows. This came in the form of a film that would come to be called Yellowbeard.

“I used to hang out with a very well behaved young man named Keith Moon,” Bernard recalls with a hint of irony “and Graham (Chapman) and I were out once with Keith and he said “I want to make a film, and I want you to write it. I’ll give you some development money.”” This was in the early 1970s, and Bernard was given £1000 for an idea, and he moved toLos Angeles. However, this was the early 1970s, which in LA, meant cocaine.

“Graham had stopped drinking, but he had started to use coke quite heavily”. The conversation turns dark as Bernard looks down. “I’d been in LA, got an apartment there, and Isuddenly realized one day that I had been there for 2 or 3 weeks and had coke every day”.

On cocaine - "LA in those days, you would get in cabs and people would say 'Hey man, you want a toot?' "

“This is not good, I thought, so I decided to stop...which is hard to do in LA in those days, because everybody offered it to you. You would get in cabs and people would be saying “You want a toot, man?”

The writing took a long time, with Graham and Bernard falling out, and with the first draft finished, Bernard washed his hands of the writing duties, despite calls from producers asking him to save the project for an “extraordinary amount of money”.

“Eric Idle, John Cleese, James Mason, Cheech and Chong, Martin Feldman, who died during the making of the film...The film had an extraordinary cast, and was extraordinarily bad.”
Despite this description, Bernard seems to speak of his friends and colleagues fondly. He expresses a disdain for Ronnie Barker’s predilection for “bum and tit” jokes, but says he “deeply admires him as a performer”. He may speak of Graham Chapman jetting off to Australia, leaving him alone in LA, but he also talks of their love of writing, and being “chuffed” when Chapman mentioned that the only part of a Ronnie Barker movie he found funny was “a part that I wrote”.

It is clear that Bernard is from a different of show business, and perhaps takes today’s efforts from executives with a pinch of salt;

“This is not an anti-youth statement” he assures me “but a lot of the young producers and directors have less respect for the medium, have less respect for people working in the business. You get fed up with it”

“In the past we tended to be a bit more matey about it all, we’re all in this together, because making a movie is pretty much a team effort...young producers are often incredibly ambitions, and they’ll try and pull on anybody.”

Bernard started teaching at the University of Winchester through his wife, and currently sees his job as a way of “putting something back”.

“Not every student I lecture in scriptwriting is going to be a scriptwriter, but i try to teach them to understand scripts, because if they want to produce, direct, location manage, or even be a cateringmanager, they need to understand where it comes from, how a script functions.”

“There are a few (students) who show promise” He says, smiling at me, “can’t remember if you were one of them.”

Bernard is a proud but humble man. He may tell his stories, often, and with gusto, but he still remains, at heart, the same lad he was in his early life; fascinated with culture, a powerful imagination, and a sense that bigger things are always waiting over the horizon.

Further links:

- Yellowbeard info: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0086618/

- Bernard McKenna IMDB profile: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0571334/

- Life of Brian info: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0079470/

- University of Winchester: www.winchester.ac.uk

Pictures provided, with permission, by Bernard McKenna

Documentary and Photojournalism Project: A Day in the Life

2010-11-02T04:19:00.000-07:00

Photo One

Traffic lights change on Stanmore lane

Photo Two

Cinema on St. Cross Road

Photo Three

The subject car, left, with a speeding car in the road

Photo Four

A car speeds past an ancient tree

Photo Five

Land Rover and driver

Photo Six

Traffic jam in the city

Drinks Under Fire

2010-05-30T15:30:00.000-07:00

Sometimes someone will say to you something that you will think is very, very crazy. Sometimes you will say "What the hell?" and that will be that. But sometimes one of these very crazy sayings will pass you by, like a leaf on the wind, and you will be completely enthralled. This process of not noticing craziness usually happens with one person to another, and maybe a subsequent third person. But on a rare occasion, when the planets align and the sun grows a deep black, and the sky blood red that craziness will spread from person to person until around ten people are involved. This is how the sport of paintball was invented.

Today, I had the absolute joy of going paint-balling with my friends. This is not sarcasm. I really enjoyed it. It sounds surprising, and considering that I had paid to go and pretty much get shot for a day, you would be forgiven for thinking that I have had one too many 200mph speeding capsules to the head.

At first glance, paint-balling is a horrible, horrible experience. You are dressed in embarrassing clothes, given uncomfortable masks, awkward and ineffective gas-powered guns, are told that all of this protection will be useless against the blinding pain that will follow after you are hit, and the you just go. You are sent out into a wood to have the shit shot out of you. And its terrifying. I felt fear that I have only felt twice before, and both of those times I was also paint-balling.

It was more the sounds than anything else. Everywhere you go, the short popping blast of a paintball gun can be heard, the sound ricocheting round the forest like a wayward paintball. And then there's the fear when you are pressed against a tree. Part of you is thinking "I'm safe behind this tree" whilst the rational part of your brain knows that the very next thing thats going to happen is you're going to be shot in the dick almost instantly.

I fear for my unborn children, who will no doubt grow up with an intrinsic fear of being shot in their delicate areas.
On the first game, I was stoked. The adrenaline kicked in straight away, meaning I felt like I could do anything. Paintballs would bounce off me. I would be invincible. Then I got shot in the second game. In the thigh. It was right on the inner thigh, in the soft pink flesh. I'm sure if I had been riding horses all my life I would be fine, but I didn't, so I wasn't. After a small while contemplating my mortality and my place in the Earth, I got on with it and vowed to shoot them back. And I did. And it was fantastic.

The joy you get from pulling a trigger and seeing a small orange capsule explode on the chest of a person shooting at you makes you feel awesome. It's like a combination of finding a £20 note in your pocket and perfectly throwing something in a bin, and ten times as satisfying. Then the person you hit does something awful. He rubs the paint off, and carries on, and no doubt shoots your face in the process. The despicable sod, The unmitigated audacity! I bet that sick bastard gets off on seeing your face, a combination of horror and sadness, and he loves it. He can't get enough of it. God you hate him.

Then there's the bastard who shouts surrender when you have your back to him, and then ignores your surrendering and pelts the crap out of you anyway.

They are all assholes.

I was told one thing by my friend James (Whose birthday event it was) before we all left for the paint-balling place in the morning; "The person beside you in a trench or a barricade is your best friend, whether you know him or not." Truer words have never been said, as half of our team, a ramshackle operation of different stag parties, birthdays and other people headed to our final battle. The other team outnumbered us, and we were charged with storming their little fort thing and diffusing a thingy, which seemed like an impossible task considering we strongly suspected they were cheating. Well, less suspected and knew for a certain fact, but anyway.

As we walked toward the start area, we were laughing nervously, joking, having fun, and trusting our well being with complete strangers. It was weird. We ended up winning that last game, more out of an unbridled anger and rage for the other team than anything else, and it was great.

If the person next to you was your best friend, then the person shooting at you, regardless of who he was, was your mortal enemy who had wronged you in some way. He was probably a single father of two letting off some steam, but that doesn't matter. He is wearing red, and he must be destroyed, because blue is way better.

Logical Positivism, The Vienna Circle, and Saucermen

2010-05-26T08:06:00.000-07:00

I use roads almost every day, in one way or the other. So does almost everybody else in the world, except for farmers, but even they use so-called "tracks" for driving tractors, corralling cattle, and being generally pretty strange and antisocial. Its a simple and brilliant life, but people live it. Roads define where we go pretty much, define what we see, which would be cool, if the only sights were not just fields and a one off statue of a T-Rex. Seriously. Take the M5 to Bristol. T-Rex.

Back during the 1920's there was a group. Bear with me. There was a group of people who established a way of thinking that influenced almost everything in life, from their views on religion, to politics, economics, and yes, even roads. Logical Positivism came from The Vienna Circle, a group of philosophers that gathered at Vienna University, around Moritz Schlick. It was sort of like the Algonquin Round Table, except in Vienna, and not as vicious in such a horrible, horrible way.

In the same way as any great philosopher, the group, chaired by Schlick had a massive impact on the world, in the same way that Hegel, Marx, Neitzsche and Kant did, with one important rule; that knowledge was defined by experience and proof. Of course, this meant that there was a strong interest in science, empiricism and reason, and skepticism of theology and metaphysics, but by far the biggest staple among logical positivists was verificationism, the theory that the idea that a statement or question only has meaning if there is some way to determine if the statement is true, or what the answer to the question is.

This verification principle was basically a way of splitting every question or statement into three convenient and accessible bite-sized chunks;

1. Is it true?
2. Is it false?
3. Is it verifiable?

Even now, this concept is used by Journalists in a very similar way, the most common being the way of avoiding libel;

"Is it true, and can we prove it?"

This principle can be used in many incidences of proving whether something is true or false, up to, and including things like the Roswell UFO Incident that happened in New Mexico in July of 1947, and even though that turned out to be nothing, nothing at all, it was strange how people believed it. Logical Positivists would be skeptical of something like this, unless there was hard evidence, or they had met a space alien themselves, despite theories that the aliens might be very far away, perhaps even, on other planets. But instead, what was indeed a downed weather balloon, and nothing else, would not have convinced anyone who followed procedures of the Vienna Circle, because it simply cannot be verified.

Logical Positivists also made Religion, and the existence of any Deity seem completely false. How could we prove that there is a God? What is there, right in front of us to show that there is something of a higher power than our own. Sure, there may be evidence, but much of it is subject to disproving, and almost all of it circumstantial. But its not just God that they had a bone to pick with. Even Freud was a target. His Psychology was based around the idea of a subconscious, something inside of our brains that dealt with our innermost emotions and primal instincts, but what use are these theories when there is nothing to prove any of this? There is no tangible evidence, nothing that can be experienced or explained beyond theories, you might as well be trying to prove the existence of Unicorns.

It seemed that the logic was airtight. The Verification Principle would be the standard on which any scientific theories would be either proven or falsified. Except something else turned up. Something dark and sinister. Something, named Karl Popper.

Popper was critical of Verificationism, arguing that the principle itself cannot be verified, instead touting his principle of Falsifiability, which is, instead of proving whether something is right because of evidence supporting it, it proves statements, questions and theories by falsifying evidence to the contrary. An example of this is;

Statement: All toilets are white.

Falsification: If we can find one toilet that is another color, we can conclude that the statement of "all toilets are white" is false, thereby proving that all toilets are at the least, white and one other color, a statement that can be proved by the existence of another color and so on. The original statement can also be construed as racist, but we will not get into that.

Roads are important, in the ways that one cannot think of, but when we look at designs of certain roads, we can see the influence of Logical Positivism. Take Milton Keynes, a place named after John Maynard Keynes, creator of Keynesian Economics. This place has logical roads. Logical roads! Unheard of by most people, but you can be sure that it is incredibly simple to get round to anywhere, unlike a place like Winchester, where the roads were most likely formed around pubs, and how easy it would be to get back home after said pubs. Its not science. Its not Logical. Would you rather live in a world with ease of public transport, or a world with a greater ease of getting smashed every night?

Okay, tricky question, but heres another one. Would you rather live in a world with art, and music, and trees and birds everywhere for no reason, or a place where you don't have a name, because its not logical?

Choose your poison, they're both bittersweet.

HCJ4 Gonzo Project: More Information Than You Require

2010-05-25T03:22:00.000-07:00

I was just passing Stonehenge when I was just about ready to stop driving; in that shady part of the mind where you are just between falling asleep and wide awake, where your eyes could droop at any second resulting in a fiery crash, but you would be completely aware of the terror, and even more aware that you would have no one to blame but yourself. But this was not the only thing contributing to the high chance of death in a horrible, horrible accident. I was traveling in my Seat Arosa, a small roller skate of a car, a hand-me-down that had dodgy back tires and a fault in almost every component in one way or another. It is the sort of car that keeps a person honest, humble, and completely observant of their surroundings, simply because these surroundings might well be the last, so you’d better make the best of it. What I imagined I was driving to was a broken, twisted, rusty and grinding engine of a meeting, stuttering along and jarring like a plane caught in an ash cloud, so hopefully the fear would make it seem better.

I was traveling to meet, talk to and campaign with a man named Niall Warry, pronounced “Neil”, a name that was condemned a member of the public as “pretentious” in a place named Frome. Having never been to Frome, I did not really know what to expect, but considering the location (just in Somerset) I could be sure it was a sleepy country town just big enough for a Mark’s and Spencer’s and just small enough to still have village fetes. I was entirely right. I had been told to meet Mr. Warry in a car park just outside of a budding auction house, and to look for a large green land rover with a box strapped to its roof labeled “Niall Warry: Leave the EU Alliance.” This beast of a car, like most of the things about Niall Warry, was instantly recognizable as garish and unnecessary. I do not know much about advertising, but I’m fairly sure that many members of the public would be unlikely to pick up and run with a political movement plastered onto the side of a wooden box, and held to the roof by ropes and string.

I waited for half an hour in this dreaded car park, waiting in a suit that was too big, in a car that was too small, and hoping that the man I was meeting would not be too racist all the time. After a while I felt a little cheated, and so rang the number that Mr. Warry had given me during out e-mail correspondence, and a woman answered. My first reaction was frightened confusion, and then fear. The person on the other end sounded so unassuming and innocent, and as it turned out, it was Warry’s wife, who told me that she would ring a man named Tim, who was with Warry at the time. I was filled with panic. I had banked on meeting Niall Warry alone, in order to spar head to head with a man who I assumed would be nasty and another person added to the mix would probably make this a lot harder. Warry headed to the car park, and greeted me by shouting “Luke? Luke Garratt?” across the car park. “That’s me.” I answered, and walked towards him, offering my handshake as a way of putting myself under the banner of “Professional Journalist” rather than “Student”. Warry was a tall man. His nose was slightly crooked, and he had a halo of grey hair covering his head, with a sort of tuft at the front, almost akin to a certain type of professional entertainer found in circuses. “My colleague Tim and I are having coffee in a shop down the road. You haven’t been waiting long have you?” He asked, grasping my shoulder as we walked, “No.” I lied.

We got to the cafe where I was introduced to Tim. Tim refused to give his first name as he “Didn’t know what I would use it for” but in terms of his features, Tim was a watery eyed mouse of a man, who seemed to stutter and cower at the fact I was even talking to him, which is a mean feat, because I’m very unimposing. “You want a tea, or a coffee, or a bun?” Warry asked me, gesturing towards the Barista behind the counter. I declined, and sat down beside him, occasionally glancing at Tim, who was sipping a latte with both hands, perched on the edge of a stool like a bird. Warry then decided it was time for me to ask him some questions. I duly agreed.

He had been involved in politics since 1997, and before that, corporate management, and before that, the TA and the Green Jackets. He had left UKIP in February, letting his membership run out. Of UKIP, he seemingly had nothing but bad things to say, calling them ineffective and corrupt, and claiming that the leader of the party seemed to “have it out for him” since he spoke out against him. He had subsequently thought about organizing his own party if it gathered enough political and public steam, publishing and distributing 5000 leaflets advertising change, and a meeting. This massive amount of leaflets led to the attendance of 10/15 people which subsequently led to the formation of the “Leave the EU Alliance”. The emergence of Tim was a completely different story entirely. Tim was a journalist, or so he said. He had been involved in several different business ventures that reflected his different views on life, but right now he was a journalist, currently self publishing the magazine entitled RANT!, a magazine that focused on the “key issues” and “annoying things” in Britain today. “You can find that on the Internet.” He said happily. I could not.

Niall Warry seemed to be an unassuming man. In what I hoped would be a battle of some sort, whittling out the true nature of the man through subtle poking, he denied me at every turn with almost good answers. His stance on immigration was standard, the usual point-system and Australia comparisons. I pressed him with the more controversial things like prostitution, drugs, and gay marriage. He seemed to agree to all of them, with theories on how prostitution should be legalized, regulated and taxed, and the same for drugs, and as for gay marriage is stance was that “Gay people should be able to inflict the same grief as straight people”. But despite the very diplomatic answers he seemed to be giving, there was something not quite right about Warry. He seemed to dodge every question in a very weird way, in a way that he was answering diplomatically for the sake of diplomacy.

The overall impression was that of a sense of delusion. Warry would say he was forced out of UKIP, and then say he left of his own accord. He would say he is “aware of the current political climate” and how he “does not expect many votes” but then would go on to speak about how everybody thinks like him, deep down, and how he shares the views of the nation. How an independent candidate is better because then a supporter doesn’t have to sacrifice their views for the views of the party, how he rates on a diplomatic scale, but then talking about unity and the importance of following movements and influence.

Despite his insistence that he was a “normal bloke”, Warry and Tim did leave me with one gem. Out of the blue, Warry was explaining his thoughts on global warming, and how he did not believe in it. Not just that, but he actively denied it. Now, this would usually be put down to a difference of opinion, but the following things could simply not be ignored. I pressed him on the issues behind global warming, to which he replied “polar bears have never been more numerous,” but it was Tim who had the real gold; when I said “But what about flooding? Even if you don’t believe in it surely scientific predictions are something to worry about? These things have been studied.” Tim chimed in with his comment almost immediately after, as though waiting for the perfect time. “People can just live in houses on hills!” Tim leaned back in his chair, content.

Warry decided that there was no point me campaigning with him, despite our previous agreement; he simply had to get Tim back home. But before he left, he handed me a book, saying that it reflected his views incredibly. The book, entitled Bloodless Revolution: How we can change the world in one day, was a strangely topical diatribe, every part of which seemed to be set up to terrify its readers, scaring them with the fear of a terrible life that WILL DEFINITELY BEFALL YOU SHOULD YOU NOT DO EVERYTHING THE BOOK SAYS.

Fear is a powerful motivator. I was scared to drive a long distance. Because my car is a deathtrap, so I drove faster. Could it be that the reason Niall Warry started his party because he was afraid of not having an outlet? Afraid of people not hearing his voice after years of being a figure of public standing? I could be neither of these things, and it could be both, but one thing is for sure; Tim was definitely terrified throughout the entire thing.

Fear, Loathing, and Drinks With a Friend

2010-04-18T03:58:00.000-07:00

Nobody likes being told what to do. I don't like it, and I'm betting that you don't like it, and I would think that the people in authority hate it as well, probably even more in fact, considering they actually tell people what to do. How they must feel when they get told what to do, man I would not like to feel that. Thankfully, I have almost no authority in any part of my life, so I do not feel the combination of unbridled anger and depression that must come from being someone like Gordon Brown. God forbid. The energy and strength it must take for him just to be him is incredible.

This got confusing...

Speaking about confusion, drugs are a mysterious thing. But no one wants to hear about them. Instead, its time to talk about a subject that seems to be almost directly linked to drugs, Gonzo Journalism.

In the 1970's, a man named Hunter S. Thompson, a self proclaimed"Doctor of Journalism" fashioned a type of writing in which the author would involve themselves so much in a piece of work that they would become part of the story. This illustrious style eventually came to be known as "Gonzo Journalism". This seemed to be a style closely resembling, but with many key differences, the New Journalism movement started by Tom Wolfe. This style, popular in the 60's and 70's, was a form of literary technique, in which Journalism and Prose were intertwined into a mesh of sorts, meaning that a writer could give a frank account of an event, with heavy description, mixing the artistic and literary with the heady Journalism. Some examples of this literary/journalism movement are;

Truman Capote's In Cold Blood in which a Capote researches a true crime to the point where he is able to write a non-fiction tale about the whole ordeal, in almost complete prose.

Tom Wolfe's The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, In which Wolfe experiences LSD, and write about it at length, reflecting on different people, places and things in a different light along the way.

Hunter S. Thompson's The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent and Depraved a sports article in which Thompson is said to have started the first inklings of the Gonzo movement, by being too close to deadline and ripping pages from his notebook to send in as copy.

Gonzo Journalism was different to the "New Journalism" in the sense that it was very much the same, but a little more dangerous. It disregarded clean and polished Journalism techniques and instead opted for everything to be a little grittier, a little more like an Editorial, and full of profanity. The use of drugs, in particular psychedelics, were a common factor in the creation of a piece of writing, and especially the use of LSD.

Now, I have never tried LSD, and I imagine it's just one of those things that you have to experience first hand before describing it, but from descriptions and readings, I have learned that upon ingesting such a substance, your mind begins to distort things, hallucinate things, and your brain begins to alter its perception of things, in the sense that everyday things that we see every day would suddenly take on different meaning and purpose. In other words, your shit's fucked up.

This brings me almost directly to my new favorite book, written by Dr. Thompson himself, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey into the Heart of the American Dream. Thompson wrote this book as a response to a seemingly ridiculous whim; "What would happen if we got completely blasted and rented shiny car and then went to Vegas at 150mph in Acapulco shirts?". He pretty much answers the question, and the prose that follows makes complete sense, whilst making none at all. At its barest, it is a journey of two men who are completely wasted, with hilarious consequences, but dig deeper and what you see is a harsh criticism of America, humanity, and life. One particular part stuck with me as hilarious and harrowing at the same time, in which Raoul Duke, Thompson's alter ego, and his attorney, Dr. Gonzo are in the middle of "an ether binge", are devoid of all bodily function, and are spouting nonsense whilst being acutely aware of all this, are actively encouraged into a casino. It comments on how the American Dream is essentially broken, how by completely cheating at life, showing no regard for humanity, a casino is successful.

Obviously this is only one of many Thompson articles, and I should not jump to conclusions, but there is something about Gonzo Journalism that strikes a chord. Maybe it is the mix of journalism and literature, perhaps it is the appealing thrill of reckless abandon for the sake of journalistic prose. It could be many things, but it all seems pretty awesome.

Nobody likes being told what to do, even people in power. However, the people who write can be those who answer to nobody. What they write is their own. Hunter S. Thompson was a classic example of this, he took no sass from anybody. He had a distaste for authority, so much so that he strived to bring it down. Plus, he owned many, many guns.

This is a man who refused to wait to die.

(The images seen in this blog are all by Ralph Steadman, a British Cartoonist and Caricaturist who worked with Hunter S. Thompson many times)

Century of the Selfishness

2010-04-17T14:38:00.000-07:00

People are generally pretty thoughtful about other people. But in a very more real and distinct way, they are not. Its amazing how far we have got in this world despite utter and unabashed rudeness and hatred of one another. Now I'm not saying this is good or bad, I'm just saying that it's convenient or inconvenient if you consider the context. Say if a man gives me the finger because I'm a terrible driver, thats just rude. He doesn't know the context. He doesn't know what my day has been like to cause me to drive so terribly, or what horrible diseases I'm suffering from. He's just being a dick. But this human condition of looking out for yourself at the behest of others is one that has been utilized by a particular brand of person for years and years. This is the advertising person. A person that, I think, is best epitomized by this picture...

He's the one on the left.

Who knew advertising people were so devious? Well, everyone, but what I certainly didn't know was the lengths they would go to to be devious. For all the disgusting qualities that advertising people need to possess, such as manipulation, evil thoughts, and a general lack of hygiene, there is something no one can deny; Their cunning. In the documentary The Century of the Self, by Mr. Adam Curtis, or at least the section There is a Policeman Inside Our Head, we were shown quite how cunning these people are, noticing patterns and using the powers of psychoanalytical techniques in order to make people buy things more. Like fools. Rich, angry, drunk fools.

So during the 1950s, people were quite easily influenced. They would be listening to Buddy Holly, having a good time, and they would go and see their Davy Crockett movies, content with the advertising of cars with identical wheels. Like chumps. It was easy to make the people of this time buy anything. They would buy toothpaste simply because of a brilliant and jaunty tune and cigarettes with repetition. I mean, come on, with that many uses of the word "cool" who isn't going to buy those? I'm going to buy some right now. These techniques seem to be derived from both Anna Freud, and Edward Bernays, Freud's nephew, who renowned documentarian Adam Curtis calls "the creator of public relations".

In the 60s, people became more rebellious and headstrong. Now the thing to do was to reject the values and the morals that parents put upon you, rejecting that Archie Comics boy howdy attitude or dare I even say...this.

Ugh.

Yes, rebellion was the thing, a lot of it happening on college campuses, with professors filling the youngsters heads full of ideals, causing them to believe that they were all individuals and they all had an opinion that mattered, and that lots and lots of people were doing very bad thing. The natural response to this was to dress strangely and act even stranger, and certain other elements played a big part in this, such as music, and drugs. Thus begun the age of the individual, and the death of the conformist society.

So in a culture that rejected conformity, which was the life blood of many products, how were companies going to keep going to maintain their cash flow? The production companies were only profitable with large sales of the same mass-produced item, so how were they going to sell a thousand cars that were all the same? The answer was, they weren't. Instead they set up focus groups in order to see what the hell is going on with the people, focus groups that were largely unsuccessful, because many of the individualists refused to join in. The solution to the problem was to advertise in a way that did not focus on the product, but on the consumer.

"We must conform to the new non conformists." A memo said, "We must listen to the music of Bobby Dylan." This move provoked a new range of products, one that appealed to the individualistic person, to their creativity and self-expression, tapping into human potential, to "be what you wanted to be."

Its the sort of stuff that was developed by different psychologists, ones that encouraged us to express our emotions rather than suppress them like Freud would have us do, to let out the anger and show everyone who we were, what we were capable of and who we "wanted to be", and with advertisers egging us on, we were buying things that made us seem individual.

No one is individual. Especially not the people trying to be individual. We may be individual in the sense that we all have original thoughts, and ideas, and we all choose when to pee, but on the surface layer everyone is the same. We all shop in the same stores, and wear the same clothes. Look at your clothes. About 10,000 people in the world are wearing exactly what you are wearing. You could carve up a box for a hat and wear a potato sack, but you would still be part of the select group that wears box hats and sacks.

Its the delusion of expressive individuality that the advertising companies tapped in on, and they were just as in control as they were in the 50s. Like I said, devious.

(Century of the Self, a documentary by Adam Curtis, says these things better than I could. This particular post is in reference to There is a Policeman Inside All Our Heads: He Must Be Destroyed segment. Its incredibly good.)

Its Always Sunny in Orgonon

2010-03-16T18:21:00.000-07:00

Last week, I talked about the mind. We laughed, we cried, and we came to eventual conclusion that it had a very tenuous link to a German film about Angels. Nevertheless, I continue on today with the topic of a brilliant and crazy man, Wilhelm Reich. He had the similar theories to many psychologists, and mainly focused the majority of his early work on the work of Freud. However, he developed his own theories, building on what Freud had taught and drawing his own conclusions, and so, instead of a theory about the Id, the Ego and the Super-ego, we have a theory that says if we don't get enough orgasms, we eventually shiver into a wreck of nervous and crotchety uselessness, as well as a substance called Orgone that wafts around EVERYWHERE.

The theory goes that Orgone is all around us, and if you don't have a sufficient amount of orgasms, which releases the substance, that stuff will clog you up something awful, causing all manner of horrible physical and psychological affects, such as unhappiness, anger and the curling of a person physically until they look like Scrooge. Perhaps Scrooge didn't have enough orgasms. That's probably why he let Tiny Tim die. Son of a bitch.

Orgone is sort of like a reverse drug, one that everyone is involuntarily addicted to, and as such, they have to get rid of it with the physical process of orgasms. But why did Wilhelm Reich choose the orgasm? What made him focus on such a thing? Well, Reich considered the orgasm to be the height of human experience, where a person was the most carnal and basic. Reich both agreed and disagreed with the Freudian theory of the Id, the ego, and the super-ego, in the sense that he believed that the human psyche was one built on layers, but disagreed with the order of things. He posed that the three layers;

The Surface Layer

This was the layer under the most conscious control, a layer that involved polite, compassionate responsibility. This is where people would be thoughtful towards their fellow man, and in other words, not screaming and running everywhere. This is the closest thing to the Super-ego.

The Second Layer

This layer is sort of like the Gollum layer. It is cruel, sadistic, uncaring and malicious, and the closest thing to the Id. This is the layer that will spike up if the carnal need for orgasms is not satisfied, and it will be more and more influential to the surface layer.

The Third Layer

The third layer is a different layer entirely, and Reich posited that this was the most human layer, this layer was what everybody has right in the middle, much like a gooey center of human emotion.

Well with all of these in mind it seems that Reich's theory of human emotions were a lot more optimistic than Freud's, which is probably why he was in the mind that if we should all be doing anything all the time, peeing in corners and screaming at each other, whilst experiencing a medley of orgasms. It would be nice, but damn it would be messy.

On top of the orgasm theory, Reich also had some interesting thoughts about mass psychology, a particular example being the fascism. Why did people support the Nazi's back in the day? Wee they targeted the lower/middle class, and people who were used to strong paternal authority. They assumed correctly that these people would have a love of the idea of rebellion, but lacked the drive to do it, and indeed liked the feeling of being controlled and repressed. The Nazi party offered a perfect situation; they strove to tap into, and fulfill this desire to rebel with subservience, offering a chance to rebel against the current government whilst allowing Nazi's to dominate them.

Reich had many supporters to his theory of Orgone energy, such as William S. Burroughs, and J.D. Salinger, both of which supported the use of the ORGONE CHAMBER. This ominous sounding device was designed to concentrate orgone energy in a box, which would allow a human more of their share of orgone energy when they sat in it, resulting in healing properties and an increased Libido, something else that Reich relied heavily on as a source of inspiration and theory.

Reich lived out the rest of his days on his land, which he designated Orgonon (an old farm near Dodge Pond in Maine), where many people would pilgrimage and stay, living his way of life, using the orgone chambers, and the Cloudbusters, convinced that Reich was a genius who had everything figured out. Reich lived with controversy, allogations of mental health disorders, and scandal, as he tried to peddle his Orgone chamber across the country as a way to cure Cancer, to which the authorities had an objection. He suffered an injunction by the F.D.A, was imprisoned and eventually died on November 3rd, 1957.

Was Reich a genius? there are patterns that suggest that his theory regarding the stress and mental health disorders from repression are quite correct, but a substance that breaks the second law of thermodynamics AND cures cancer? It seems too weird to be true. But the mind is a funny thing. I have always believed that people who are a little different in the mind lknow something that healthy people don't, and if the allegations of poor mental health were true, perhaps Reich really did have everything figured out.

One thing is for sure, his life would have been a hell of an experience.

Abstract Mortality...with Peter Faulk

2010-03-09T09:37:00.000-08:00

How do we make our decisions? People have been trying to answer the question for many years, dogs years even, and for a part, they have answered it. We make our decisions with a complex mix of weighing options, experience, trial and error and personal responsibility.

However, one little thing always seems to get in the way, a pesky little thing called a conscience. Little bastard that it is, it brings something called morals into the whole process, meaning that there is a distinct difference between the cold, calculating decisions we could make, and the decisions we do make every day, all the time. Thoughts are the gateway to decision, and if there is one thing that everybody does, its over think. Unless you're an idiot. In what must be the most ridiculous segway, here's a blog about the 1987 German film Der Himmel über Berlin, also known as Wings of Desire, directed by Wim Wenders, and written by Peter Handke and Wim Wenders. Bam. Love it.

Angels are a fickle thing to portray in any forms of cinematic representation. Its difficult to show them without them being either omnipotent jackasses or emotionless vegetables that spout philosophical wisdom until they exit stage left. Handke seems to portray a type of angelic figure that is if not the truest, certainly the most interesting. The Angels, named Damiel and Cassiel wander around, listening to the thoughts of the people of Berlin, examining what they think about, their moral discourses and their way of life. The movie brushes over several people, showing their worries and obsessions, such as a heartbroken man, and a pregnant woman, but on top of this, they pay particular attention to certain citizens of Berlin in order to focus in on the different parts of the human condition. They encounter an old man named Homer, who parallels the ancient poet, whilst completely opposing him at the same time (Homer focused on poems of War, whereas this old man is designated a man of peace), a suicidal man, and for some reason, Peter Faulk, as Peter Faulk, who is for some reason a former Angel. No one said it was simple.

One of the Angels, Damiel, falls in love with a fair maiden at a Circus, and longs to be with her. Luckily, Peter Fulk is there to explain that he used to be an Angel himself, and indeed turned into a human, showing that the goal mortality is one that is very much in reach, and Damiel decides to take the plunge. It is in this we see what the Angels have been longing for, and the choice that they must make. In sacrificing their immortality, they are granted the pleasures of humanity; taste, touch, interaction, pain, love and colours. The movie, whilst focusing mostly on how humanity is dry and worrisome, contained within its own winding thoughts, shows the privilege of existence. How truly blessed we are to feel, taste, interact and create. Its harrowing.

The decision that The Angel Damiel made to become human is one that can be looked at as one of stupidity, given that he was once immortal, but it is impossible for us to know what it is like to not feel, to not be able to interact, and so we must realise that we are blessed. We must stop overthinking, and simply enjoy being human.

Otherwise, you might go crazy, and then you and everyone around you is screwed.

If you build it, they will come...

2010-03-02T07:11:00.000-08:00

From last Sunday, I have been incredibly sick. This sickness was passed to me by my housemate, and was passed to him by my other housemate. I believe that they contracted this from another one of our mutual friends, who could only have caught whatever death-spawn this is by slipping in rich, raw sewage from some chemical waste pump. This sickness has caused, among other things (such as a sore throat and an unnatural craving for human meat) a fever which, when combined with sleep, causes me to have horrible horrible visions and nightmares which make me cry out in terror.

The weird thing in these nightmares is that they do not contain anything that would terrify me. Instead, these visions either consist of random events, strange music or sounds, or commands or longings that I would not normally associate. Another thing happened as well, and for this I may have to be a little more descriptive. I see a sheet of black, unnaturally smooth and complete, almost too measured, and at random intervals, this will change into its polar opposite, a thing of black and white, with gradients between the two, its shape changing, almost to natural and jagged measurements that one might see in an eroded canyon.

Scary as hell, right? Jesus, its a miracle I'm not committed. However, This slightly harrowing set of visions created by my tormented fever-filled brain was reminiscent of last week's lecture on existentialism. A little. Enough to make a segway? God I hope so.

As far as I could tell, Existentialism is the term used for a particular way of life, or rather an ideal, a goal. This is to say, one of complete freedom and passion. Existentialism focuses around the theory that existence precedes essence, a term coined by philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre, better explained as "A central proposition of existentialism is that existence precedes essence, which means that the actual life of the individual is what constitutes what could be called his or her "essence" instead of there being a predetermined essence that defines what it is to be a human. Thus, the human being - through his consciousness - creates his own values and determines a meaning to his life." WOAH. Heavy. Doc. Anyway...

However, one side effect of this is angst. You see, when you experience everything at a much higher octane, as it were, you suddenly realise that many of the normal things are quite boring, or the theory that "nothing is holding them back" purely because their way of life permits total and absolute freedom. One of the best ways I can describe this is that when a normal person stands on the lip of a cliff, they fear falling off, but when existentialists stand on the same lip, they fear throwing themselves off. In this way, existentialists do not focus on just the "good" passion, but rather everything at a much higher level.

What I find particularly interesting about existentialism is the arts, literature and music it inspires. A few of the particulars are things that I have digested over a long time, and things that I have just been shown.

Jazz

Admittedly, the title for this is vague. We were introduced in the lecture to a Mr. John Coltrane, whose "inward breathing" was not only a brilliant technique, but allowed him to carry a note for as long as he wanted, meaning that he was able to create a truly unique musical experience, a truly free an existential display of passion. Recently I was listening to the music of Ben Webster, and whilst this linked track is more constructed than some of his other, its still an example. As sort of a subsidiary to this Jazz section, I thought I would talk a little about Scat blues singing, and more specifically, the works of Ella Fitzgerald. Ms. Fitzgerald is heralded as the one of the creators of Scat singing, which seems to be one of the most existential musical art forms, given that you can sing absolutely anything, and still have it be a form of music. Its amazing, and it takes a certain sort of strange mind to achieve.

Here's one more musical thing I happen to enjoy, considering the context I thought it might be fun to put it in. Accordion music, whilst lyrically quite planned out, it seems to be so winged all the time that every time its played its the same, but a little bit different. This freedom (I hope) is a little existential. Maybe. Kinda.

Art

Andy Warhol. Isn't it? That's what we all think when someone says "existentialism in art" right? Whether you agree that a picture of Brillo pads, or a man sleeping is truly "art" or just boredom or not is a moot point. These bold statements of lack of definition are somewhat extraordinary in the sense that he was able to captivate so many people with his talented mind.

Literature

Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot is one of the first things to come to mind, and the second thing to come to mind is "What if Godot had arrived?". However, what I did not realise is that one of my favorite authors; Fyodor Dostoyevsky, was one of the precursors/founders of 20th century existentialism. In this way, it is amazing how deep the veins of existentialism lie, how affected my life might have been without the theories set down by existentialism.

Sports

Don't laugh. I recently watched one of my favorite movies, Field of Dreams. Admittedly its no Sleep but its certainly gives a hint into the existential thinking behind sports. In the film, Kevin Costner impulsively builds a baseball field in the middle of his corn crop for no reason. Then, the ghosts of dead baseball players start playing baseball in his field. Yes. In our lecture we were told about the passion behind sports fan-dom. Whilst this movie is just a small window into this, it shows how something they are passionate about can change their lives, using a very existential theory of true freedom.

It seems that my life has been much like a "create your own adventure" book. Its full of twists and turns, affected by different choices. If I hadn't read Dostoyevsky books, what would I have done? I suppose its choices like these, definitions, that make me so far away from the theories behind existentialism that I couldn't possibly wear a black jumper or a beret without being completely ironic. All I really want is a create your own adventure version of Crime and Punishment.

"Do I want Raskilnikov to go back to the village, or to buy a new horse?"

Perhaps this sickness is making me crazy.

Daisy, Daisy, Me donne votre réponse fait...

2010-02-18T12:51:00.000-08:00

Today I witnessed the scariest thing I will probably ever see with my human eyes. Something that will probably scare me for the rest of my life. This is the Obelisk, from Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey. More specifically, the music in the picture, which is terrifying, harrowing, and beautiful all at the same time. Whether this music was intended to be of any particular orchestral concordance with any existing music, or if it was intended to be of a completely singular nature something that could only be answered by Kubrick himself, but I'd prefer to believe the latter, especially considering the circumstances of the message of the movie, which seems to be that all we are right now is a stepping stone. The particular feeling I got from this message was mostly one of a morbid regret, although there was a good deal of irrational fear in there too. This fear harks back to my point about the seeming safety and peace of minds that comes from religion.

If we think about our ancestors, not the apes, or the Homo Erectus but the Greek and Roman empires, or the people in B.C who were learned enough to have civilizations. I'm not very clued up on history. So anyway, you can see why these particular people would take solace in religion rather than trying to comprehend the vast magnitude of the history of the human race.

However, whilst the fear of the music and comprehension of insignificance is still fresh, the movie throws us a curveball in the form of the HAL 9000. The film really shines here by showing us about three different forms of terror at once, and combining them to make you metaphorically shit your pants with fear. I think I'm going to separate these into different examples so that everybody, even the stupidest of Gods creatures.

The First Kind...

The terror of the H.A.L 9000.

Not just as an unstoppable machine thing, but as the complete conglomerate of all human knowledge. The fact that when all human knowledge is combined, the only logical option is the destruction of the human race is a truly horrible thing, but it is especially bad when a creepy robot saying "I cant let you do that Dave" is enough to give you the willies.

The Second Kind...

Mans battle against space.

The movie sets in early on how un-designed for space humans really are, with ridiculous contraptions made for helping us all to survive the vacuum of space, and with every slightest little thing, even walking, being a gigantic problem, but the best representation of this is the spacewalk. This scene shows the two crew members dave is with die horribly by suffocation, which as horrible as it is, when described as a "necessary action" by a machine that contains human logic is even worse.

The very first scene of space travel shows the most poignant image of this, with the stewardess of a commercial space flight struggling to walk without the aid of special velcro shoes. However, it also shows how humans have adapted, perhaps calling back to the very start of the movie with the Homo-Erectus using tools. When the Homo-Erectus discovered it could use the bone to its advantage, or more specifically, to beat the shit out of things, it discovered technology. The technology is all around them in the spacecraft showing how the technology is becoming insignificant, or rather that we as a race have evolved as far as we can.

The Third Kind...

Overcoming humanity.

The third kind of fear ironically also features HAL. The penultimate scene, where our intrepid hero Dave has to destroy the HAL 9000 computer, for fear that it will kill him is more of a commentary on how we must overcome humanity in order to evolve. Coincidentally, Dave evolves after this into the "Star Child", and not the KISS version. Because that would be weird. The scene juxtaposes HAL's attempt at reasoning with the heavy worried breathing of Dave, showing how truly vulnerable Dave is to the cold, calculating logic of HAL. And also space. When HAL is destroyed, he is de-evolved almost exactly. He first becomes defensive, then frightened, the reasons more, claiming he's "better now". After this comes the song, which HAL sings, with an increasingly lower voice, his tone shifting from the cold monotone educated, to the almost grunt-like Charlie Brown teacher voice. This could perhaps be construed as a representation of true de-evolution in the last throes of HAL's life, with the low-tone grunts being sort of like the grunts of the pre-Homo-Sapien life forms at the start of the movie.

I just got chills...

Do it right in Heuston

2010-02-14T07:36:00.000-08:00

Music is a funny thing. In actual fact, its a very funny thing. I can probably say with almost half percent certainty that no other single thing has made as much of an impression of humanity ever. Except for Religion. Or Philosophy. Or Politics. Okay, so there are many other things that cause more of an impression. But music pretty much covers every one of these strange life changing things, and in turn, it can be pretty life changing itself.

My relationship with music has been a pretty tumultuous one, and despite the fact that I am still only 19 years old, I have already developed certain tastes and preferences. For example, I learnt from a young age that I was not a fan of modern or current music. "Oh Shit" I thought, as I suddenly realized that my life in secondary school would be plagued by mockery from my peers. I wasn't a fan of the high pace yammering to "low" and "phat" beats. What would I do? What could I do? The answer lay with my father.

I had not at that time even owned a CD, and decided to rustle through my dad's record collection as a source of inspiration, like a salmon swimming up a stream...in some way. I stumbled across "Led Zepplin III", and was promptly blown away. I went out to the local record shop and bought my very first CD, "Led Zepplin II". I was shocked. Shocked and amazed. And ever since the music in my life has been focused around listening to the "Classic Rock". Now I realize that most of this music can be considered as terrible, terrible, awful dirge by many, but for some reason I like it. Its like a guilty pleasure that I am able to satisfy all the time. I think I have a problem. I know I have a problem, and I don't care. Who says I have to like current music, follow the charts, or make commentary on what is happening today. The world is, and has always been, a rich tapestry, so why should I focus on only one faucet of musical culture, when I have an entire labyrinth of treats ahead of me. I'm like a child in a sweet shop, and I have become obese on obscure music.

I am as my father and mother have raised me, a temple devoted to the ancient people, some of which still play. My very first concert was when I was 16. And who did I go and see? The Who. That's right ladies and gentlemen, the fucking WHO. For my very first band. That just goes to show how devoted I am to the cause.

My sister once told me, when I was young, that every single song, no matter who wrote it, or how it is sung, is about love. It seems like a ridiculous notion, but if you really think, it is completely true. Every song can be boiled down to love, or lack thereof. The are songs about the love of a woman, or a man, unrequited love, love of a country, love of particular theory or ideal, the lack of love for these things. This may or may not be true, but its a romantic notion nonetheless.

I only know one thing however, and that is my deep and undying love for one thing. And no matter what may come or go, my love will be constant. I am of course talking about The Midnight Special. Goodnight ladies and gentlemen.

Neitzsche, Paradigms, the rise of the Superman, and its terrifying consequences...

2010-02-11T08:53:00.000-08:00

Nietzsche. Say that word enough times and it will be irrelevant, much like most of the words in the English/American language. Repetition is the enemy of coherence..except its also it's brother. Its like Cain and Abel. But a little more pathetic.

Its a sad time when you realise how truly insignificant you are in the grand scheme of things. With recent discoveries showing that there are collections of galaxies billions of miles away with light that is only just reaching us you can realise how ridiculously small you are in almost every sense of the definition of obsolete. This realisation can be taken in one of two ways, the glass half full way, and the glass fucked up way. The former is the standpoint that your very existence is amazing, that your life, however small it may be is a miracle of random connections of a cosmic chain, that your are a small cog in the universe's machine. The latter is when you believe that whatever you do, your existence is completely and utterly futile. You could kill someone. You could kill yourself. Should you? Well that's a question that concerns morality, and with that comes rules, and what use are rules when everything is insignificant?

Its a rocky road to a grisly end, and with the latter being so depressing, why does the former sound so appealing? Well the simple answer is; religion. Religion is best described in this context as a sort of buffer, a shield between the depressing and the sublime. When man looked up at the stars and saw a creepy and longing blackness stretching for what seemed like forever, they had one of two choices. Apply logic and/or reason to this, or go Batshit insane. religion is a safe place, much like a hammock or cocoon. Its somewhere to crawl away and die knowing that the place you are going is warm and fluffy, just like the hammock.

As with the philosophical theory of Nietzsche, things are constantly changing, and the concept of these so called "paradigm shifts" is something that is fascinating. My favorite example of this phenomena is the Phlogiston Theory. Back in the 1600s, the common theory surrounding combustion was that flame gave off a substance called Phlogiston as it burnt, and that if you were cover a fire up, the reason for the the fire extinguishing was the build up of the substance, and the eventual saturation of the flame. Of course, this seems completely and utterly ridiculous in this day an age, and its the sort of monumental change that causes the thought "How could I have been so monumentally stupid? I must be the stupidest person alive."

This sort of change seems to come around every now and then, and its absolutely terrifying when you consider that we may have another change soon that makes us seem just as stupid. This inevitability seems just as sure as the rise of the supermen.

You see, the superman is a very real danger. Every couple of centuries, there is a person who represents a radical step forward in humanity. In intelligence, or physical ability, or a combination of the two. Alexander the Great was there in 300 BC, Newton was another, as was Thomas Edison and Nikolai Tesla, despite their constant feud. Wagner and Nietzsche believed that they were part of this club, and they may have indeed been, but the scary thing is that we have not had a Superman in a couple of generations. What is next? A race of supermen? A singular man or woman that can either destroy of unite our already partially shattered world? Someone really, really tall? A really fast runner, or a really, really fast thinker? I am terrified already.

I personally think that a superman is not what the world needs right now. What we need is the power of human will, we need a united front against the horrors of the world. Is the answer to this religion? Atheism? A combination of the two? Something is definitely awry in the world, but if a man were to stand and try to unite everything, we would probably end up nailing him to a cross shaped object, and it would not be a success.

Doubleplusgood

2010-01-11T04:37:00.000-08:00

People in advertising must be the most frustrated people of all. Lets look at it; you flog yourself all day, using all your creative energies. You wanted to be a writer, a poet, an auteur, something that might influence the world in some positive way, and after all your creative efforts you have produced four words. Four words to sell a product that you probably don't care about. In any way. You go home, you are mean to your wife, you ignore your children, and you pour yourself a stiff drink and you weep. You weep into your cashmere jumper from John Lewis. You son of a bitch.

With advertising, everything is about creating the most catchy and positive thing possible, with the added set back of having it be both short, and understandable by the unwashed masses of the world. Its exactly like "Newspeak" in George Orwell's 1984, in the sense that it is the reduction of words, the destruction of words that would give a negative slant or could be mis-construed, the smashing together of words to make new buzz words that make no sense whilst keeping simple and ambiguous in order to avoid those pesky legal ramifications due to misleading. In fact, the best adverts are the ones that adhere to the rules for newspeak set out in 1984.

A few examples of these include;

- Guinness: Guinness is good for you.

Straightforward, to the point, and in some ways, true, and has no negative appeal. It's saying "You know what, if you want it, its there" without pushing or prodding at us. Its simply saying that it will have a positive effect on our lives.

- Cambell's Condensed Soup: Soup is good food.

Again, this slogan does not boast, it is not forceful or dominating, it is simply stating a fact. The ambiguity of the slogan allows them to imply that their product is the one that is good, whilst taking no responsibility for the quality of their product whatsoever. Its a devious and cunning plan that I wholeheartedly love.

- Daily Mail: Its a newspaper, not a snoozepaper

Brilliant piece of advertising here. They have managed to compliment themselves whilst also insulting every other newspaper subversively, by implying that they put people to sleep, and at the same time they are cutting together words that should never be cut together in the first place (miniluv, anyone?). This one is particularly relevant in the sense that they are the media, and as such, have direct influence of their audience. They could chose to purge an unfortunate past, perhaps destroy any evidence of a pro-fascism stance or something...

- Oreo Biscuits: Only Oreo.

Now what the hell is that?! What is only Oreo? Oreos?! Well a round of applause, we never would have guessed. They have managed to give a catchy and memorable slogan without actually saying anything at all except for stating the fact that Oreos are indeed made from Oreos.

- Clairol: Does she or Doesn't she?

Does she or doesn't she WHAT?! Breathe? Eat? Talk on the phone? Go on long distance flights?! It is so ambiguous it means literally nothing. It is a finely tuned and edited sentence that has no purpose except to be slapped onto the end of the word "Clairol". It is disgusting.

- Walls Sausages: I'm meaty, fry me.

This is in here because in this campaign, Walls have successfully created an anthropomorphic sausage. That's got to deserve a mention. And I think thats funny.

- Subway: Eat Fresh.

Possibly the best example of a newspeak slogan I could find. It is the mac-daddy of Orwellian thinking, with the least words possible, the gluing together of terms and the fact that it contains no negative terms. Everybody likes to eat. Everybody should like freshness, therefore there is nothing to hate about it. And the problem is, subway sandwiches are so god-damned delicious, noone could hate them anyway.

- Apple: Think Different.

Another brilliant one. Its innovative and simple, and appeals to its audience. However, a few holes in the plan are that for a small part of the population, thinking makes people scared and difference makes people angry. That's a demographic they are never going to tap.

Advertising makes me sad. It makes me think of how our culture has become exclusively driven by these depressed madmen on a mission to sell us the latest fad. Its the degeneration of language into simple two word slogans. It starts with advertising, and it ends with the destruction of civil liberties. Having said all that, I like Guinness, I own an Apple Mac, and I love Subway, so perhaps I am not the best warrior against the impending Big Brother.

Then again, are any of us?

We're Doomed.

Down California Way

2009-11-26T04:38:00.000-08:00

Throughout the last couple of years, I feel as though my life in education has been focused on two key areas. Of course, I have branched out the other subjects unwillingly, and even in some rare cases, willingly, but I find myself returning to these two things. Every time. Its the sort of phenomena that can convince you of the existence of God. And not that happy-go-lucky God from the bible. Im talking a malicious god. The type you find in Pagan lore. A god whose sole purpose is to torment humans, to test us until one of two inevitabilities occurs; We go insane, or we deal with it and let it stew as a mental illness. I am talking about the two subjects in my education that appear again and again.

1. 20th Century America (and everything encompassed within: The Dustbowl, The American Dream, etc...)

2. The Gothic

The fact that I adore the first and despise the second probably says alot about me as a person, much like my choice on the age-old question, "flight or invisibility?" but the point remains, I have been drawn in by fiction/non-fiction/cinema/music/journalism based around the first choice time and time again, and as of yet, I have no idea why.

This strange compulsion was fed like an angry snake last week, with the viewing of John Fords classic interpretation of John Steinbeck's "The Graps of Wrath". It was a great movie, and whilst it was not as good as the book, as these things often arent, it did give a great visual interpretation of one of my favorite parts; the journey. I've always been attracted to the nature of travel, and I'm still attempting to take "the Great American Road Trip". Obviously this is a little hard when you come from the English south-west, rather than the American south, but I've always been enchated by Route 66, and the journey part of the novel reminds me of the childish sense of wonder I have about travelling. The truth is its damn annoying, it can make or break friendships, and it can be hellishly boring, but its always something that retains its magic.

The film depicts the journey as a time of hope, a time of the anticipation of prosperity, and its strange that despite the deaths of Grandpa and Grandma, the decision to press on is unanimous. Its sort of like the deaths of the Grandparents signify the cutting of the chord, like the family has no place in Olklohoma anymore because their history there has been lost. Or it could just be a way of evoking some emotion at the realistation that these people literally have nothing but eachother. Either way, its an event that Steinbeck really executes well.

Its no surprise that the novel was written as an attempt to show the plight of the citizens of the dustbowl, and its a shame that the message was lost in the financial storm that followed the book. Its a book, and a movie, that continues to feed my love for 20th Century America.

Maybe one day, I'll get out to Californee, see what all the fuss is about...

When Men were Men, and Boys were scared.

2009-11-12T17:42:00.000-08:00

The history of journalism happens to be one of my favorite subjects, especially throughout the days of the American Frontier, because as it turns out, "The West" was really won through the toil at the grubby hands of those grubby journalists, all hoping to grab their slice of America pie. These were the real men, the ones who printed exactly what they saw. If One-Eyed Jack kicked up a fuss in the local saloon, then he would print it.

Of course, whilst these people were brave, taking the blessing of literature and writing to an area where it might have died out, there was a man who took the idea of Frontier journalism as far as it could go, and then some. The illustrious, the fantastic, Mr William Randolph Hearst.

W.R.Hearst really had everything going for him at exactly the right time. Much like Bruce Willis in Die Hard, he was the right man at the right time. Except there were fewer terrorists. And even fewer hulking Aryan terrorists with silken golden hair that seems so thick and well kept that he could use it to fly.

So the story goes, everybody was poor. Almost too poor, and after New York was pretty much done and dusted, and the immigrants had nothing else to build, there were a few reports of gold in San Francisco, many populated by Hearst himself, and with the San Francisco Chronicle that he published in many, many languages, he was really just hitting every target possible. He was the go-to guy for hokey information, and it seemed that 1849 would be his...golden year. Ahahaha...that's not funny.

Whilst the information as to the possible locations of the gold may have just been wild fabrications, it was an incredibly profitable time to own a paper, especially when the toothless prospectors would have done anything for a slice of the gold.

Eventually our friend Hearst expanded to the east coast, purchasing the New York Journal, entering into a circulation war with Pulitzer, and being thoroughly ironic by claiming to be a man of the people whilst being completely racist at the same time. It was a time of being who you wanted to be, clearly, and racism is not something I condone (in fact its something I'm disgusted by) but you have to respect the man for being what he was regardless of any one's judgement.

It seems strange that I would find a role model in a man who died 40 years before I was born, but the coming of the frontier press is a subject that I am perpetually interested in. In fact, I just bought a book, aptly titled, The Coming of the Frontier Press. A compelling read, no less. Hearst was an icon. His standing in the journalism community is timeless, and at the time of his death, he owned 26 newspapers. 16 magazines, 11 radio stations, five news services, and a monstrous house in Malibu. Its scary how much the movie Citizen Kane captured, with Orson Welles' performance being one of the most enigmatic that I have seen in ages, a true testament to a legendary man, by another legendary man.

I just wish I had been there to see it all happen.

Freud and Friends

2009-10-29T03:27:00.000-07:00

Freud is a scary man. Time and time again Mr. Sigmund Freud will come up in one shape or another as a part of my studies. Last time it was science at A-level. The time before that, English GCSE. And every time I will think two things.

1. Sigmund...Fraud? (I will then laugh to myself like a moron)

2. Is Freud a genius, the creator of modern psychology, the father of some of the most practiced techniques in mental health care today? Or is he just a man, standing in front of a woman, asking her to love him? And this woman is his mother.

Basically, regardless of whether the man is a nut or not, he certainly did something incredible. Consider this; We have absolutely no idea what happens inside the brain, we don't know why people do the things they do, apart from the odd philosophies that people sometimes chucked out. Instead we just wandered around, doing the things we did, suffering from huge depression, possibly making some sort of off remark about feces, we've all done it.

Then, Freud came around, and said, "hey, how about dreams?" and thus the Freudian method was born. I have dumbed it down a bit, but when you consider that this was the first of the modern methods. Without that man, there would be none of these psychiatrists with chairs. It would change the face of culture itself. Television would be completely different, films, news, politics.

Its a scary thing to think about.

Things cannot be un-made, or un-seen. They can be forgotten, however. I cannot un-see this, for example. It is terrifying, and makes me thing of nothing but insanity. Its sort of like looking straight into the mind of Mr. H.P Lovecraft and, like the ending of many of his books, eventually going insane. But that's the point of the video, its a comment on how advertising will stick with you, subconsciously. Imagine how many adverts you see a day. Hundreds! Even searching the Internet for about 15 minutes you see at least 30 adverts, all of them designed to stick in your brain for as long as possible. It gets incredibly crowded in there.

I wonder what Freud would think if advertising was as prevalent in his time as it is now. I think he would go insane.

The last thing I will say about Freud is that if, like the little Freud doll at the top of this post, you ask about mothers, you will get answers about mothers, which will lead you to the conclusion that people are obsessed with their mothers. Its a strange conundrum.

Why I didnt like last weeks Question Time

2009-10-23T10:31:00.000-07:00

(Lets get one thing clear before anybody reads this, I hate Nick Griffin. I hate the BNP. I don't personally think that belligerent hate has any place in British politics. Having said that, I also believe in the impartiality of the press, what little is left, and the opportunity that Britain gives to everybody, that of a "Fair shake". I am also a strong believer that a Multicultural Britain is exactly what we need, and that people of all races, creeds, denominations and faiths should be able to cohabit with one another without being harassed. I would also like to give Kudos to the wonderful Bonnie Greer for her insight into a very trick subject, and David Dimbleby, a hero of mine.)

Debates are useful, and so are audience generated questions. Its a fantastic system that can spark some really interesting answers from people that have yet to reveal their true agenda, or at least, not in the form they would like to.

Last week, after much media controversy, BNP leader Nick Griffin appeared on question time. It is an event of such massive scale that I watched it later on Iplayer. I saw this question time as an opportunity for a few things to happen. Nick Griffin answering questions that may or may not have hurt his agenda. Interesting debates about the BNP's true purpose in British and European events, and finally, a chance to see, unedited, how strange and crazy this man truly is.

None of those things happened. Sure, Nick Griffin was hung out to dry. He was publicly humiliated by hoards of rightfully angry people, and it was embarrassing. But it was not a debate, and it certainly didn't harm his campaign, at least not by as much as it should.

Instead of people asking him questions about his agenda, and letting him string himself up, hoist himself by his own petard, we were subjected to an hour of this;

"Nick Griffin, my ancestors came from X and they came here to Britain and did Y, so on a scale of one to ten, how much of a bastard are you"

"Nick Griffin, What kind of bastard does this, you bastard?"

"You sick bastard Nick Griffin, How dare you do X, Y and Z?!"

All those questions did was give Nick Griffin a chance to defend himself, and whilst he did not do it particularly well, but he still did. He was very rightly, "Lynch Mobbed". Which is ironic for him to complain about considering his alleged links to the KKK, but still true. What we should have has was questions like this;

"Nick Griffin, what is your stance on this important government thing?"

To which he would reply with some no-doubt racist and offensive remark, promoting much ooh and ahhhs from the audience as well as a few pantomime hisses and boos. We did not get that, and for what could have been a fantastic chance to show a very nasty man for what he truly was, we got a lot of silly questions that were much the same, and only proved to help his agenda by making him a victim.

And that is why I did not like this weeks question time.

Any questions?

I am not a Footballer

2009-10-22T06:36:00.000-07:00

In the daily process of Googling myself, I came to a shocking revelation. Theres someone like me, just a little bit different. Now when I google my name, all I get is this man...

Luke Garbutt, pictured above looking shocked that he is having his shoes tied for him, is apparently what they call a "media darling", which, given the fact that he is about twelve years old is unsurprising. The shocking part of this is, he seems to have the exact name as I have, except for the comedy adding of "butt". He basically has the name bullies used to call me, as they shoved my head into the spiky bushes indigenous to Somerset.

They were neither bright nor mercifull...

This is not an exit

2009-10-14T05:30:00.000-07:00

Germinal, first published in 1885, written by Emile Zola, represents a tumultuous time in French history, and is seen by many as the harsh but honest truth about the coal-miners strike in the 1860s. Many have praised the book for its honesty, and have seen the scenes of gruesomeness as a very frank and earnest attempt to represent the plight of the miners.

However, some have not been so gracious with their remarks. In fact, they're downright nasty. People have called the novel "Unsubtle" "Crude" "Oversimplified" and "Melodramatic". What a bunch of whiners. Some fail to warm to the novel, instead focusing on the content rather than the meaning of the content, and that's their choice, but I could not help but liken Germinal to the 1991 Bret Easton-Ellis novel, American Psycho.

This may seem like a wild and fantastic voyage to take when comparing the two, but if you'll read on for a few more measly minutes, you will realise the truth. Wow, that was heavy!

So in 1991, American Psycho was published, allowing all of those willing to pay however much access to its pages. Almost immediately, there was outcry. The content was so vile and disturbing, it was even banned in several countries, to spare the people its disgusting disgusting words. And it is disgusting, for you see, instead of miners, its yuppie bankers. And instead of France, its Manhattan. Specifically Wall Street. For those un-versed in the novel, here's a quick synopsis.

Patrick Bateman is your typical 20th century yuppie. He works as a vice-president at a banking firm, earns a ton of money, lives in a fancy apartment, parties at night, and has a loving fiance. Except shes not loving, and he doesn't love her. And he spends his nights murdering and mutilating the less fortunate people in Manhattan. The descriptions of said murders are very...extensive, and there's no denying the content is objectionable beyond measure. Whilst reading the book, I actually had to stop in order to stop myself from having to spend thousands of pounds on mental help. Its nasty, to say the least. But I loved the book. And whilst this may seem strange, its the same feeling I get when I read Germinal.

American Psycho was satirizing the yuppie culture, and ruthlessly and frankly breaking down both the disenfranchisement from morals and respect in the American Youth, and tearing down the foundations of the American Dream. Instead of focusing on the words written in Germinal, one must focus on the deepest meaning behind the words. That's why I found, and still am finding, Germinal so very interesting.

Thesis: The dialectics of nature. Antithesis: Confusion. Synthesis: Panic

2009-10-08T05:55:00.000-07:00

The last lecture posed possibly one of the most intriguing ideas I have heard in a good long while. The idea that many of the worlds conflicts, societies and social systems were born of this simple concept of two opposites balancing eachother out with a result.

If we consider that with every action, there must be an equal an opposite reaction, we can see that with the creation of a thesis, an antithesis is born, and therefore the two will eventually combine to form a synthesis. So when a state or ruling body is formed, there will always be a force opposing it regardless of where or when this happens, in the same way that protons will always exist is there are electrons there to oppose them, and thus the matter is always created. Its a system, which despite countless variables, succeeds to occur time after time after time.

The theory works with most things in the world, and is applicable to even to the smallest of situations.

e.g.
Thesis: Normal human
Antithesis: Cold wind
Sythesis: Wearing a coat

It can also be applied to higer scale situations,

e.g.
Thesis: Rats
Antithesis: Ignorance
Synthesis: The Bubonic Plague

It is a succinct system. It is precise and it is true. One thing cannot exist without the other, and there is always a result.

Bam, said the lady!

2009-09-13T15:38:00.000-07:00

Hey people. Enjoy your summer? No? Ah well. Enjoy a blog post instead.

A Man with a Plan

2009-05-30T09:29:00.000-07:00

It has come to my attention recently that certain people are crazy. People in power. And like an abandoned house, the worms are slowly coming out of the woodwork. It has long been postulated that people who are insane know something we don't, and therefore, their actions, whilst often strange and random, have a purpose and meaning. A method to their madness. However, some are just plain crazy.

Certain people in power have been revealing themselves slowly, in a movement that I feel, is the dawn of a new type of crazy government. All of these people work in separate places, some vying for power, and some already in massive positions of it, and they all meet on Christmas day in the hollowed out head of the sphinx in Las Vegas.

Two of these people come from separate news stories that have peaked my interest throughout this sleepy week. And both of them were either very alarmist or quite strange, and I'm prepared to say that I am now terrified, and am intending to use all my resources to build a crazy proof bunker in my garage. Although I don't have a garage, so it might be a bit of a feat. Also, it should be bomb proof, given the imminent nuclear tide. But I don't really have the money for that either. Zero out of two requirements, and I'm already out of pocket. Perhaps I'm the crazy one.

First up to the batting cages is crazy Nick Griffin. This is a man who has denied all of the logical parameters by being as racist as possible. I saw this man had been doing very racist things, and did a bit of digging. In 1993 a deputy was quoted as saying that the party was "100% racist". That's a bit of a bold claim, considering some of their people must have had thoughts in the lines of "I might not be racist, and then I won't be liked by our greasy glorified leader".

Apparently they have close ties to Neo-Nazi type people, which furthers the opinion that no-one should vote for them. In fact, my absolute hatred for these people has lead me to think that I might be racist. The entire problem with hating a group like this is that you're hating a minority. Any campaign against them is an act of discrimination. "We don't like your types 'round here" is racist no matter who you're directing it to.

Moving from one discrimination to another, Crazy Kim Jong Il. Even now, as I type this, my fingers are shaking from fear. Crazy Kim Jong Il seems like the sort of man who actually WOULD look himself up on google. And God forbid he is sitting at his platinum plated desks surrounded by his harem, seeing this post and tracking the co-ordinates of his next missile launch.

He is a crazy man. From hair transplants, to backcombing, to giant rabbits to nukes, everything this tiny man seems to do can be attributed to a blow to the head as a child, and subsequent madness. I really do think that this will be the man to trigger the eleventh hour, if we are not in it already, and I still am shaking my head as to why this man has not been stopped. I'm assuming that there are men eating and sleeping Kim Jong Il prevention plans, but still I am amazingly scared.

It can be said that the madman knows something we don't, and if this is true, and I really hope it is, Il knows that what he is doing is fantastically stupid.

Movie Review: The Ex

2009-05-18T18:19:00.000-07:00

I'm a big fan of Zach Braff. Who isn't? I'm also a big fan of Jason Bateman. So when I found out that there was a film starring not one, but two of my favorite TV stars, I slammed that into my lovefilm waiting list and cranked it up to "Urgent". However, its the first point that makes this zany comedy a little thin on the ground, the two stars are TV people, and ultimately, it makes the film feel a lot like an extra long sitcom pilot. Whilst this may be true, the film hits home, albeit in a slightly roundabout way.

The premise of the movie is slightly typical, to say the least. Tom Riley (Braff) is a recently married and slightly hot-headed slacker, with his wife being played by Amanda Peet, with a slightly forgettable character considering her acting props, and Hollywood status. Although, the word slacker would be inappropriate, considering he has the drive, and the motivation, considering his heavily pregnant wife, but his problem being his temper, which sets in motion the events of the film. Having lost his job on the same day of obtaining a newly born child, he decides to uproot and leave New York for sunny Ohio, taking the offer of a job at his wife's fathers company, an advertising firm, and is forced to be the protege of the paraplegic and slightly strange go-getter Chip (Bateman).

This is essentially what makes the film unique. Usually this sort of movie would be based in another spectrum, from the woman's perspective, with the man taking a bit of a back seat, and whilst the relationship between a man and his wife's ex was explored in Judd Apatow's Forgetting Sarah Marshall, The Ex focuses more on the rivalry, and the panicky antics in Braff''s life as his mentor attempts to unravel his relationship between his wife. Its a story that we've all heard a billion times, but The Ex is the only movie Ive seen that conveys the frantic panicking, and paranoia involved with meeting your girlfriend, partner, or wife's ex effectively, with Braff essentially looking insane to everyone but him, which is a feeling I, and any man, can definitely empathise with.

The premise is a good one, solid, but it falters slightly in the execution of the different events that take place, with the scenes in the movie being slightly dis-jointed in places, but like many movies, the film is saved by its characters. The amiable Braff has a certain chemistry with the strange and creepy Bateman, and the background players, many of them veterans of America's Saturday Night Live (A long running late-night sketch show for you uneducated peons).

However, the film was a peculiar animal. My history with it has been slightly turbulent, and I'm not ashamed to say that I was scared at some point as the sheer weirdness of the situation. Granted, I had rented it from lovefilm, but I had also viewed it before ILLEGALLY over the magic of the interweb. I wanted to see it again in better quality, this is understanding, I like to watch my films without Japanese adverts floating across the screen almost every second. The strange thing was that when I viewed it a second time, the film was a lot longer. Many more scenes had been added, all of them making the film much funnier than it would have been without it, but they had changed the ending, and changed it for the worst. Part of it could have been to make the film flow better, and give it a concise and definitive ending, and part of it could have been lazy editing. Perhaps the production company was just drunk (and I expect the latter is much more likely) but instead of quite a touching tale about finding out what you were meant to do in life, we are given a clumsy and clunky ending that is overall, very unsatisfying.

Don't watch this film for the subtleties and don't expect anything too deep, but if you do watch it, do it for Braff and Bateman, because god knows they know how to entertain people, even if they cant do anything else.

Movie Review: Smokin Aces

2009-05-09T08:53:00.000-07:00

Action movies, generally, are films that are genuinely entertaining to watch. Obviously, the best ones in the genre have a deep and meaningful story but that is not why one watches them in the first place. Its because of the fantastic explosions, or fight scenes, or men getting killed in increasingly creative ways. In the days of old, men could just die in a hail of gunfire, and that was enough for the bloodthirsty public. Then, when that became tired, it was gunfire hitting something explosive. Then martial arts took off, and men were subjected to having their HEAD RIPPED CLEAN FUCKING OFF! Its an escalation, and with all the billions of ways to kill someone, it seems that there will be no end.

Fortunately for the murder craving masses, Smokin' Aces, gives us enough examples of gory and creative deaths. The general premise is that there's a guy called Buddy "Aces" Israel (Jeremy Piven, Entourage), a Las Vegas magician turned police informant, who has close ties with "the mob". A price has been put on his head, so brings in the worlds most notorious hit men to claim the bounty. Meanwhile there's the FBI, CIA, police...something force who want to keep Aces alive in order to use his knowledge to take down one of the most prolific and infamous crime organizations in America.

The cast is where the movie really takes off, with a wide and creative bunch of unscrupulous characters. Star Treks newest star, Chris Pine, plays a neo nazi, among with two others who I don't know the names of. Ryan Reynolds plays the charismatic but troubled FBI agent assigned to Aces' protection, whilst Ben Affleck plays an ex-cop after the bounty. The characters in the movie are ranged, creative and engaging, and somehow they are able to pull off the wide range of people without it being a muddle, and some of the lesser known actors are great at helping us to invest a little emotion in the giant pool.

But its still all a bit confusing. See, like I said, there's the action movies without a plot, that aspire only to create a decent looking movie with explosions and head rippings, and there's the ones with the story, that even the most anal and pretentious people can enjoy mildly. But Smokin' Aces seems to cut from a very distinctly different cloth. That is to say, that it trues very hard to have a fantastic story, but doesn't quite pull it off, it comes very close, but doesnt quite hit the target, with the story zip-zapping all over the place like a ricocheting...bouncy ball. Tired CIA/FBI intrigue, heavy dialogue that would be boring even in a Bourne movie, and overly dramatic acting, are some of the silly choices that deviate from the brilliant acting of Piven. Also, in a strange cameo, there are some fantastic comic acting from the iracable Jason Bateman, who plays a sleazy, sex crazed and drug addicted lawyer, who does well to divert the audience from some of the aformentioned boring dialogue

Overall, its satisfying, but if youre looking for a story driven character piece, search elsewhere, because this party is all about the bullets.

Movie Review: Body of Lies

2009-04-28T18:54:00.000-07:00

As far as thrillers go, straight off the bat, this is a pretty classy one. I'm a big fan of these newer, political/war/secret service thrillers, so it really touches on my love of the genre, but despite excellent cast and direction, the story falls a little short when the movie should reach its boiling point.

Body of Lies is a political-espionage thriller, which means you're going to see a lot of the swooping in-and-out satellite camera footage that studios love so much these days. Its a great effect, and fortunately with the spacing between every swoop is just enough so that it doesn't get tired.

As for the cast, Leonardo DiCaprio gives another one of his better performances. Since he decided to make better movies than Titanic, I seem to have seen him in a new light. Gone is the sad-sack of his younger days, parading round steamboats and fairly wild interpretations of Shakespeare plays, in are the deep mercenary types, and the undercover cops with Bostonian accents. Its a real transformation. In Body of Lies he portrays a young, but experienced government agent, but unlike most movies, his character makes mistakes, he gets hurt, and he gets emotional. Hes not perfect, and that's what makes the character great. The second blockbuster performance is by the the irascible Russel Crowe, playing the aged, homebound CIA type. The juxtaposition between him talking international security and taking his kids home from school serves to give his character a very powerful feel.

The film progresses in leaps and bounds, which is good, considering the 2 hour 40 mins run time, but youll find there is an occasional full stop where there will be neither action nor excitement, not compelling dialogue. Many times during the movie I switched off, deciding that fiddling with my shirt was more productive. If youre an easily bored person, you might want to stay away from this movie.

All in all, a polished movie, but it needs a few more goings over with the buffer.

Hey-O, Pancakes

2009-04-28T18:47:00.000-07:00

Morning, sports fans. Whilst you enjoy your morning treats of delicious syrup drenched pastry, I thought I'd take some time and mention some of my most favorite things in the world. Boy they are swell.

Winchester Journalism
Winchester MA Journalism
Winchester BA Journalism
Winchester International Journalism
BJTC
Winchester Studios and Facilities
Winchester Lecturers

Gee whiz.

No joke though, check them out. I couldn't be doing this without such a great establishment putting the wind in the sails of my writing.

There's some OBAMASPEAK for you.

Hey-O!

Court: Big Place, Tiny People

2009-04-28T18:46:00.001-07:00

Well, there we go. There were no council meetings. Seems I should have listened to Ms. Murray after all, and for that I apologize. I did however get a chance to visit the courts once again, for that slice of reporting action that I crave so very much, so very often. Seriously, its like a drug.

Anyway, the experience started like any other experience involving court reporting. I got dressed up in my finery, or...tie and shirt, and toddled on down to the court like a good little soldier of the fourth estate. The court was just as imposing as I remember it, with the security guards looking down at me with their scarily broad shoulders, and the people wearing wigs, even though they don't need to! There's a strange sort of madness abroad in those halls I tell you.

Anyway, I immediately deviated towards the reception. "What cases have you got in the courts today?" I ask.
"Well, we've got a rape in court 1." she replies.
"Oh good!" I reply. Sometimes I think that a constant flow of bad news has tainted me, like a water supply, but then I quickly quell that thought.

When I went into court 1, I suddenly realized that I might be a bit in over my head at this stage in the game, considering the sheer caliber of journalism that graced the press box during this very controversial of cases. People from the Times and such.

The details of the case is as follows:

Peter Bacon, 26, was being accused of the rape of a 45 year old solicitor in her house in Kent. During the case, several character witnesses were brought forward, all giving glowing reports of Mr. Bacon's gentlemanly persona, and generally niceness towards members of both the opposite and same sex. The three witnesses, who all work with Mr. Bacon, used phrases like "genuine" and team player" when describing his character, whilst a fourth statement issued by his ex-girlfriend Emma Anderson, was glowing, explaining how he "respected wishes and boundaries" and calling him one of her "closest friends".

Since my visit to the court, the case has been dropped, with the jury of seven women and four men taking 45 minutes to label Bacon not guilty. Questions have been asked as to why the case, which cost the taxpayer and estimated £90,000, was followed through, considering the substantial amount of evidence leading towards Bacon's innocence.

The 45 year old woman who raised the charges described herself as a "casual binge-drinker" claimed that on the night of the suspected rape, was "too drunk to remember consenting to sex".

Thus endeth the copy.

Well, in my opinion, this is a "tricky grey area". Its one thing to say that "she was giving me the come-on" and its another thing entirely to have taken advantage. The true fact is that only one person there is capable of remembering what happened, and that was Mr. Bacon. And no ones going to admit to rape. Certainly not one accused of it.

Drinks with Luke

2009-04-23T10:42:00.000-07:00

The Luke Garratt Drinking Game!

Fun for all the family (including the children*)

Take a drink every time Luke:

Touches his face
Runs his hands through his hair
Moves his hands from his pockets to his chest, to his pockets and so on.
Takes a drink
Talks about Lunch/Food/Eating

Take a drink every time Luke says:

"Delicious"
"Ridiculous"
"Incredible"
"Oh Yeah"
"Good News"

*If children get addicted, Its not my fault, Its theirs. No takebacks.

The End.

De-evolution

2009-03-17T02:18:00.000-07:00

Since it's St. Patrick's day, as I'm sure you all know, and recently the blogs have been about evolution, I thought that this would probably be appropriate.

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

Train of thought when you look for your keys and can't find them straight away

2009-03-16T09:59:00.000-07:00

Where are my keys?
Oh, no, I left them in the drawer
Wait, they're not there
On the printer?
No
Ohhhh, in my bag
Shit, they're not their either
Have I lost them?
How would I have gotten into my room?
Did I lock the door when I left?
Oh, yeah I did, because I was drinking some water just after
No, wait, that was Friday!
Crap
Shit crap
In the drawer?
I checked there
Behind the books?
Why would they be behind the books?
Curtains?
No, no, no!
Oh crap, perhaps I put them in the rubbish by mistake!
Oh no! I put the rubbish out last night!!
On the cupboard?!
NO!
In the pile of papers?
Argh!
Check under the bed!
Theres so much crap under my bed!
Aw cool, I thought I'd lost this hat!
No, not under here!
Oh god, oh god, On the sink
Under the sink?
under the printer?
In the printer?
I'm never going to find them. I'm going to have to pay £20 to get new ones, and I'm not going to be able to leave my house for about 4 days!
I don't have enough food for 4 days!
Oh god.
Are they in that drawer?!
They wont be in that drawer! Its useless!
Oh, they were in that drawer.

This happens to me at least once every two days...

The TV Set

2009-03-07T07:49:00.000-08:00

A few meaty reviews, some long awaiting, some that I was bursting to get onto the Internet, and have been for a while. All are juicy and succulent, with layers and layers of tasty morsels for you to savour and digest.

I am incredibly hungry. Strap in, sports fans...

Being Human

You asked for it, and it came to you in a blaze of glory, the long awaited review of Being Human (BBC3, Saturday 9.00pm), a series which brought people together, then broke them apart, and then, big surprise to everyone, brought them together again.

Things got weird.

Being Human was one of those sorts of shows that comes around once every blue moon. A show with a low production value, relatively unknown actors, a basic premise, and compelling story lines. First of all, it had vampires. And werewolves. And Ghosts! but what was incredible was that these three mythical creatures seamlessly translated from screen to real life, as though it was a natural thing for them to be there. Its a weird way of putting it, but the fact that these creatures are living in such a familiar place as Bristol gives a perspective into the idea of secret lives, as well as the show giving deep parallels to the way people cope with disabilities, or addictions. It was all, as the title suggests, about being human. Which was cool, I guess, if you like that sort of thing. You Nerd.

On a final note, the man who played Herrick was fantastic. And his comrades. And the Vampire hierarchy. Honestly, I cant speak highly enough about it, Its on the increasingly handy BBC iplayer, so just watch it, ya lughead.

Dexter

Ahhhh, Dexter. Where on Earth can I start with this meaty subject. It'd be like starting the worlds best sandwich without any mental preparation. I like American TV. I like it so much I am prepared to sit and wait for the damn Internet to load it just so I can watch it. I like it so much I considered paying for sky, even though I didn't have a satellite, just for the possibility to get channels that might provide me with the great shows being churned out of the US. This migration of great shows was a strange occurrence considering how monumentally shit American TV shows were not 20 years ago.

Dexter was one of the first breaths of fresh air that I had wafted in my pudgy Anglo-Gaelic face, just after Battlestar Galactica, which sort of gave me a bit of rebirth, in the same way that I was revitalised when I discovered Rock music. Except I wasn't 12. Dexter has a strange mystique that resembles the feeling when you watch a hero on screen. Remember when you watched Han Solo in Star Wars? No? Alright, remember when you first watched a really, really cool character in a movie or a TV show. Remember the way it made you feel in your mind, the feeling that you want to be them, to emulate them, to give the same impression on people that your character does. The same curious thing happens with Dexter, to excellent dramatic effect. We're drawn into the characters mind. We want to be the charismatic, cool, attractive Dexter, but he's a serial killer. We know we shouldn't, but we're still captured. It's enticing, and its fantastic.

The characters aren't the only thing that's good, theres the storylines. Each series unfolds slowly, gradually, like a novel, which is actually what the series was adapted from in the first place, which means that instead of having non-sequential episodes, one after another, we have a series of meaty episodes, that take a week to digest. However, despite the clear dramatic aspect of having every episode full of juice, this means that its a very difficult series to get hooked onto. Despite the long-winded recaps, you never get a full sense of whats going on if you miss an episode, so you're pretty much boned if you want to keep watching, leaving you to the inevitable need to surf the crap-pile of the Internet for a streaming episode.

Which will be covered in Japanese writing. And shit.

Jacob Bronowski's Ascent of Man

A truly remarkable series. A little sketchy at times, in the sense that it makes you feel like you're on a science induced drug trip. The idea of seeing a giant head, and several methods of wave and frequency reading equipment on a beach, whilst a man talks in soft mild mannered scientific tones is incredibly weird, but this is only one of the first of the potent, and often brilliant examples of how the series is able to capture you. By using the unusual scenarios, Bronowski is able to capture an audience in a way that many of the most famous presenters haven't done today, with the ever increasing abundance of technology.

The whole series is soothing, like being dipped in a large cup of just-right tea, that's lined with pieces of a science textbook. Bronowski gives an amazing amount of perspective in a very short time, the lecture style format is something that seems to have died out along with the mainstream broadcasting of traditional documentaries, and I believe that this is really something to be admired. Considering that I haven't seen many of these sorts of things, in all my 18 years on this planet, as well as the fact that I'm very cynical about many, many, many things, I think that my opinion is justified. Essentially, people need to watch it. And its on YouTube. So you have no excuse.

You lazy bastard.

In the Grim Etcetera

2009-02-27T03:38:00.000-08:00

Darwin is a fascinating man. He is for his theories and his scientific prowess, but mainly, I believe that he is fascinating because of the level of controversy he has created. Darwin has been the cause of some of the major political, religious, and scientific debates all over the world since he first came up with the idea of natural selection, evolution, and the possibility that intelligent design might not be a correct theory.

In conclusion, hes pretty cool.

As a person that studied Biology at A level, under the misconception I was good at the subject, but also because of the age old reason, I wanted to "make my father proud", I was a student of a Mr. Moore, who was a strong believer in the theories of Darwin, and the absolute empirical belief that he was right. Any person who would take him to task on such information, or try and best him was immediately and severely mocked. After all, Mr. Moore had done a masters, and a PhD on Darwin, so he knew quite a few things. Also, what were those people thinking? theyre in a biology lesson for Christ sakes, what did they think they were getting?

Anyhoo, moving on. Mr. Moore, for all his arguing and reasoning, and the most solid belief that he was correct, still had to give the speech about how "Darwin's theories are just that: Theories, and the theory of Intelligent Design must be considered".

For a Darwin purist, this must have been agony.

Now, for the infamous third lecture in the politics half of my journalistic tutelage, which focused on KINGDOM, and the history of how we alllllll became united and such. The amazing thing was this lesson how I found out how much of a bastard Oliver Cromwell really was. Chris described it as Nazi rule, crossed with something even more dangerous that I have forgotten, and after a little research, Ive found out hes actually more like Dr. Doom crossed with Nazis, Mugabe, Darth Vader and Hannibal Lecter. Except he doesn't eat people. That we know of.

But yes, he is a bastard, and I'd imagine that today he'd be killing kittens with battery acid, just because he could, and nothing displays this effect than the recent Channel 4 drama The Devils Whore. Not only is Cromwell shown to be an arsehole, but there was an interesting twist in the portrayal of King Charles I, which showed him as not only a power grabbing tyrant, but also as a very human character. A loving father, with children who see him as such, instead of a tool. Anyway, its definitely worth a look, as it were. And because I cant think of an end to this section.

The next thing I have to talk about is the news that scientists have mapped the modern words that have changed very little in tens of thousands of years. These six words are I, WHO, WE, THOU, TWO, THREE and FIVE. That's great science men, but what about four a-side football? Doesn't that get a look in?

You bastards with your science and your Darwin.

For Your Consideration

2009-02-20T18:27:00.000-08:00

I have absolutely no interest in Che. Parts one or two. In fact, I'm not sure I could give a fair review. Also, I haven't seen it, so I'm probably not the best person to ask? Oh, you didn't ask? Well fine. You bastard.

I haven't been watching many movies recently, mainly because the cinema in Winchester seems to have a cross between a monetary crisis and a stick up its arse, showing two movies at a time like it's some sort of selection committee. Frost/Nixon, a film I've been aching to see was in the cinema for a couple of days, whilst The Curious Case of Benjamin Button remains in the theater like a bad smell. I suppose I'm just bitter, because I haven't seen any of these films, but then again, when they only show them for a couple of days, I can't see them, so who's fault is that? I guess its mine.

Next up on the agenda, Jade Goody.

Ahhhh, Jade Goody. Isn't it amazing how since she got cancer we've all forgotten how much of a horrible person she is. This is not to say that I am not sympathetic of people with cancer, quite the opposite. I had a very surreal sort of experience when I was working as a porter in my local hospital, wheeling around patients like a human taxi cab. except they...werent...inside me. Anyway, there was a patient who was a frequent passenger on the Luke express, a woman who was a sufferer of late stage leukemia. When I started wheeling her around, she seemed rather perky, she chatted and such, but then as the weeks went on, she lost more and more hair, she talked less and less, and her husband became more and more sombre. Then suddenly, one week, she wasn't on the request list. It was pretty clear what had happened. I had it third hand and I was still affected.

Jade Goody however, decided the best way to go about her untimely death was to grab as much attention as possible about HER, rather than drawing attention to one of the most curable kinds of cancer. If she really wanted to do something good, she would donate the money from the over exposure of her wedding, and her death, to the cervical cancer fund, and not all to her children.

For God's sake. Perhaps I'm just an angry man, but I really think I have a valid point. When hundreds of people die of cancer every single year, with every case being as sad as the last, and the media focuses on the one person they almost destroyed a couple of years before, without drawing on the serious issues.

Last thing, as this is getting rather long, check out this disgusting little snot. We've all seen this by now. An 8 year old boy seemed to have had a seething libido, and couldn't keep his minuscule member inside his Lonsdale tracksuit, and the product is a child that will be a detriment to the system. I want to smack all of the parties involved in the encouragement and conception of this child on the head. Except not the child, because apparently that's illegal.

And I'm fairly sure I would be raped in jail.

The Widgeteer

2009-02-19T04:13:00.000-08:00

Ahhhh, economics. After the last lectures misanthropic tirade, the soothing calm of economics washed over me like a warm bath, and I was able to marinade in it for some time, before roasting it on a gentle heat and producing the well cooked blog you see before you two days later.

The economic struggle of this country was something that i really never paid a significant amount of attention to. Of course, I read about it, absorbed the information and understood it (mostly, kinda sorta) but the real fact was it wasn't really that important to me at the time. I didn't need to know, because it wasn't affecting me that much, and so I was mostly indifferent. With that smooth segway, lets move on to this weeks politics lecture.

I'm a big fan of Empiricism. I didn't know that the term existed before this week, but certainly I was a big fan of the underlying concept well before I knew the definition. The idea that you don't believe in something unless it is available to you sensually (which sounds dodgy) is one that can fit into a world that intends to progress into the future. Empiricism allows experimentation, an idea that seems to be wildy discouraged among the God fearin' members of society, which sadly, still has a very significant impact on today's world. If we were all to embrace Empiricism, in one form or another, and the red tape were to come down, then there is no measure to what the human species could achieve.

This brings me onto a hugely controversial subject regarding experimentation. During my university interview process, I was asked to discuss, with a group, a certain scenario. The general assumption was that this would weed out the weak and ugly, in order to allow the confident and powerful people progress to higher learning, where they would gather the skills needed to rule the world one day maybe. I still think it was to see who was a dick and who wasn't, but that's just me.

The question posed to us in this little debate-a-thon, was simple: "Do you think a screening process to see if an unborn child has down syndrome would be morally viable?"

Now...lets make one thing perfectly clear. I respect, and am a strong supporter, of the rights of disabled people to live, work, and pretty much do whatever they want in the world without being bothered, but my answer came under a lot of scrutiny, when i took in a deep breath, and unleashed my bombshell. "Of course" I had agreed with pre-birth screening. The main reason being that if we can rid future people of these life altering conditions, then why wouldn't we? Why would we stop progress? The one answer that came amidst the gasps was "Because its morally wrong. God wouldn't like it"

Maybe not, but considering I don't believe in him, i think him and I can call it quits.

This is why I like Empiricism. People are able to use these experiments without some justice force telling us the "big guy won't like it".

Basically, "Empiricism leads to the scientific method and empirical method leads to highly effective technological advance"

A good lecture on Empiricism: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BC6DNdkt0IU.

It also says stuff about Hume, who as we all know thought of a bit of a step up from Empiricism, with a bit more added assumption.

Next up in the batting cages: A Priori. Buh. BUH. It seems non negotiable. Or rather, half of it seems non negotiable. The half which is concordant with Empiricism, that is to say, provisional ideas. As it were. The trancendent part is a little silly. Mainly because I'm an atheist, and the idea that God might exist is laughable. Therefore, it is always laughable. See what I did? That's A priori right? I could later turn into a religious person, which would be...good?

A good example of A priori reasoning in the press lately would be the furthering of the Guantanamo cases. The idea the geoverment seems to have used is that:

Extremist Muslims attack America
Therefore all Muslims are terrorists
That guy looks like a Muslim
Oh, He is a Muslim
Therefore he is a terrorist.

As for Idealists...well some of them are just plain nuts.

In the second part of the lecture, we focused on the ideas behind economics. A large part of the section was devoted to the Karl Marx contradiction to capitalism. I like Karl Marx. Not because of his ideals, but because his name sounds like Groucho Marx, and that makes me laugh.

Anyway...

Karl Marx had a strategy, that I will lovingly copy and paste from the Winchester Journalism site, simply because it is pretty concise. Also funny.

WORKER GETS PAID £1 TO PRODUCE A WIDGET

WIDGET SELLS FOR £2 (THE ‘MARKET PRICE’ – ADAM SMITH)

CAPITALIST MAKES £1 PROFITCAPITALIST SPENDS THIS ON THE STATE

CAPITALIST WASTES SOME ON PLATED WIDGETS, TOP HATS, ETC

CAPITALIST INVESTS SOME IN ANOTHER WIDEGET FACTORY
WORKER GOES TO SHOP TO TRY AND BUY A WIDGET

OH DEAR – WIDGETS COST £2. WORKER ONLY GOT £1 (SEE LINE ONE)

WIDGET REMAINS UNSOLD – IT’S A WIDGET CRUNCH

MASS PANICWIDGET FACTORY CLOSES – WIDGET WORKER EVEN MORE ALIENATED

WIDGET WORKER THROWS OFF DELUSIONS

VIOLENT REVOLUTION LED BY LOCAL PSYCHOPATH

CAPITALISTS SHOT DEAD, ETC

END OF CAPITALIST SYSTEM

MASSIVE BOOZE UP/TEMPORARY MOMENT OF MISPLACED OPTIMISM

UNFORTUNATE ANIMAL FARM TYPE SITUATION ENDS BOOZE UP

CAPITALIST SYSTEM RE-ESTABLISHED UNDER ANOTHER NAME

Now we've all had this friday night.

A Quick Reminder

2009-02-16T15:23:00.000-08:00

Evening, Drinkies. After not posting for a while, I feel as though I've let the team down abit, especially since my friend Andrew has bested me in his journalistic ability by posting almost every day, wheras I seem to post once every week. Its not good enough, and rest assured I will be punishing myself severely. I'm not sure how yet, but you can bet it'll involve a whole lot of whips and chains.

And possibly rats. Holy crap, this is scary right?!

Lets move on.

Its recently come to my attention that the BBC website has been doing a very interesting thing, where they put the 5 most-viewed stories of the day on a little chart. How long theyve been doing this for is anyones guess, and im sure the more educated of you out there will know, like the brainiacs you are, and will trump me in a conversation with a mighty "HA" whilst I bow my head in shame and turmoil. Crying will ensue. This (the top five, not the crying) at face value was particuarally interesting, considering the stories involved. It was a real indication of quite how morbidly curious our country (and possibly the world) has become, and how our attention has switched from subjects such as tea, coffee, conversation and knitting a quilt, to the three subjects that all of us read most of all.

Rape, Murder and Child abuse.

It was incredibly twisted. Admittedly, they were shocking stories, and no doubt very important, but with so much going on in todays United Kingdom, the recession, the tax gap, wars, conflicts etc, it seemed weird that the public focused on this. I'm scared of this. It makes me scared. I'm gonna leave this here, because I got off track with a project I'm working on.

CUT SHORT!

Luke Hates You All

2009-02-10T16:16:00.001-08:00

Or at least, according to Aristotle, I should. This information is some that is pondered by scholars and intellectuals, and considering I'm neither, and that right now I'm listening to Warren Zevon, this truth is not so self evident. The barbarian concept put forward by Aristotle suggested that the state should be ruled by enlightened men, indeed men that are Philosopher kings, athletes, politicians, thinkers, rulers, all of which do not describe the current UK administration. Take a look, we are in the middle of one of the biggest recessions in a long time, and we are still engaged in an illegal war. Even the new president of the united states is angry at us, and considering he seems to be quite a nice and generous fellow, perhaps we should think of this as a bad sign.

Still, as has been discussed, our current political system is much better than the Babylonian technique of all powerful emperors, or "God Kings" as they are more commonly know, and personally I believe Cromwell did us a favour by creating a Parliament. Democracy will be something i will always defend, to the point where i am threatened with torture, where i will probably say "alright, I guess totalitarian or monarchy is a better method. Did i mention I'm pure British and not at all a little bit Irish. You don't need to check that..."

I'm not sure that'll hold up in front of a modern day Hitler, with his incredible amount of rage for people who aren't "German". It sure is a shame that didn't work. Boy howdy. I mean, who would have thought people would have not accepted that?! Man, damn.

Personally, I'm for whoever can create a state of equal people and lack of poverty. But that's not going to happen, so in the meantime, I say lets all try the Darwin theory. Everyone who is insubstantial, that is to say, idiotic, in this day and age, will slowly be weaned out like an insufferable noise in a spa, and we will all accept the incredible power of evolution in order to continue the species.

God is dead, as Nietzsche said, but we didn't kill him, he was already dead.

Rock on motherfuckers.

Politics Blog #1

Secondly...more profanity

2009-01-16T17:27:00.001-08:00

What the fuuuuuuuuuuck?!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Osmosis_Jones

For a person who studied biology, this movie is awesome and horrifying for some reason.

Apart from Adrian Lester being replaced...

2009-01-16T17:06:00.000-08:00

Just one thing.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/beinghuman/

Fuck yes.

Re-writes Needed

2009-01-11T18:53:00.000-08:00

I am here once again supply you with a healthy dose of Luke Garratt. It has been a while. Lets all of us look at the TV this season, and applaud stupidity, once again, as though it were the last time. Strap in. Strap in to the ever-crashing car of as-aired television.

Celebrity Big Brother (Channel 4)

What a surprise. Its back and its more innocuous than ever. Children, come crowd around the strangers, as we watch them sleep, eat and drink from their pathetic lives. Well, I say that, but this series seems to have some quite interesting characters. And by interesting, I mean, clowns. From a circus. The startling thing is that the assortment of people in the house actually does represent a circus of sorts, the type of thing you'd find touring around rural french towns in the 1900's. The select members that I have researched on the fantastic medium of THE INTERNET show that as a human being I cannot explain their purpose in life. But I will try my best in the next paragraph or so.

Let's start with with the unflappable ULRIKA JONSSON. The only way I can remember ULRIKA JONSSON is a small episode of a reality show in the vein of a "home makeover show" where children were asked to make amends to their parents houses, with their sticky hands pawing over blueprints of such monstrosities as an "Austin Powers Room". Needless to say, I'm sure these children were murdered. The next candidate is one LUCY PINDER. I believe that she was evicted on DAY 8, and I'm fairly sure this was either her incredibly right-wing politics. Whilst this proved that indeed she did have something in her brain apart from air, unfortunately a secondary conclusion had to be drawn. Imagine an apple...no, imagine an orange, with a shiny peel, it looks appetising, but having been left so long, to stew and ferment, the contents within the shiny husk is nothing but bitter, seed filled, dry pulp. Also, I'm sure that LUCY PINDER cannot be discerned from a pencil with two tits attached in a lineup, and no one wants a lady who looks like a criminal pencil in a lineup. Next up, VERNE TROYER. Simply small. Just so unfeasibly, horrifyingly small that one cannot fathom how he ever came into being.

The deal with the latest series of BIG BROTHER is the deal that's been with every other previous incarnation of the show. I will hate it, as will many of you, but that's just life. There will always be those who love it, and after about 8 years of having prime time ruled by it in the months that its on, the format has rarely ever changed, so the likelihood is, I'll never like it. THE END.

Spooks (BBC One)

Once again THE INTERNET has provided me with more information than I require, but I have decided to write about this program simply because I had three episodes taped that I did not remember that I had taped. Episodes 2, 4 and 8 (the finale) were the only ones available to me, and yet, I think I can say I've seen all I need to. But I crave more. The thing with Spooks is that it's simply different. Different in a way that most audiences would deem "bad" or even "boring". The style of the entire show is different to every spy medium, and I believe for a very simple reason. It doesn't talk down. It doesn't even talk on the level, but it talks up.

It assumes you know all about these protocols within the secret service. An example is the "Total Deniability" protocol, that seems to be laboured and lauded in every spy movie, book or TV show. There is usually a speech and a "God damn it sir, no" but Spooks deals with this sort of thing in a much more professional way, dealing with these little cliches in a concise manner, so that the seem organic and real. Anyway, I love it, Highly recommend it to any of you who have been living in a cave for 6 years, and I want to see more. Of the series, not of the cave.

Demons (ITV 2)

Huuuuuuuuh. Well. Hm. I had trouble with this. The idea behind is that of VAN HELSING (the guy who talked to Dracula for a while before doing...something) and for the most part it does it alright. The cast consists of a child that looks strangely familiar despite very few credentials, a girl who also looks strangely familiar despite the same vices, and Philip Glenister who is forced to do an American accent...for some reason. The show centers around the boy actor, playing "Luke" is the last decedent of VAN HELSING, and he is tasked with saving people with the help of his American godfather, and his not-girlfriend, and a blind girl in...a...big library? Oh for gods sake, its ridiculous. The main arch-villain of the first episode is supposed to be fearsome because of one thing, a nose prosthetic. Is ITV2 saying that we need to kill all those with a prosthetic nose, indeed, all people wearing prosthetics of any kind, as though they are demons from the deep, dark reaches of hell? Perhaps. But more likely, they're saying "Look, ninja kid guys wheeeeeeeee, you too can be a social outcast with supernatural powers!

...Next up, Jordan and Peter: The sodding never ending story. The tits."

Also, Buffy did it already. Idiots.

A Heartbreaking Tale of Staggering Beauty

2008-12-29T15:50:00.000-08:00

As much as I have protested throughout most of my semi-adult teenage life, I am coming much more consciously aware of a desire building in me to write fiction. As a younger man, I abhorred the act of writing fiction, partly due to a principle I had come to refer to as "Midnight Philanthropy". Now as much as this sounds like a strange pseudo electronic-soft rock ballad-type band, (And it was, for three days) I used it as a term for any teenage literature, and in turn, literature that teenagers would commonly associate with "Fantastic Writing". That is to say that many of these works of literary delight very frequently used over-indulgent descriptions. Many people find these metaphors very enjoyable to read, but I, as a twisted misanthrope, simply found them innocuous.

Well, no surprise there then...

An example of such a description is one of my own invention, and it bears mentioning that I vomited twice after writing it. Yeah, think about that motherfuckers.

The moon shone in the lake, the water rippling like the lake was being caressed by several tiny hands, so dainty that they could only embark on a small venture from the shores.

Ugh. You see?
Anyway, I felt as though writing these sorts of things were inherent in writing fiction, so I made a very drastic attempt to stray away from it, only to find that this was a HUGE MISTAKE when I started University. "SHIT," I had briefly considered, as I was told to write something for the next class. "Write what you know" was the advice given to me by a friend, whom I immediately stuck with an open palm, shouting "Don't be so impetuous, the maestro has to WORK!"

Things were bad, and they were going to get worse, fast. I cobbled together a humorous sketch thing about the president, and then a thing about gangsters, pieced together from parts of a horrifying nightmare, but it wasn't enough. Then I thought, "Write what you...know!" shortly followed by; "Luke, you're a genius" and then a fifth of whisky.

It was good advice. I knew being cynical, I had spent most of my teenage years with the perspective of a much older man, about the world being crap and such, and so I knew a lot about misanthropic texts. I perused the words of Bret Ellis, and took in everything about The Great Gatsby. It helped. I liked novels about disenfranchisement, about decay and grit. So I liked writing them. After all, I am a cynic.

Reading this makes me depressed.

That's all from that, the moral of the story is, go do something that was obviously a good idea to start with. "Midnight Philanthropy" is not the only term I had hashed up as a young man, and between rehearsals for the school productions, me and many friends in my secondary school education coined a couple of words that we still use in everyday talk...uh...everyday. Lets dive right in;

Rooney: A person who looks like a chav, acts like a chav, partakes in typical chav-like activities. May indeed be a chav.
e.g. "careful, there's a Rooney coming in the store" or "That Rooney was mental!". Can also be used in the plural sense; "Look at that bunch of Rooneys." (cautionary note: NEVER look at a bunch of Rooneys)
Chough: A person who acts like they are better than everyone else, and takes a much higher stance on things, such as acting more intelligent, or making jokes at other peoples expense, whilst being much less informed and/or intelligent, yet still pursuing the notion that they are better than other people. Choughs tend to run in packs of about three of four, and will have groups of mixed sex. They may also have Demi-Choughs sticking close by, basking in their self serving and egotistical nature. Also, sometimes they can be total fucking douchebags.

There. Hope I've widened up your world just a little more, Friends and/or Colleagues.

Peace out Bitches.

4am Miracle

2008-12-07T19:06:00.000-08:00

Once again, I stand at the precipice of something, edging closer to the darkest depths of darkness. And depth...

Anyway, right now, I am continuing my complete transformation in a complete bat. By which I mean a nocturnal creature. Also I have large, leathery wings, and a tendency to sleep upside down, hanging from a rafter or pole, any strong support really. I stay up late out of guilt for lack of work, and at around 4am, I occasionally experience a phenomena that allows me to do a good bit of work that helps my self-esteem, much like the great Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and his Kubla Khan, or should I say "Kubla Khan, A Vision in a Dream: A fragment. Except I don't use opiates. That's right, I've read a poem, I'm pretty smart by and large. And in great shape, Ladies. Anyway, my dear friends, it seems that this miracle-giving time is upon us again. Also, Christmas.

I couldn't think of a smoother way to segway from writing to Christmas. As a time, my family has had a very mixed view over Christmas. As a son of divorced parents, it was always a very tenuous time of the year, but wherever I was, we always struggled through in some sort of food-induced coma, attempting to tap into the thin veins of cheer contained within the thick layers of grumpusness. (It's not really a word, I made it up)

This year however, I have been feeling incredibly tuned into the Christmas spirit. Not in a clairvoyant or privileged way, but in a "Charlie Brown Christmas" kind of way. That's right friends, I am Linus, and I bring with me the true meaning of Christmas.

Before we all leave for the holidays, a group of my friends and I have decided to have a meal together, with home-cooked food. This might not seem like an original sentiment, but it's a big deal because this is the first time that I have had a Christmas meal with anybody other than family. The majority of these friends met each other less than three months ago, and yet here we are, having a significant meal together as peers, neighbours, colleagues and friends. I do not believe that the true spirit of Christmas lies in presents, or money, or faith, but in a simple conglomeration of people, in a room, even if it's only for an hour or two.

Bringing people together, it's what Christmas is all about, and I'll be damned if people can't see that.

I'm gonna get back to writing now.

Merry Christmas, Friends and Colleagues.
Have a good one.

Science Vs. Art

2008-11-29T10:58:00.001-08:00

Lets make this rock. I like to describe myself as a "Writer". This, as many of you may have probably realised within two seconds, could seem like and incredibly bold statement, given that my writing stature has been severely diminished, because of my lack of posts for a week. However, I believe that my ability to write is somewhat migratory, like a group of sperm whales, which coincidentally are still to this day considered some of the greatest writers in history, producing such works as "Woooaaaaooooowwwwooowwwwwwwooaaaaww: In memorandum" and "Great Expectations" which was eventually adapted into a novel by Charles Dickens, containing now only a few sperm whales, as opposed to a whole cast of the majestic beasts, as humans found the concept of London under the sea inherently confusing. Also because Dickens stole it.

The position of a "Writer" does not grant me access to anything that any ordinary, boring human, could not access, except for beautiful women and pastures of leafy notes. It does not grant me any perspective either, except perhaps maybe sometimes the ability to perceive the ether. Its a strange skill, but I have mastered it. I cannot teach it. For this I am sorry.

This literary tangent that I graced the Internet was mainly the culmination of a desire, building in me, to make myself sound more intelligent than I am. Which is very, people. Very very.
But to swerve off the road of facts and into the by-road of journalistic integrity, I shall make some comment an analysis on some of the news that's been reported lately. So let's news:

Blueberries 'reverse memory loss'

There seems to be something inherently wrong in this sentence. something deeply and horribly wrong. We were all thinking it, Reverse Memory Loss?! How can that happen?! And the catalyst for this particular phenomena, Blueberries, are somewhat of a cheap commodity when compared to say, billion dollar scientific research to the solutions that have not yet succeeded with any particular regularity. As a student, I am familiar with money. Or rather, the lack of such. However, I can recall buying drinks more expensive than blueberries with the intention of causing exactly the opposite effect. However, the plus side to my scenario, is that I do not remember spending the money, so I don't feel sad about it the next day.

The foods, known as flavonoids, were historically believed to act as antioxidants in human bodies.

Hold on. Flavonoids? I've got it guys, Strawberries contain Deliciounoids. Is there any science to see here? Stop talking, there's science to do! Get the potato chunks and test tubes, because we're staying up tonight. I may be injecting a little too much vitriol. It's true that antioxidants are real, it's been proven. And plus, the Actimel ads. 'Nuff said.

Dr Jeremy Spencer, from the department of food biosciences at the university, said: "Scientists have known of the potential health benefits of diets rich in fresh fruits for a long time.

Thanks Spence.

"Our research provides scientific evidence to show that blueberries are good for you and supports the idea that a diet-based approach could potentially be used to increase memory capacity.

So fruit is good for you? Jesus, no wonder I'm constantly ill, and almost dead. I live off of pretzels and coke.

"We will be taking these findings to the next level by investigating the effects of diets rich in flavonoids on individuals suffering from cognitive impairment and possibly Alzheimer's disease."

Well good for you I say, its not often that a scientist will stand up to the world and say "I have a theory! Also, I need money." I hardly think the solution to something as deep and drastic to Alzheimer's is a foodstuff that has been flowing though the digestion systems of humans for a good while now.

Science is always a slightly bitter subject, given my horrendously terrible "Science Years," In which I thought that I was good at a subject I was in fact appalling in. However, I do enjoy scientific facts. Measuring the density of potato mass when soaked in different concentrations of sucrose solution, in order to measure the absorption and diffusion rate between different sorts of potato, however? Not floating my boat.

This is why I am a writer. Because as a writer I can make up ridiculous scenarios, and call it entertainment, without the baggage of proving it.

Ooh, Ya burnt!

Just a quick snippet

2008-11-19T16:34:00.000-08:00

The City of Winchester...

After around two months, I finally feel like I truly live here.

It feels great.

Further Delights

2008-11-19T09:18:00.000-08:00

In keeping with the usual racket, this being the ineptitude of the majority of the student population, with allowance for certain exceptions (like the strange people that write books at the age of 17, about knight-river gods or some other dross), I have left an essay, due in at 3.30pm sharp tommorow, till today. Although I did dissapear off to Starbucks on sunday afternoon to write, and write I did, I still have another 500 words to complete, and my mind is in a mental funk.

I feel as thought the problem may be inherent in the room I live in at the moment, a simple all-purpose room with a sink and a space for shoes, that sort of thing. It feels as though the Chi is being blocked somewhere, or the wai is being clogging im my third chuckra of whatever the particular religion maintains, but this room remains a symbol of my free time, where I may do whatever, a base of operations. This would be true however, if I didn't have a crippling fear of the library. For some reason, the silence in a library makes me very uneasy. I feel as though people are judging the way I breathe or hold a book, and every time I look at someone, I'm afraid that they think im a drunk that is about to go mental. It's a very specific fear, that last one, but I've been told I have that look about me.

So what do I do? I can't work in two areas that are technically specifically designed for working. In all senses, it seems as though I'm buggered. AHA, good sirs, for you see, there is a particular brand of establishment that offers sugary and caffine based goods, and so, it would appear the day is saved. Ah, But I guess it closes at 5. Ah. And the time now is 11. Ah. Well, I suppose I'd better get back to it.

Ah.

Trek Times

2008-11-18T16:26:00.000-08:00

In the last post, the formatting got a little weird. I guess Uhura is only half the woman she used to be...get it? Half?

Ahhhhhh, yes! Classic Comedy.

Dear Diary...

2008-11-18T16:23:00.001-08:00

I am perhaps a little late to this, but I will discuss it nevertheless, after a link!

http://www.apple.com/trailers/paramount/startrek/medium_trailer2.html

I guess it can probably be discerned from the URL that this is a Star Trek conversation. Between me and...me. My father and I had always watched The Next Generation every day, after my school and his work. It was one of the only bonding experiences we had, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. The thing is, whilst I liked the show, it was more the positive memory of spending time with my father. I was never a "Trekker" or whatever, so I wasn't entirely annoyed when BBC2 stopped showing the show, or even when they replaced it with disgusting cooking/foraging shows. But it wasn't until I began to write when I started learning about the various things contained within the franchise. It was always something I liked in small doses afterwards, simply because I did not want to become known as a Trekkie.

Now the trailer of the new movie has been released, and my geekdom that I have spent years burying deep inside me, the geekdom I have tried to destroy with alcohol and mockery of those who revel in the particular brand of fiction, has flared up. I can't help but feel a slight pang of giddy excitement, as my nine year old self sits in front of the TV, knees huddled close to his chest.

However, I have a strong feeling that this coming movie will not just excite the fans. I have an inkling that the style of the movie verges more into a mainstream and casual movie. Whilst it will not fare as well with the common public as much as say, Lord of the Rings, it may prove itself in closing a tiny bit of the gap that separates Star Trek from the public.

Part of this new direction may be the director, J.J. Abrams, doing. Him not being a die hard fan, but a casual follower like myself and others like me might just be the saving grace the franchise needs. Who knows, perhaps, in the way that David Tennant introduced a new doctor that could be loved by the masses, the cast of this movie might earn the respect of those who looked down on the series.

I for one have made a deal with my father to see this movie together when it comes out, and he is happy to have the one experience he shared with his son revitalised and renewed. As I was saying my goodbyes over the phone, my father, referring to this ritual, uttered a single poignant phrase before hanging up.

"Luke, we started this together, Lets finish it together."

I couldn't have said it any better.

Monday Night Live

2008-11-17T10:31:00.000-08:00

Today, Instead of the usual poignant discussions I present about hair styles, camping in fields, and Star Trek, I have decided to go into a more political direction, to see if I can match a classmate in up-to-date political discussions. The answer will be no. I am undoubtedly a different style of writer, and whilst this person is great at giving opinions about current events, I seem to be more of a laugh-and-smiles type person. I have always been this way. Its pretty much my default position, and that can't be helped, much to the chagrin of many of my peers. Using the BBC ticker at the top of my screen, which constantly rotates at an alarming speed, I have found a story that I could relate to on a personal note, so here we go, down the rabbit hole, uh...Dorothy.

There were only 90 children permanently excluded from school for bullying last year in England, according to figures released by the Conservatives.

Shadow Children's Secretary Michael Gove questioned why "just a handful" of permanent exclusions had been imposed.

There were 6,800 children who received temporary exclusions for bullying.

"The victims of bullying shouldn't have to put up with seeing their tormentors stroll back into the classroom after a few days away from school," he said.

The permanent exclusions for bullying - 80 in secondary and 10 in primary school - were fewer in number than the 2,700 permanent exclusions for disruptive behaviour, 210 for theft, 400 for drug or alcohol use, 140 for sexual misconduct, 980 for assaulting an adult and 1,350 for assaulting a pupil.

The number of permanent exclusions for bullying has fallen in recent years - down from 150 in 2003-04 and 130 in 2004-05. The number of temporary exclusions for bullying for these years were 6,750 and 7,680. - Source: BBC News Website, Education...

Now that's a lot of data to chew through, and I have no option to chew it like a tough piece of gristly steak if I am to truly ascertain what exactly is the issue. Undoubtedly bullying is a huge problem. Many, many children are bullied each year, and yet it still continues, like malaria. Although you can protect yourself, there will never truly be a cure.

As a boy, aged 12 or so, I was supposedly "Bullied". However, I never felt as though the acts that had transpired would qualify as such, as I was unwilling to make any form of complaint. That, as I had deduced, would simply anger these cretins more, and in turn cause them to make my life increasingly miserable. I genuinely subscribed to the "If I leave a problem, It will eventually go away" train of thought. This turned out to be a mistake, as whilst the problem did not increase, it became a staple of my early secondary education. Much like visiting the dentist or taking a test. It happened, I let it happen, and so it continued. My self esteem was destroyed, and I simply thought it would never end, so I didn't react. The monotony of mockery and persecution of a person clearly became unbearable to my collection of angry and abusive people, and so they left me alone. Like a desert storm, it was gone as quick as it came.

So what could I do, but observe the next generation, with curiosity and new found vigour? I started to learn more about the bullies behavior, and their migratory habits. This moment was crucial, as the moment in history where, shock and awe, bullying became a major issue. I assume before it was tolerated in schools, because the adults were simply too old and tired to deal with the immediate problem. Before this initiative, the problem solving technique they so lovingly pushed upon us, was to put the victim (me) and my bully (lets call him Trog) in a room together, and have us "talk out our differences". Now I'm not sure if the name Trog, or the fact that Trog looked like he had lived most of his life on the underside of a city bus were any indication, but Trog wasn't the most verbal of people. The entire time was spent with Trog alternating between verbal abuse and small amounts of physical pain, the kind you get when you hit someone with a ruler. Say what you want about Trog, but he had time management skills.

The new method was more of a targeting aid than a preventative measure, with the famous blue pieces of plastic endorsed by celebrities being all the rage as a form of silent protest, as though one day all the victims would line up in a row, their fists raised, their eyes unblinking, as the bully could do nothing but utter "There, but for the grace of God" and flee into the hills. Remember these?

Yes Bono, I'm sure that you were bullied, in between banging groupies and making a fuck ton of money. Now crawl back to your cavern, you ignorant tool.

The bands were a part of a radical movement to stop the bullies. I myself thought about aligning myself with this charity, as a show of support for my brethren who had been attacked after me. But then I thought about it in the same way I would think about tying soap to my feet and trying to slide across a bed of nails, it just wasn't going to work, and it would end with pain.

Ive been slightly out of the loop when it comes to the "Great Bullying Plague" but then again, Its been almost 5 years since I was bullied, and I have been quite occupied with growing a pair and learning how to make jokes to get myself out of sticky situations, so I haven't really cared that much. It happened to me and I forgot it.

The solution to bullying does lie in excluding the bastards. When someone leads what I can only refer to as a campaign against you, the last thing you want is a teacher, or some other adult, telling you its "because they're jealous" or that "they want to be friends and they don't know how." If they don't know how to distinguish a handshake from fast moving closed fist, then not having friends is the least of their problems, and no amount of teaching is going to sway them into the paths of academia, so the best thing for them is to be expelled.

The sort of people who bully are vindictive and wry. I say this in the sense that, they know how to work the system. They know that the road to a life without school is to be a complete jerk. They know how to get exactly what they want in life, which is easy street, and they know that they will get it. All I am suggesting is that they should get there as soon as possible, because perhaps then their innocent peers don't have to be abused in the process.

This got incredibly serious, so I think I'm going to end with a classic icebreaker joke.

"A man with a duck on his head walks into a doctors office. The doctor says, 'what can I do or you?', and the duck says 'Doc, can you get this guy off my ass?"

Classic comedy. Tell your friends.

Something Reading this way Comes

2008-11-16T10:45:00.000-08:00

This week in Luke…that sounds strange, let’s try another one. This Sunday, I will discuss…That’s pretentious. Balls to it, I’m just going to jump right in.

I, like many other participants of the food basket of England, attended the holy sanctum of current auditory delights, the Western Woodstock, the Musical Mire; Reading Festival. This was my first attendance to a festival of any kind, unless you consider the Bristol Comic Convention a festival. Which I do not. On any account. And if you disagree, you are no doubt a fucking nerd.

Anyway, as it was the first time I had been graced with the pleasure of camping in a surrounding of filth, I naturally had to keep my un-judging eyes open, for any and all things I could grab, and pin down with tiny strings, in a sort of giant Gulliver of delights, to remember forever and ever. And thankfully, in this conglomeration of the great unwashed, I found many things that I enjoyed greatly, so thankfully my collection of tiny harpoons and rope did not go unused. A list of major things has often been used in English culture to display how fantastic and brilliant things are. Pro’s and Con’s are an American phenomena, and because I like American television better right now, I shall use the Yankee method of listing things. Here we go people, strap in tight.

Pros:

People. Many of the participants of this unholy union between man and sound seem friendly. They smile and wave, and occasionally, request if you would simply like a free hug. Although the last point was displeasing to me in its entirety, having never really felt the desire to wrap my arms around a filthy semi-naked man, I felt as though it was nice to have the option. In the same way that it is nice to have the option of squid offered to me at a restaurant, even though I will never eat it. Even the drug dealers are friendly. They chat with the patrons of the many bars, and even chat nicely with people terrified of their grizzled, unshaven complexion, such as myself. Even though it is hard to talk to a man who seems to be eight different shades of green, and has a distinct musk of vomit and alcohol on his mottled and stained hemp fleece, his voice is soothing and smooth, and allows me to overcome the intense desire to run away. When a person stamps on your head when you are knocked down, or spills his two star curry over your shirt, he or she will apologise with gusto, offering you rewards for not getting angry. This leads me nicely onto…

Food. Never in my life have I tasted such food. It is strange to experience. Your body can tell the food is substandard. You can tell there are parasites embedded in the very material used to package the falafel wrap. And you can see that the man serving you is not clean, you wouldn’t expect him to be. He has been working in a filthy shack surrounded by mud and disease. But you simply have no other choice. And you wouldn’t want another choice, because the majority of the food, apart from the burger that is clearly a by-product of crude oil, is delicious. The only downside is the price. It is hard to explain in any other way than this: Investment. And money will not grow from it, but other things. For it is made from bio-culture.

Music. This is really a no-brainer, so let’s make it into a brainer. Music is a collection of “sounds”, formed into a distinctive and planned melody. Sound is a form of energy that moves through air, water, and other matter, in waves of pressure. Sound is the means of auditory communication, including frog calls, bird songs and spoken language. Although the ear is the vertebrate sense organ that recognizes sound, it is the brain and central nervous system that "hears". Sound waves are perceived by the brain through the firing of nerve cells in the auditory portion of the central nervous system. The ear changes sound pressure waves from the outside world into a signal of nerve impulses sent to the brain. But no one wants to hear about that. The music is good. I went to Reading; all excited about hearing one or two bands play. But my main reason for going there was to expand my musical culture. And I did, mission successful, but in a very different way to the plan I had. My plan was to see the mainstream, and figure out which ones I liked. However, my time was mainly spent inside the “Punk” tent. This area is usually filled with people who are begging to attack something, anything, to prove that they are more of a primal human being than the person next to them. I remained unperturbed. I focused my attention on the music, and now I have an increased musical knowledge. It was a good day for me and all of my unborn larvae.

Drugs and Alcohol (which is another type of drug). This is a sticky subject, and must be approached with caution. The fact that I was eighteen was certainly a blessing, because from what I could see, whilst many, many, many, drugs were readily available, with chants of “Drugs for sale” floating around the festival like migratory birds, alcohol was not so accessible. It seems ridiculous that at an event known for reckless, but thoroughly entertaining, hedonism, that one could have trouble finding even a snifter of the worst backwater-piss cider anywhere, but this was a very big problem with members of my friendship group. And being offered sips of a “bag of wine” from a person mildly resembling a fairy-tale troll, I could only wrinkle my nose in disgust and back away slowly. There are very few lines I will not cross, but I remain vigilant in my attempts not to cross them. This whole paragraph may seem like a Con, but the fact is, I have been complaining about the lack of alcohol. When you can find the noxious stuff, and drink it with gusto, it is incredible, and you are incredible for doing it.

Cons

Filth. I need only tell one story regarding this subject, and I will have explained my point. Toilets are good. They stop us from shitting in the woods, or in small patches of high grass, like disgusting animals. However, this concept is only vague in the minds of the Reading Festival organisers, like a waif, flitting around in a haze of smoke. The product of these fevered minds is simply a skip. With around 10 to 15 cubicles thrown on the top. People would go into these shacks, wearing little more than underwear and “flip-flops”. And yet, the ironic thing is that the human beings cleaning the cess pool were wearing what I can only describe as Haz-Mat suits. It was incredible.

Wasps. Fucking wasps. Think they can do whatever the fuck they want. Coat your tent with some insect repellent, or spray the little fuckers with it, and then they’ll see what’s what. Assholes.

People. Now whilst this was a pro, there are also those who have this undeniable urge to destroy everything you once held dear, whilst terrifying you beyond your imagination. Being pelted with mud clots, I can take that, I went to comprehensive school, and I lived in Somerset, it was practically a pastime. But imagine, towards the hours of the early morning, taking a stroll over the vast grounds that encompass the Reading Festival, and hearing the sound of drums. You look around, perhaps it is in your head, or perhaps it is something darker. Then imagine turning round the corner to see the shattered wreck of a toilet. Not only this, but a deep and roaring flame bursting forth from it, twisting and turning, in a way that could only be described as possessed. And atop this mighty throne of twisted metal and flame, many young men and women, with tattered clothes, shout, almost musically. They hit the remains of this toilet, with other pieces of the toilet, ripped with their bare hands, in such a way that can only be described as warlike. The noxious fumes rise, and the sky turns a sickening purple, as if God himself is rolling in pain and anguish at what he has wrought.

All things considered, Reading was pretty great. I would go again, and so should you. I mean, for the first time. Unless you have been, in which case it’s again. It is sad to end this piece so abruptly, but I’m going to. So there.

Hair Matters

2008-11-14T18:39:00.000-08:00

edit: This post starts on a personal and cosmetic note, and then it verges into something completely different. For this I am truly sorry.

The top of my head has always been a problem to me. More specifically, the things growing on it. It sounds gross, but you all have it, and you're going to have to live with it. It's called hair, and it's changing the world.

My hair has always been a problem to me. Whether I am attempting to stay warm, or look cool (ahahaha, pun right guys? It's funny right? Right?!) its never really looked out for me. I have no idea why, and I never have, but for some reason its just not a good part of my body. Its like a mattress if its left to grow, and like a scrubber brush if cut, and there seems to be no middle ground. Also, the colour is a distasteful shade of brown, and it seems to be unnaturally thick, of which both traits have been inherited from my father's side of the family. Perhaps it is my destiny to go old and grey, sitting at a desk with my in and out tray feeling constant flow, but maybe one day, I will say "No more!" and get my hair cut a proper way. We can but see. And this is an incredibly short post, which, in all honesty, is frankly unacceptable. So I will continue with a passage from Fyodor Dostoyevsky's novel; The House of The Dead:

'Stop snivelling, you've spilt you're vodka!'

Wow! Powerful stuff right?! You can just see all the emotion and culture flooding out of every letter and description! The book practically oozes the typical Dostoyevsky charm. That is to say, charm involving prison people. Prison people who are all wacky and distinctly Russian. I am not complaining, this is a good thing, but one might read this immediately after reading Crime and Punishment and think 'Hold on a minute!'

That is really all, until they look up the beloved author on Wikipedia, and find out that a bunch of his stuff doesn't take place within the gritty pre-communism Russia legal system. Wacky, huh?!
I love his books. And I'm not saying that to look smart, because to be quite honest, wading through it was one of the hardest things I've ever done. It tested my concentration and my ability to cope with long stretches of musings of old-lady murder. But I feel stronger from it.

Oh...Crap, I forgot Notes from the Underground.

My bad guys!

Cinema means Cinebucks

2008-11-12T12:00:00.000-08:00

I finally just finished watching a movie that I have been wanting to watch for a year now, and I shall explain to you why this transgression is so severe. My hometown, Yeovil (also known as Yeo-Vale, Yobville, Chav capital of the South-West, and briefly, YhauVaille) has a large cinema, something called a Cine-world, which I am led to believe is a term that describes its vast, worldly opportunities that are within, provided you are seeking opportunities of a "Cinefilm" nature.

Despite this glorious title, they have the tendency to cater to an audience that seems to appreciate...hm, the less intelligent things in life. That is to say that the Movie Movie franchise (those godawful parodies), and the regular bouts of gornography, are shown for months, due to the fact that the audience laps all of them up with eager tongues. That sounds a little weird. Anyway, all of the great films that are not at all intellectual, god forbid, but have a certain something that makes them better than the dirge that is churned out every month, and yet they do not remain on the screens for a very long time.

For example, the film 3:10 to Yuma, an overall great movie, with great writing, and engrossing actors, was in the cinema for a total of three fucking days. Now I'm not usually that surprised by mass stupidity, but that is goddamn ridiculous. The same thing happened a period of time later, with The Mist, a movie that was frankly brilliant, albeit slightly demeaning for all of those religious fanatics out there, was never out, despite the fact that they would have got phat moneys! It's this sort of ridiculousness that made me want to move away, so move away I did, to the undoubtedly greener pastures of Winchester, and in all its finery, but what do I find there, but the fact that they're still showing Mama Mia without Mama Mercy, in order to make Mama Money from all the Mama...students.

All this shows is that everyone in the cinema running business is officially batshit loco and that I am the only sane person in the whole city. Although this might be exaggerating things a bit.

May you be thrown from the Casket...

2008-11-12T04:49:00.000-08:00

Death is always something that has fascinated me, and terrified me, in roughly equal proportions. Much like my seeming inability to cry, and I'm sure that, far in the future, when I die of some drug/alcohol/exercise overdose, one will follow the other closely. But without poking the large and scary figure standing behind everyone, y'know, the guy with the pointy stick and the dress, I would like to think that my death will not happen for a long time. Or at least until I finish university, because then what will my parents say at my funeral, apart from "He wasted my money in his final days"? And no one wants to hear that. I mean, it's pretty demoralising for all involved.

Like any human being, you would think that I would have no idea what comes after death, but after much thought and musing, I can honestly say that to find the answer, you must first consider cereal. Before you become disgusted, revolted and start to erect an effigy of me, to burn in the name of your chose deity, consider the mystery that is cereal. Cereal is almost a completely new idea. It came out of nowhere. In the 19th century, some person, named after a make of cereal, decided that if he ground up some things and added some noxious chemicals, and then milk, he could make a delicious breakfast snack. Where did he get this idea? It could only have been divine intervention. Which in turn shows the existance of a God of some sorts, which in turn, means heaven. I may be jumping the gun on this one. I don't want to be a fanatic. I am not Ms. Carmody, I cannot stress that enough.

Anyhoo, I remain pretty uncertain as to what happens after life. I am also quite uncertain towards the existance of God. And not knowing both of those things makes me quite happy.

Luke keeps his promise

2008-11-11T15:21:00.000-08:00

The first world war was terrible. On that note, let's move onto terrible things, such as the recent credit crisis, also known as a "crunch" or an "act" or a "momentary lapse of consciousness, leading to a crisis." The last headline was by an inexperienced newsman, and as such, he was given the chance to prove himself. Needless to say, he probably failed.

As as student of journalism, I am somewhat clued up on current events. Although I almost always buy two papers a day. I cannot bring myself to read the second all the way through, as it is the Daily mail, and I feel that if I do I will be tainted. However, the papers remain bunched up in my corner, holed like moles in the ground, or by a vegetable patch, emitting a strange, ethereal smell, that cannot possibly originate solely in this world. Perhaps it derives its dark texts in another dimension. If anything is sure, it is that we will never know.

The credit crisis however, is something that still alludes me in the sense that I don't know what the hell most people are saying. I know that banks gave too much money out. And I know that for some reason, the government bailed those people out. Now presumably these people landing too much money are the best of the best in their field...money. And so they should know when it is a "little risky" to lend it out. So why do it. I feel all this could have been avoided. Then perhaps (and this is probably most likely) I have no idea, having had no economic training whatsoever. BUT. I still know that at this particular moment in time, it does not affect me. As far as I know. I'm afraid that it has. What if it has?! Am i losing money?! Am I right now losing money? Oh Christ. This is exactly the sort of thing I don't need! Although I'm fairly sure my father will refer to it as a life lesson. Like everything else bad that's happened to me...

Goodnight.

The Relationships between Otherworldly Forces and Chronic Procrastination

2008-11-11T11:09:00.000-08:00

My Internet collection of insane works has been somewhat neglected, and I am to blame. Many analysts have been collating information on this lax of public service, and all of them have agreed that the source is either me being a distracted late-adolescent, or simply cosmic forces guiding my every move. Or is it the third option, that I simply have become too famous to continue such a paltry exercise. No. All the analysts agree that it is most likely that I am a distracted adolescent.

But then again, the term analyst is described in the Pocket Oxford Dictionary, 2008 Edition as someone who;

"1. Analyses in detail"
and;
"2. Psychoanalyses"
and finally;
"3. Harbours a deep seated hatred for all writers"

So, concluseively, the worlds sharpest minds are effectively out to get me. But then again, the term "Analyst" has the word "Anal" at its peak, which frankly, cannot be ignored.

A fourth reason, that I have just thought of, which could in fact be considered option 2b, due to it's undeniably cosmic nature, is that the on the eve of my most successful post, entitled "With a little help from my friends..." which gained over 1 reader(s), I immediatly became disenfranchised with the concept, that is, until tonight, the 11th of the 11th, out of which both numbers contain a 1. Coincidence?!

I have just thought of something again (an occurance that disturbs me greatly), option 2b, could also be considered option 3b, due to the aspect alluding to fame, and its various connotations.

I resolve, as an early resolution, to resolve to change my solution to my problem, which is in fact the solution the the revilement I hold myself entrapped in. I shall, write more often.

Goodnight.

With a little help from my friends...

2008-10-28T03:53:00.000-07:00

I can engage in illegal substances. That's what the Beatles were teaching us, with their criminal ways.
A lot of things are changing still, and its rather weird, considering the schedule I'm supposed to keep. Today for example, I found out that I can wake up at 9.30am and still type coherently. Its a skill I intend to master, as well as the art of going to bed a little earlier than 4am. Apparently more sleep is good for you, who knew?!

I have always been a creature of habit, an many of these habits are not particularly the cutesy little niggles that you would want to share with a partner, that is until you have trapped them in the interminable shackles of wedlock, then you can feel free to go nuts. A habit, like I said, of going to bed at 4am. This is not a good thing to do. At 4am, something strange happens, your mind deceives itself, making you think that keeping the eyes open, and watching songs from pop-culture musicals is a good thing. It is not. It is a very bad thing. Not only that, but you are also tricked into thinking that you are on the verge of doing work, but are merely taking a break, and you'll get "right down to it" after the next act. It's a deceptive scenario, with a vile aftertaste that often makes me wash my mouth, just to rid myself of the taste of sulphur.

Moral of the story, get off the Internet, and read. Right now, law for journalists. Kick ass. Lets, um, read this...mother?

Okay, I can't street talk.

Fast Times at Internet High

2008-10-05T21:04:00.000-07:00

After taking a break, as I often do, from the busy life of surfing the Internet, waiting for something more interesting to blast into my life, like a space-age Napoleon on a unicorn, I tried something a little different. I've been meaning to shop for clothes for a while now, and the fact that I ran out of clothes within two weeks of not washing them sort of shows that I'm running a bit short, and that perhaps I should take out some of the billions of dollars in equity funds (lies) and dole out some cash on something to make me look a little snazzy. However, being the interminable excuse for a man that I am, I was not alive enough, being racked with the fabled "freshers flu" at the time, and so I turned to a whole new kettle of fish. The realm of Internet Shopping. (dun dun duuuuuun, dramatic exposition)

Okay, you all saw it coming.

Well anyway, the whole experience, as horrible and frightening as it was can roughly be summed up in one not-at-all made up anagram; REAL. Really Expensive And Languid.

Okay, its a little forced, but the point I'm trying laboriously to unearth is that the system that many mainstream stores use to buy clothes and other items is fundamentally flawed, or, in more succinct terms, bollocks. I should not have to write my card number four thousand times in about four thousand different combinations that would put the maker of the enigma code to shame, although lets face it, working with the Nazis should be shame enough, and to be fair, he probably had a lot on his plate, but I digress.

Another issue is the newsletter. Unless I sign up for a bi-centennial-quarterly-week newsletter, I am denied access to the very items I have paid for. Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for subtle advertising, and I sometimes even have a modest interest in a passing billboard as I streak past it in my fast car with all the female movie stars inside, but this all seems a little forward. It's kinda like when someone asks if you would like to donate to charity in the street, and you guiltily oblige, only to find that you have to sign a contract and supply three forms of I.D and a sperm sample to prove you aren't going to out-fox the dolphins.

Well, it's probably not like that, but in any case that's forking annoying.

I guess I can't really complain about the whole system though. Considering all the progress we have made in the matter of computers in the last twenty years, it's unsurprising that a shop consisting entirely of robots would have a few glitches, and of course it could just be me being a giant idiot and not knowing which number is the card number.

And all I wanted to buy was a tie, and you cant really rely on places like Topman for that, because if you re going for the whole tie and shirt look, and you're shopping in Topman for that sort of thing, the likelihood is you'll end up looking like a new-age fluorescent cockney Emo twit, at which point you'll have gone too far up your own arse to qualify for a student rail card, so I suppose the whole experience was worth it in its own special way.

Safely walk to school without a sound

First Impressions (Of the best time ever)

2008-09-28T10:47:00.000-07:00

In the way that a prehistoric animal might peek its head out of the putrid primordial ooze, blinking in the harsh sun, I have risen up from the teachings of many a large, totemic mystic* to grace a university with my presence. And again, like the humble sea slug from which all life is descended, the first question on my mind, on any one's mind in this sort of situation, "What, dear world, can I eat."

Of course, for starers, I sampled the wide range of culinary delights that came from the back of a moped. Pizza supplied by a caveman, with the term "personal" apparently meaning "leftovers". A fact that I would have no quarrel with, were it not for the fact that the main ingredient seems to be LSD. Yes my friends, Lucy in the sky with diamonds. That's why it tastes so good. Its batter, cheese, tomato paste and nothing more than a little LSD. That's why you're tasting delights. Anyway, the main concern from leaving home has been the incredible over-abundance of adverts. I have enough to cover my wall. Which would be good if my subjects were the absolute luxury of fast food, but its not.

Its not helpful at all. Mainly a hindrance. About half way through, if you were observant, you may have discovered that I was typing drunk. I did this because I am a student, and because, for the sake of journalism, i decided to show the authentic experience. This is, primarily, being legless, and making jokes which aren't funny. This isn't me. This is a carefree student. Who can't wait to be drunk, and considers time not drunk, as time wasted.

Oh wait.

I guess that is me.

I am an idiot student.

I mean...carefree student.

I am...I am ashamed.

Well you know, We all want to change the world

*Professers

The Fightin' Irish

2008-05-27T16:02:00.001-07:00

Although not specifically about the Irish populace, of which I have the horrible, horrible honor of being decended, I feel I must relate occurances that have happened to me, because, well, I guess both you and I have nothing better to do.

Try and deny it, but you're readin'.

I never knew that a certain joke was such a devastating reality, in the respect that it could shatter worlds like glass, and puncture dreams like tyres. Tyres being punctured. Not tyres puncturing things.

You got it.

A common joke is often:

"Guffaw, Star Trek is so sought after by nerds its practically a religion"

The reality is, It is a goddam religion.

At least, in the sense that the nerds defend as such.

When someone starts waving knowledge about vulcan mating rituals in your face, you know you have to get out of there as fast as you fossibly can, because that Star Trek motherfucker will destroy your soul, and erase any useful information you had in your brain, and replace it with pure Spock.

I know people are going to say "But Luke, you like Star Trek", and its true, to the degree that I will watch it, and enjoy it in a way that I will sit back and think "that was an programme with good things".

However, I am not devoted to the point that I believe that fans need their own goddam food.

That would be the stupidest suggestion.

My typical reaction is to avoid such people, but lest the situation be unavoidable, I will be forced to take action. No more will a Star Trek enthusiast destroy me on an internet forum. Especially since Its the only forum I take place on, (I think they are stupid) and im using to apparently "make friends" (Its that univesity one).

My blood boils. And not for the usual reasons. Because I stopped eating red meat and full fat cream as a meal.

I stopped hardcore.

-Peace-

He got joo joo eyeballs?

A break from Standard

2008-05-27T16:00:00.000-07:00

Its come to my attention that I dislike something.

And, more often than not, when this fatal occurance happens, I am cast away like a piece of pesky litter that has been bothering the caster somewhat for what seems like weeks, but may be days.

The dislike has spurned me to break my promised hiatus to let everyone know, and possibly hate me for it. I dont mind. The haters are probably just angry people.

Angry, maleficant people. My hatred for a certain time of year, or even period of time is about to become what is known in "the business" as "public knowledge".

This shit just got mainstream.

I have a great amount of hate for the space of time known as "study leave".

There you go, I said it! I got it out there! Im insane and theres nothing you can do!

But I have to think, as is my way, that the vitriol I hold towards study leave is born of my own personal vices. This being my incredible talent for doing no work, and still feeling justified.

This is greatly provoked by the other talent i possess, which remains entrapped in my personality despite the recent appearance of brain-chemistry altering items, which is the incredible skill to promise myself a day of work, then continue to promise myself, even though the day is rapidly dissapearing.

I think that the only reason I do not work during this time is because of a lack of deadlines. I work to times allocated to work. I work when working time is designated, not just sprayed around like too much orange juice, and the result being a burden, in respect of cleaning the orange juice away, because its sticky, and hard to lift. Like many citrus fruits.

Im really thirsty.

This problem I have is probably rooted in all of the others, and I think im really wrong. Im aware that today is a bank holiday, and that it is half term this week, so I shouldnt be complainin', but im still angry at a hypothetical situation.

Its stuff like this, isnt it?
Its stuff like this thats making me not work.

Well, you're...just...hm.

Im...
...Im gonna get back to work.

-Peace-

'Cos you'll only end up picking up nickels and dimes.

Yoko?!

2008-04-24T14:42:00.000-07:00

Where has the test gone?! we were all okay yesterday, and now its gone! I need to complete the test for next week!

Why'd it have to go, I dont know, it wouldnt say.
I said something wrong,
Now I long for yesterday-ay-ay-ay.

I guess the love affair is over.

I thought we could work it out, I mean, all you need is love. Its not like you need anything else...

Dont judge me. I can lace my things with whatever I want.

Shut up.

Penny Lane.

I never give you my number...

2008-04-24T14:24:00.001-07:00

I am unhealthy. In fact, the previous statement is somewhat of an understatement. I am extremely, indulgently, to the point of riskiness, unhealthy.

Its risky.
Risky business.

You dont want to ne CEO of that company...

I have certain touchstones in the respect of dietary requirements. Engorgement would be a word, but somehow I feel it would be somewhat enobling the process with a three syllable word, when I can describe myself with a single, monosyllabic adjective.
Gross pig.
Okay, that was two, but nevertheless, my point stands true, with definite concerns being present in my eating habits. Heart attacks, mostly, but instead I would like to examine the psychological process behind the whole pre-eating situation. My brain thinks, "I have money. This is new, hey, fancy.
What can I buy? What dont I need?"

The two questions are extremely closely linked, probably to the point where if I were to learn how ven-diagrams work, and make one between these two questions, there would be a sure-fire crossover.
However, the latter seems to be somewhat subconscious, with the answer arguably being; "Food. Lots and lots of food.
Put on weiiiiiiight"

And, expectantly, I cant take it. 3 cans of red bull have made me both unfit and scared for my life, as my heart stands on the cusp of defeat.

Ah well. One can only hope that I do not die. From food. Which can happen. Ive seen it on 't telly.

Even though I weigh...(intermission as I go weigh myself)...11 & 1/2 stone.

Water weight?!
Shoes?!

I mean its heavier than the last time I measured myself. Admittedly that was 2005. But still. Its bad. Or nothing to worry about. nothing to worry about. nothing to worry about.

Oh Goats cheese sandwich, You shall be my downfall.

This is a slight anticlimax...

Youve been a great audience!

The Immortal Revelation.

2008-04-11T11:34:00.000-07:00

The last few posts seem somewhat disjointed. This is because they are. They are in reverse. When I write, I forget to actually put the blog posts in the blog. Im silly like that.

So forgive me. Or, if youre an atheist, Deny your maker! Both Options are fun!

These things are Silly

2008-04-11T11:33:00.001-07:00

Okay, so im not quite on the latter once again, more on a sporadic basis, when my craziness appears to be at its peak. Which is almost never. Rest assured, I am fit and healthy. However, tommorow, its operation time. Probably why i cant sleep, and its actually tommorow instead of the day after thus. Im worried, im scared, and I know im only going under for a couple of hours, but the last few days have been nothing but bad. The weekend of exuberance and relative hedonism served as an excellent culture shock, showing me that right now, in sleepy Somerset, I may be wasting away my greatest years. That is not to say that i do not like it here, and that I do not love my friends and family dearly, with all the love my tiny, blackened coal of a heart can possibly give, because that is simply not the case. All i know is that it is time for a change.

Its time for me to move on and start growing up. No more of this "being able to do stuff but not really". It doesnt suit me. I daresay that when I reach 18, nothing will have changed, and that I will still be the bitter grumpus that I am now, but my resolve to truly meet the life I want will be stronger.

It seems that after the weekend, and my happy times, the heavens decided to take a dump on yours truly with several mishaps that will scar me for life.

1. Being robbed by a person I will never meet, and feeling endangered by every corner of the internet henceforth.

2. Seeing a man flatline whilst I was meant to be taking the man in the bed opposite down for an X-ray.

3. Having all emotive thoughts pushed out of me for an unknown period of time, due to a horrible sight that i will never recover from.

4.

Having the showers turn cold every time i stepped in them for two days

You guessed it, 2 & 3 were at the hospital. They were medically related. It is no surprise that my reality has been shaken by these events. I cannot tell, when thinking about it, wether this is divine intervention, or mere coincidence. Perhaps it is Karma, that after a good weekend, I get loaded with a load of unpleasant things, to event the universe out. Perhaps God, or another deity, is structuring my life to meet these events, in order to show me my own mortality and to make a difference in my life. Perhaps its just one big hoo ha, that im blowing up. Making a mountain out of several horrible, horrible molehills.

Am I supposed to believe in God after this, or disbelieve in him? Am I supposed to start following Karma? Am I being punished for something, or is this a truly important divine lesson, telling me I need to shape up?

It would seem that I have some serious thinking to do.

And because I cant sleep, I have plenty of time to do it.

I guess thats one for the "pro-God" collumn.

Pharmocology

2008-04-11T11:32:00.001-07:00

Whenever I feel edgy, or on the verge of panic, or lonely or insecure, Ill just have to accept that its the painkillers. And not my overpowering sense of prospective failure.

OR, that im crazy.

Both are great.

Both pretty much get the job done.

Undeniable Proof

2008-04-11T11:30:00.002-07:00

I am not a scientist. I am not full of logic. I am a funny man. That is my profession. This is my dream. Ridiculousness with seriousness. This is my aspiration.

The proof is that when i read the paper, and read about the terrible recession that is looming over our fair post-post-empiric state, all I can think of is mission impossible.

I mean, IMF? Really?

I mean, I dont even watch the show...

Psychobabble in Prose

2008-04-11T11:30:00.001-07:00

Apparently myspace knows me better than I know myself. I mean, why else would it offer up its diagnosis for a condition that i deemed essentially superfluous in the general population.

I am referring to a post I made what seems like aeons ago about depression and its place in society with the "dixie chicks" and "fancy lads" or whatever the kidz are calling eachother these days. But now, myspace seems to have deemed me, like a psychologist being commited for stockholm syndrome, depressed myself.

Well now, thats it. I have no option but to be incredibly down and low at all times. So much for listening to happy music, no more hedonistic tirades, its all over for me.

Now all i can do is complain.

Hippies.

Love Y'all