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The crystal chandelier shatters. I can’t say I wasn’t expecting it. I was. But you can’t expect people to believe you if you don’t make a show.
There’s a moment of hesitation, you can tell everyone stops breathing-it’s like, what’s wrong with this picture here?-because in their minds the gun isn’t perfectly real yet, it’s a glaring discontinuity, something that doesn’t belong. I don’t belong, but they don’t know that. Yet. They think I belong and the gun’s the thing that’s foreign. Nothing fits their expectations.
It’s sunny and brilliant outside, everyone’s happy, love is in the air, or at least lust, and these people can’t understand why is there this perfectly normal woman standing in the middle of the hotel lobby with a gun in her hands. They’re thinking, does she even know how to use a gun? They’re wondering, is this a joke? Then they’re thinking, I thought crazy people were supposed to look different.
Seventeen people in the room; eleven men and six women. Ages spanning sixty years.
I close my eyes a blink and feel the unwieldy realism of the thing in my hands. In my mind I can hear the string section of an orchestra laying out the sinister form of a jagged crescendo, a soundtrack of innuendo. The gun’s the only part of me that’s real. Everything else is just part of a long list of details that may or may not be factually accurate. Meaningless, more or less.
I feel like I should be in a bank, or a diamond store, or someplace else. But instead I’m here.
Some simpering jackass in a crisp black suit says, “what do you want,” his lower lip quivering. He works here, I think. A loyal hotel employee. He wants me to make demands so we can all just play nice and then go home.
“Who do you think you are?” asks someone else-a staunch hero-type-in a quiet, arrogant sort of way. There’s a sense of calm entitlement in a voice, like he feels he deserves an answer.
“I think I am Gwenfrewi Jaussi,” I say.
“Oh,” replies Mr. Staunch Hero-type. Maybe he recognizes my name from somewhere, or maybe he just realizes that I’m not going to play his power games. I’m in charge here.
I have six bullets left. Or is it five? Either way, there are a set number of bullets between me and losing control. Because I will lose control, eventually. Everyone loses control sometime. Now I have it. Maybe you will later. It’s hard to say. I can’t help but notice, I’m losing control. Bullet by bullet, I’m losing control.

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(2000) dir. Wim Wenders - with Milla Jovovich, Jeremy Davies, Mel Gibson, etc.

Review: Hard to describe. I was bored the first thirty minutes, and then realized I was paying attention to the wrong things, at which point I began to enjoy the movie. A very atmospheric and stylish movie (read: not a whole lot happens, though some things certainly do). A little more nuanced performance than you might expect from Mel. A good show all around. Categorize under Murder Mystery/Crime/Music Video/Mad House/Romance.

Rating: [•••• out of •••••]

(2003) dir. F. Gary Gray

Review: I’m a sucker for caper-films. So sue me. I thought this was competent, exciting, and fun. Were there any really startling plot twists? No, but I wasn’t expecting there to be, either. I enjoyed the various stunts, chases, etc., which were consistently well done and believable. I’ll admit, this movie didn’t exactly add anything to the vast library of caper films out there, but … I’m caving in and giving this three and a half star-type-things.

Rating: [•••½ out of •••••]

(2002) Roger Avery - starring James Van Der Beek, Shannyn Sossamon, Ian Somerhalder, etc.

Review: I’m a big fan of Bret Easton Ellis, who wrote the book on which this movie is based (even though, if you want to get technical about it, it’s actually based on a play based on the book). Having said that, Rules of Attraction is probably one of my least favorite of Ellis’ books. Problem #2 with said movie is that Ellis’ books don’t translate well to screen. At all. What you get in this case is a movie that is very challenging, not particularly rewarding, but quite unique. I can’t really decide whether or not to recommend it.

Rating: [•••½ or maybe •••• out of •••••]

(2003) Danny Boyle - starring Cillian Murphy, Naomie Harris, Brendan Gleeson, Megan Burns, etc.

Review: After hearing the positive reviews, I was disappointed to see what was passing as “decent.” This? Is it horrible? Well, no. Is it well-conceived? Maybe. But “good”? No, absolutely not. Vaguely enjoyable, but my expectations were dashed to pieces with the endings—all of them. Not the first ending, not the ’spooky,’ alternate ending, not even the “radical” alternate ending on the DVD came close to meeting my expectations. (Okay, I take that back: the “radical” alternate ending on the DVD, which was just laid out on storyboards, might have saved the movie from being a neutral not-gut-wrenchingly-horrible genre movie. But it wasn’t used, so it doesn’t count.) Passably consistent, but not good.

Rating: [••½ out of •••••]

I’m not sure when the word chimera was commandeered for the pseudo-evil designs of genetics, but it surely must have been a fine, fine day.

In a story from the New Scientist, pigs and humans become one, at long last! Read the story on pig-human chimeras, it’s interesting. And fun, too!

(via the irrepressible die puny humans)

Not many words come to mind to describe this book. But I liked it. Immensely. It seems like it’s probably the sort of writing that would polarize people’s opinions. I can’t say for sure, because I didn’t hate it nor do I know of anyone who hated it, but I also know of no one who liked it, so more or less I am my only example. Which is a pretty pitiful basis for deducing this. Until contradicted, though, I’m going to stick with this assessment.

Which brings me, inevitably, to face the fact that I’m going to have to cough up a quote from the book in order to give you an idea what it’s like. Since I’m incapable of actually describing it in, well, words. So here you go, a completely randomly selected portion:

(It is now necessary to disclose that I’ve distorted the truth about why I’m in L.A. I’ve indicated that, having accepted the Der Gummiknüppel assignment, I flew to Los Angeles and checked into a suite at the Chateau Marmont to avail myself of the solitude and serenity needed to compose the commissioned poem. Eager to undergird my status as an incorruptible belletrist devoted to his art, I neglected to mention that I’d been planning to be in Hollywood anyway because production begins tomorrow on my movie. It’s about a family that has a terrarium of tiny people. It’s my original screenplay based on my original story which is based on my original eight-word haiku that I composed after an intravenous thiopental injection prior to my tonsillectomy when I was six. This is a Major Motion Picture. Mammoth budget, marquee stars, Oscar-winning director, lavish special effects, hip soundtrack—featuring Chix with Dix recorded at a higher speed to sound tiny. MAJOR.)

If you enjoyed this fragment (from page 149, FYI), there’s a chance you might enjoy the rest of the book (which is in fact short and medium-length stories). If not, you’d best avoid it. So there. Tooth Imprints on a Corn Dog by Mark Leyner. I liked it, you might not. Maybe you will. And maybe you’ll never know.

…so a loaded toothbrush—an electric one—is being held against my head, and I’m being told to brush. But not only must I brush, but I must enjoy doing it. I must fully and totally convince myself of the necessity, of the absolute enjoyment of the act, I must tell myself I am brushing my teeth and I am enjoying the subtle utilitarian gaeity of the act. It can’t be just for show, because then they’ll know. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t convince myself that it’s anything more than a frivolous, empty act, and my captors shoot me.

Fox rhymes with: box, socks, stocks, smallpox, and even Goldilocks.

Faux rhymes with: bow, flambeau, crow, Soho, bravo and overthrow.

With faux, fox does not rhyme.

I don’t mind the implications, intent, or sentiment of cleverly mixing and matching Fox and Faux, as is the case in some places with the spicy phrase “Faux News.” What I do mind, however, is the fact that they are not homophones. And. Cannot. Appropriately. Be. Mixed. And. Matched. In. The. Sense. That. Is. Intended.

Is this a ridiculous complaint? Yes.
Am I a worse person for having made it? Probably.
Do I feel better now? Definitely.

Thank you.

Ingredients:

Bates College, for, well, whatever; Rumor Vroom, for being so damn thoughtful; Running Dog (Don Delillo) and Another Roadside Attraction (Tom Robbins), for disproving that you can’t judge a book by its cover (caution: links do not lead to said covers, but to other covers for th’ same books); Various movies, for instance: Starship Troopers, Dirty Pretty Things, and Boondock Saints; Brother Dog, Max; Underworld, the 800+ page book by Don Delillo that more than made up for intestinal troubles; The Borgata, but not in a generally positive way; Exotica and The Sweet Hereafter by Atom Egoyan; The Culture of Make Believe by Derrick Jensen; Kult, the incomprehensible yet delightful music group;
MI-5, particularly for the all-hell-breaks-loose episode (Episode 11 - I Spy Apocalypse)

So I hear 2004 has begun. I’m excited.

No, not about new generations of petrochemical-based food wrap. No, not about new special-effects-studded blockbuster failures. No, not about new technological advances in underarm deodorant.

Not about brilliant new television commercials. Not new state-of-the-art NASA-researched hybrid polymer-fabric textiles. Not fantastic retailing inroads.

(I’m not sure what I just said makes sense, but in any case, I’m not excited about it.)

I’m not even excited about the ballooning opportunities for satire, the exponentially growing targets of ridicule.

Now that I think of it, I’m not excited. But I have hopes for 2005.