The politics of pity in a postmodern era, and a roommate screaming "Does your penis hurt?!" Also, recognition.
So first off, Ghani has posted a link to my photoblog in the Weeblog. Which I would link to if I had any idea of how to link to the Weeblog. (It's the bonsai blog on the side of the main stuff, there are fun links to random stuff, and even the capability to comment. Anyhow. Now you know.) This is good, because honestly, there aren't enough readers for Spirits of Leonard. And since I'm the greatest innovator in photography since DeGuerre, this must be rectified.
I don't really think that. I'm an okay photographer, and since I've just gone and done something like admit to that, I should explain why you should look at said photoblog. Mostly it's just because. Hell, you're reading this, right? And a picture is worth a crapload of words. So condense all of this into a spray pattern of light and dark and BAM. Easier on the cerebellum, or something.
Because my attorney has suggested full disclosure will be less anally painful, I should also say I'm high on migraine meds right now. Thank you, Pfizer, which I'm sure is the name of an angel or something. A greedy angel who mints his own money and evens out all the other angels' moodswings and individuality.
"You know Special K? What do they do to the regular K? And for that matter whatever happened to Kay Ballard? You know, if you had a cold and said 'mallard,' it would sound like 'Ballard.'"
"Do you even listen to yourself?"
"I drift in and out."
Ah, Family Guy awesomeness. And tabbed browsing for letting me find the link after I'd gone to the trouble of typing out the code. Safari rules. As do the new mac minis. Though despite the new wave of Mac products, I'm wondering if the new budget box will hurt their image as premium product. Seems like part of the Apple elitist core (like the random guy with the goatee you see on Penny Arcade!) derives part of their attitude from knowing the suburbanite can't afford a Mac without hemorrhaging.
Also, more solid data on new Family Guy? Please? I don't know what's going on.
I regret to inform you of the probable demise of my serial fiction project, the Mercykillers, which might turn into a more normal fiction project. If you didn't know about it that's cool. You're just a tightass loser. Okay, seriously now. All joking aside. What the hell is wrong with you? How could you not be up on all the happenings in my life?
It's that moment in The Wedding Singer when oh-so-sculpted Drew Barrymore, Adam Sandler, and Ben Stiller's Wife are talking about wedding kisses. Drew Barrymore mentioned something about partial tongue, I think. You'll excuse me for not paying enough attention to typing. But that brings me back to the first thing I mentioned in the title of this ridiculous post. Pity. In an era of postmodernist disdain for sentiment, why is it that pity is the prevalent motivator of the romantic comedy? Or the comedy in general? Why is it we derive satisfaction from the spectacle of someone else's misery?
Take, for example, the scene with this fat loserkid with criminally misinformed hair. We know he's pathetic. We know that in high school, we either were that kid, or we were the kids who beat up that kid, or we were the kids who were just cooler than him and so avoided getting beaten up (and were goddamn glad for it, too). Or you were the small minority of kids like me who neglected any concept of self-preservation and stood up for that loserkid, someetimes at no small cost to yourself of kicking the living shit of someone who was giving him a hard time. Since all of us will fall into this artificial hierarchy, and I think the most of us will be either #3 or #4 (at least in this audience), you know what I'm talking about.
Anyhow, Adam Sandler notices that this kid is lonely. Some chick decided she wouldn't dance with a loser, and Sandler gets oh-so-manicuredly-luscious-but-luscious-nonetheless Drew Barrymore to dance with the loserkid. Over the mic he says "I salute the new lord of the ladies!" But, in our heart of hearts we know this is untrue. The scene has meaning because this is a flash in the pan for this kid. He was a loser yesterday, he will be a loser tomorrow, and the three or four people who give him notice now will forget in a month why it was they shouldn't pity him. But, God bless him, he'll take whatever he can get, starved as he is for attention and sympathy in a world where he might as well be dead.
You didn't notice that from the movie? Oh. Well, check it out with closed captioning. That's where the subtext appears.
That might be postmodernist humor. I'm too lazy to check it out.
Here's your parting shot. I've decided that celebrity spokespeople for diseases piss me off righteously. I guess because it fosters the attitude of one disease being more important than another. Also it fosters the idea that we can cure everything if we throw enough money at it. Which ain't the case. And probably shouldn't be the focus. Preservation of life for its own sake isn't necessarily virtuous. Let that one bake your noodle, if it could use more cooking time.
Oh yeah. To that kid in poli sci who wouldn't shut up. There's a difference between being a "conscious objector" and being a "complete dickhead." You should look into it.
I don't really think that. I'm an okay photographer, and since I've just gone and done something like admit to that, I should explain why you should look at said photoblog. Mostly it's just because. Hell, you're reading this, right? And a picture is worth a crapload of words. So condense all of this into a spray pattern of light and dark and BAM. Easier on the cerebellum, or something.
Because my attorney has suggested full disclosure will be less anally painful, I should also say I'm high on migraine meds right now. Thank you, Pfizer, which I'm sure is the name of an angel or something. A greedy angel who mints his own money and evens out all the other angels' moodswings and individuality.
"You know Special K? What do they do to the regular K? And for that matter whatever happened to Kay Ballard? You know, if you had a cold and said 'mallard,' it would sound like 'Ballard.'"
"Do you even listen to yourself?"
"I drift in and out."
Ah, Family Guy awesomeness. And tabbed browsing for letting me find the link after I'd gone to the trouble of typing out the code. Safari rules. As do the new mac minis. Though despite the new wave of Mac products, I'm wondering if the new budget box will hurt their image as premium product. Seems like part of the Apple elitist core (like the random guy with the goatee you see on Penny Arcade!) derives part of their attitude from knowing the suburbanite can't afford a Mac without hemorrhaging.
Also, more solid data on new Family Guy? Please? I don't know what's going on.
I regret to inform you of the probable demise of my serial fiction project, the Mercykillers, which might turn into a more normal fiction project. If you didn't know about it that's cool. You're just a tightass loser. Okay, seriously now. All joking aside. What the hell is wrong with you? How could you not be up on all the happenings in my life?
It's that moment in The Wedding Singer when oh-so-sculpted Drew Barrymore, Adam Sandler, and Ben Stiller's Wife are talking about wedding kisses. Drew Barrymore mentioned something about partial tongue, I think. You'll excuse me for not paying enough attention to typing. But that brings me back to the first thing I mentioned in the title of this ridiculous post. Pity. In an era of postmodernist disdain for sentiment, why is it that pity is the prevalent motivator of the romantic comedy? Or the comedy in general? Why is it we derive satisfaction from the spectacle of someone else's misery?
Take, for example, the scene with this fat loserkid with criminally misinformed hair. We know he's pathetic. We know that in high school, we either were that kid, or we were the kids who beat up that kid, or we were the kids who were just cooler than him and so avoided getting beaten up (and were goddamn glad for it, too). Or you were the small minority of kids like me who neglected any concept of self-preservation and stood up for that loserkid, someetimes at no small cost to yourself of kicking the living shit of someone who was giving him a hard time. Since all of us will fall into this artificial hierarchy, and I think the most of us will be either #3 or #4 (at least in this audience), you know what I'm talking about.
Anyhow, Adam Sandler notices that this kid is lonely. Some chick decided she wouldn't dance with a loser, and Sandler gets oh-so-manicuredly-luscious-but-luscious-nonetheless Drew Barrymore to dance with the loserkid. Over the mic he says "I salute the new lord of the ladies!" But, in our heart of hearts we know this is untrue. The scene has meaning because this is a flash in the pan for this kid. He was a loser yesterday, he will be a loser tomorrow, and the three or four people who give him notice now will forget in a month why it was they shouldn't pity him. But, God bless him, he'll take whatever he can get, starved as he is for attention and sympathy in a world where he might as well be dead.
You didn't notice that from the movie? Oh. Well, check it out with closed captioning. That's where the subtext appears.
That might be postmodernist humor. I'm too lazy to check it out.
Here's your parting shot. I've decided that celebrity spokespeople for diseases piss me off righteously. I guess because it fosters the attitude of one disease being more important than another. Also it fosters the idea that we can cure everything if we throw enough money at it. Which ain't the case. And probably shouldn't be the focus. Preservation of life for its own sake isn't necessarily virtuous. Let that one bake your noodle, if it could use more cooking time.
Oh yeah. To that kid in poli sci who wouldn't shut up. There's a difference between being a "conscious objector" and being a "complete dickhead." You should look into it.
<< Home