(no subject)

Well, its been a nutty, crazy ride, but Im finally done with this livejournal.

Time to think of a last line....
None better than the last thing I ever wrote in my popular Memory Hole mailing list:

"I am so fucking tired."

- Adam Langton

New Ellis

"The little girl sat crying on the park bench, clutching a pink
backpack with an envelope sticking out of it. I sat next to her,
phone in my hand. "Are you lost?"

"No. My mummy and daddy died and I have to live with Grandma
who hates me so I'm running away."

"Oh, honey," I said. "I'm so sorry about your parents."

"Grandma makes me do horrible things and when I complain she
makes me read the note mummy and daddy left me before they died."

She gave me the envelope. The note inside read:


"You made us do this."


- Warren Ellis, 2006

(no subject)

"We are here for no purpose, unless we can invent one. Of that I am sure."

- Walter F. Starbuck

***edited to add:

"We are here on this Earth to fart around. Don't let anyone tell you different."

- Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

(no subject)

Just saw Singer's SUPERMAN RETURNS, starring Brandon Routh, Kevin Spacey, James Marsden, Parker Posey, and Kate Bosworth's Forehead.

It was... actually pretty good. Considering how badly Ebert textually-bitch-slapped the film I expected worse, but it was a good clever Superman story complete with enough throwbacks to the older films for we nerds.

Routh is way too young for the role, but he makes a damn fine Clark Kent. When he's in the newsroom all nerded up it appears he is CHANNELLING Christopher Reeve. He's got the mannerisms down pat. So thats cool.

Can't complain about Spacey either... really, a lot of people could have pulled off this role, but he doesn't do a bad job. Don't ask me why Kumar is his side-kick.

Kate Bosworth's Forehead is, as expected, disappointing. She didn't manage to thrash the credibility of the whole picture (like Katie Holmes in BATMAN BEGINS), but it still makes absolutely no sense why Supes would give a damn about her. Routh and Forehead have no chemistry whatsoever and Lane is a bitchy smoker cunt.

That being said, there are cool bits to this film. Subtle shots that mimic Supes as the god Atlas, fitting in with a Luthor speech about gods in red capes. And the double-usage of the old Marlon Brando Jor-El speech almost made me tear up, so thats a tasteful choice. So was dedicating the entire film to Christopher Reeve and his also-late wife.

Overall: SUPERMAN RETURNS is worth watching once. Brandon Routh's chin was perhaps genetically engineered to look exactly like Supermans. Bosworth's Forehead was perhaps genetically engineered to support several condominiums for the homeless.

Last note: Sweet jesus FUCK why are there no women who can act? Streep cant do every role, get outside with a shovel and dig up some goddamned TALENT, ladies.

(no subject)

Have you heard of this magazine called PEOPLE?

Its, presumably, supposed to be about people. But its not about people, its about crap.

They should rename that magazine CRAP.

Just so you know

What few people realise about me is that I am fueled creatively by my massive hatred of my peers.

Now, this is the part of the post where all of you sweet, caring people think to yourself "But AJ... hate is such a strong word!"

I agree! It is rather strong. Still, seems insufficient to encompass the visceral, heart-wrenching, marrow-vibrating sensation of pure and utter disgust most of my fellow students and employees stir within me. Perhaps an addendum should exist with it, like hate "with the white-hot fury of 1000 suns".

Many of these people are actually making society a worse place to live with their continued existence. Most, I wouldn't even piss on if they were on fire.

I urge you, fair reader, to not think for a moment that I am declaring I am a better person than those I'm describing. Well... am I actually better? Likely no, but it would be pretty difficult to be worse. Mayhaps we should be setting the bar slightly higher, hmm?

We all remember my repeated rants about my peers... how fucked their priorities are, how skewed their perception of reality, how aggrandising and self-important, how unbelievably vain and self-centred. I could go off again, detailing their compulsion to thrust image after image of themselves on any and all passers-by, desperate for the slightest inkling of approval and acknowledgement that our faulty schooling system has taught them they must seek in earnest. Their persistant belief that they are special, that they somehow deserve more from this spinning rock covered with precocious apes than any other petty primate.

Yes, I could complain about how they pretend to worship a god, get high-and-mighty when they meet those who opt not to, and then spend 24 hours a day in fact worshipping THEMSELVES moreso than any selected deity... but that would just be a waste of these precious creative hours.

You see, this hatred of the peers, the transparency of the flacid and empty academic system, these things BURN deep inside this fair bosom of mine. Oh reader, I am driven with an almost supernatural inhuman fire to vivisect the faults and follies of the above with fiction, to shit-hammer keys until a nugget of truth can be gleaned from the purposefully-archaic narrative style to which this particular night has lead me.

I'm reminded of a story I heard recently:
A gentleman wanted to write a novel. He knew he had no time for a novel, he had bills to pay and a family to support, yet he was driven to write it anyways. He wanted this novel to implicate and expose aspects of society that seemed... well, wrong and perverted to him. He knew such a novel would likely not be published, never garner a dime, yet he was driven to write it anyways. He did so, losing his job and his wife in the process.
While relaying the story of her ex-husband's obsession and subsequent failure to a friend, the woman was asked "Why on Earth didn't he write a novel about... detectives! Or, or waitresses in love? Something that might sell..?"

She only replied "Oh... well, I suppose he never got angry with detectives or waitresses."

This needlessly-lengthy post was brought to you by the novel "Emma" and the letter F.

(no subject)

So I awake to a GIGANTIC thunderclap that shakes the very marrow in my bones at 9am.

It wasn't even raining, there had been no thunder to this point, and then KABLAMMO. It set off all the car alarms in the lot across the street.

And my memory is a little hazy, but I'm pretty sure the Earth was destroyed.

(no subject)

So it was my convocation today. I didn't go.

You know, convocation? That hours-long thing where you sit with a buncha pricks, dressed like some kinda jerk, and get congratulated for having the money and time to have been there?

Anyhow. The ceremony went forward, and I was a block away in a Harveys eating an Angus burger with one Johnathan Handler.

Still, feels sort of odd. Like I'm not doing what I'm supposed to.

But then again, all of the best moments in my life have come from not doing what I'm supposed to. Every last one of them.

No real point to this post, I guess. Just strange to think of this. If its such an end of an era, how come every goddamned blasted thing has stayed exactly the same?

(no subject)

I just got up at 4am in order to be at work at CHAPTERS on time.

Yes thats correct, a bookstore that doesn't even open until 9am.

Shift begins at 7am, first of all. What the FUCK is there to do in a bookstore for two hours without customers? Buses need to get me there before 7am, second of all. This means getting on shortly after 5am.

This is... dumb.