Thousands of Americans Shocked to Discover That They Are in Gay Marriages
All over the country, more and more married couples have begun to realize they have already committed to a gay marriage. With the ongoing controversy surrounding the issue of granting homosexuals marriage rights, thousands of heterosexual couples, who have been married for years, have discovered that their marriages, are in fact, pretty gay.
Clint Barstow of Topeka, Kansas, who has been married to his wife Cheryl for ten years, at first didn’t believe his marriage could be gay. The declining regularity and excitement of their sex life was an early symptom of problems. Barstow merely thought of it as a common trend in marriage. But when the violent arguments and eventual affairs with other heterosexuals started, it finished off any sort of potential straightness for their marriage.
The Barstow’s publicly acknowledge that their marriage only exists for the sake of their son Kenny, who is aware of both of his parents dating lives. “I guess it took me until this point, to say out loud, that this marriage is gay, this shit is pretty weak” Barstow stated. He then implied he was pursuing a divorce, despite the fact that he is a lifelong Catholic. “Yes, divorce goes against the church. But at least it isn’t gay.”
In Tallahassee, Michelle Fairfield awoke one morning realizing she was in a gay marriage. “We hardly ever talk, and when we do we just talk about paying the bills and taking the kids to soccer practice, you know pretty gay stuff. If we ever talk about something personal, like say Mark’s mother, he gets defensive and whiny and we get into a fight. It’s really gay not having a conversation with your husband.”
Fairfield works during the day as a legal consultant, and Mark stays home to tend to the house and kids. Last February, Fairfield came home during lunch to find her husband drinking heavily with friends. This was the first time the idea flashed in her mind that she could be in a gay marriage.
“You know, you always hope for the best, but usually the simplest explanation is usually the right one.” Her suspicions were confirmed when for her birthday, he gave her a power drill and a nude photo of himself with a coy caption reading “Jus’ Wanted to Drill You.”
“That’s when I knew for sure,” Fairbanks said, dabbing at her eyes “That this was a gay marriage.”
Since realizing the gayness of her marriage, Fairfield founded the Gay Marriage Crisis Center, a place for couples to discuss the pain and reality of being in a gay marriage. “It is a talk therapy center, so people, stuck in gay marriages, realize they are not alone. You are not the only ones. Thousands of couples every month are realizing how gay being married is.”
However, there is another threat to the foundation of marriage. As each day passes, the fight for homosexual marriage equality becomes stronger. And many heterosexual couples are worried that these potential unions could end as gay marriages.
“Our primary concern is the next generation of married couples. The number of long-term homosexual couples who will be allowed to finally become married is huge, and we don’t want them to end up in gay marriages. They don’t know what marriage can do to an otherwise normal relationship. It can get gay so fast, you wouldn’t even believe it.”
“I’m just afraid,” Barstow says “That more and more people are going to realize they are in gay marriages, whether it’s a homosexual couple or a heterosexual couple. And if people realize that marriage may be a gay thing altogether…well that sounds pretty gay to me.”
A woman holds a human skull in her hands. She sits with a group of students in a circle of tables. She alternates which hand holds the skull, playfully moving it between the two like a tennis ball, even spinning it in the air at one point like a ball. She catches it. She hands the stage prop around for us to examine. The color is too bright. The skull looks too light. There are no imperfections. There is a piece of plastic bound to the back of the skull. The jaw opens and closes, there is a click. This is not a real skull. But it is a skull. It’s a sunny day. She is writing something about skulls. She has been criticized.
The skull comes to a young man, he sits near the end of the circle. A person in the class appears particularly preoccupied by the presence. One could say bothered. She sits next to the young man. He watches her in his periphery as he fiddles with the skull. She recoils when he makes the jaw pop. He wants to tell her that it’s okay, that it won’t bite. But class isn’t the place to sooth someone’s irrational feelings. He hands the skull to her.
When she receives the skull her hands moves up, she anticipated it being heavier. She anticipated it to feel like her skull, without the muscles and blood and veins and brains. Like hers, but lighter. But it isn’t a real skull. It’s just a skull. She comes around to the notion of holding a prop skull. A smile escapes at one point; she may even be enjoying herself. The young man had anticipated that she wouldn’t even want to hold it, and would yield her turn with the skull. So much for what one anticipates.
The first woman tells the class about a Polish pianist who wanted his own skull to be used in Hamlet. The class is shocked. The young man finds it interesting. Who cares what happens to your skull when you’re dead? Isn’t this man living the dream? To continue living once one has died? Anyway, there were complications. It wasn’t so simple as to whether or not they could use the skull. The question of the audience arose. Does one tell the audience that it is a real human skull? And not just a skull? But that wasn’t the primary concern. They didn’t want to detract publicity away from the guy from Dr. Who. Please fill out the following questionnaire:
There are two productions of the Royal Shakespeare Company next door to each other. One stands there with one’s hypothetical date, after having consumed a hypothetical romantic dinner. Both productions are of Hamlet. Does one:
1) Attend the performance of Hamlet starring the actor from Dr. Who who has received unanimously positive critical reviews or does one
2) Attend the performance of Hamlet that utilizes the actor from Dr. Who as well as a 25-year-old real human skull that has been sitting in a box until now, until tonight, when it will be held by another real human being, and it is a secret kept from the audience, except for one, obviously and lastly
3) How can one tell the difference?
Thank you for the interest in our questionnaire.
One sits down. One’s date goes to the bathroom. One’s date returns and sits down next to one. The curtain comes up. The gravedigger scene arrives. There is a skull. There is also potentially a real human skull. The scene passes. The play continues on. It ends. Both audiences are uniformly convinced that theirs is the one with the real human skull. And not just a skull.
The second woman in class is still the holding the skull. She is nearly done examining it. She has safely concluded for herself that it isn’t a real human skull. It’s just a skull.
The first woman from class speaks up. She has been lying to us. It isn’t just a skull. It is actually a real human skull. And we have all been touching it. Real human remains. People start screaming. People hurl indignant insults, and claim personal vendettas against the first woman. One woman flips over a table and sets it on fire punching her chest and screaming with her throat clicking. Lawsuits are promised. Limbs will be mutilated. Some people calm down. The first woman begins to speak again. She has been lying to us again. It isn’t a real human skull. It’s just a skull. People look confused. People look indignant. People still seem upset. Most seemed relieved. The woman who started the fire politely puts it out. She hopes nobody reports her. The young man and the second woman are still sitting next to each other, examining the skull, hardly noticing the carnival. Because it’s not a real human skull. It’s just a skull.
We know what we believe. And we believe what we know.
The boy sits in the passenger seat. The belt runs across his neck. The summer sun cascades through the windshield and his window is rolled down. He squints at the words on the page. They shine on the white sheet.
His mother opens the hatchback, and lugs the paper sacks filled with groceries into the back. She climbs into the drivers seat and with her index finger, props her glasses close to her face. The chocolate brown interior makes the car feel warmer. She rolls down her window, and asks the boy to roll down the ones in the back. He clambers back and reaches for the rollers, inching forwards when the rotation demands. The boy sinks back into his seat. His mother is holding a chocolate bar in front of him.
-That’s for being patient. She rubs his head like a dog when she says it. The boy smiles. He takes the chocolate bar and strips off the wrapper and lets it fall to the floor. The entire bar is in his hands, hands unprotected from melting chocolate. Soon his fingers are a smeared brown. His mother shakes her head and smiles, making him promise to clean himself before he returns to the book.
She pulls her jacket from the back of the car, and begins to pick through her collection of used-wadded-up-tissues, searching for a proper one to give to the boy. Even though it’s hot, she still has her jacket with her. Dressing down only happens under desirable circumstances. She hands him a napkin. The boy wipes his fingers clean, and then thoroughly licks the remaining melted chocolate off, wiping his damp fingers off on the car seat and then his pants.
He goes back to the story. He reads the sentences out loud, pronouncing the string of words with an adult’s temperance. He seems so big for his age. They climb the hill and arrive at a stoplight. His mother lights a cigarette, a menthol, long and thin, and tosses the match out the window. The boy struggles with a word, his mispronounces it. His mother corrects him.
-You’re saying it like “Frisbee.” The first syllable is the first three letters.
-Oh.
-Do you know what that word means? she asks. She exhales a plume of smoke and tilts her head towards the boy. He shakes his head and squints at the glove-box.
-It means to distinguish, to understand something.
-Okay.
-Well then also it can mean that you understand something compared to something else, something a lot like it. Something so close to it that you can hardly tell the difference. Follow?
-Uh-huh.
-But no matter how close it may be to it, if you really understand it, then you can always tell the difference, you can determine which one is which.
-Okay
-Do you want to give me an example if you’re feeling up to it?
The boy thinks. They make eye contact, and he opens his mouth to say something, but pauses. He closes his mouth and starts to look out the window.
-Think about something you really like. That’ll help, she says.
He looks out the window a bit more.
-Baseball, he says.
She slides the burning cone out of the cigarette and closes the ashtray to let it burn out.
-Baseball is good. What’s your idea, I’ll help.
-That’s okay I already got it. When we watch the Cubs, he pauses dull, combing his tongue for the right combination. When we watch the Cubs, he continues, I always know where they are playing, even if I don’t remember at first. If there’s no ivy on the wall, it’s not Wrigley. And if there is ivy on the wall, it is Wrigley.
She smiles broadly and rubs his head, like a dog. His smile comes in through the clofts of hair, and her forearm and hand obstructing the view of his face.
-That’s my boy. You sure are going to discern yourself from the rest of the kids in your class. That’s a good way to remember, “there will be a discernable distance between you and the other kids.” You’re a smart boy.
She sips at her lime soda. It’s grown flat with time, and warm with the sun. The boy would have thought it was hot yellow tea in a can, if he didn’t read the label.
He goes back to the story. A with his girlfriend is chasing a gang of men who had stolen stuff from his car, while he was with the girlfriend at this beach, passively seducing her. He runs towards their getaway car, frantically memorizing license plates. It’s all a wasted effort. He jumbles it. He forgets. Things change. He swears.
The boy continued to read aloud. And what he stumbled or stuttered, or seemed unsure of himself, his mother would appear, and help him along, a following tide to correct his mistakes.
She pulls the car into the driveway. They sit together on the couch, the television aglow with the chatter of strangers, pictures and words from other worlds. Different lives. The dog places his front paws up to the screen, leaning against it. She encourages the boy to throw something, and he flings a shoe at the dog, it doesn’t hit him, but it does come close, and he scampers off into another room.
-Good aim.
He yawns. She carries him to bed. She slides the sheets over the outline of his body. He sure is small for his age. She kisses his forehead and gently closes the door. The sun had sunk. The world had dried. The empty gray space of night breathed out slowly, sharing, always sharing. And the boy breathed it all in.
Basketball doesn’t suck. Anyone with the last name Gumbel sucks. Zaga doesn’t suck, but not anymore in value then Northern Whatever (Kentucky) sucking hard and giving the game just after they took it. Duke never will suck. Utah State sucks in my feelings, not in my heart. Maryland SUCKS. Thabeet is a giant that could eat me, so he probably doesn’t suck. Beware doesn’t suck. D-Wade doesn’t suck. The Darjeeling Limited sucks. Wes Anderson sucks. Blogs suck. Books suck. People suck. Cats definetley suck. Awareness doesn’t suck. Pot makes you stupid.
This morning, I was reading a list of the best “indie” love songs. No dearest reader, don’t fret, I am not going to try to define what the hell indie even means these days. But I will take a stab in the dark: having a day job still? But look at that, I already kind of lied, but since it was in a contextual lie, it doesn’t really count. Anyway that list was terrible, (The New Radicals “Someday We’ll Know” and Weezer “O Girlfriend” were on it. WHAT THE FUCK!??!) But the reactionary comments were much more entertaining, the songs people would’ve picked ranged from the terribly cliche (Neutral Milk Hotel, Bright Eyes) to the spot-on (The Weakerthans “My Favorite Chords”) to the expected (Velvet Underground “I’ll Be Your Mirror”) to the ones that I hilariously agree with (The Stranglers – Golden Brown) because they are love songs dammit, and it shouldn’t up to anyone to judge you if you are writing love songs to heroin. If you love heroin, that’s just great. If you love your forty cats, like that Sun Kil Moon dude, then that’s great, keep writing songs about heroin/cats. It’s better than nihilism. And it’s a hell of a lot better than what that illiterate fucktard Ben Gibbard, who gets married, has kids (assumedly, unless he is gay which could also be interpreted as assumed by some) and still write yearning adolescent love songs. Grow the fuck up and get your drummer from The Photo Album back. You sound like Jay Cutler or that cross eyed fuck from The Bachelor. A little bitch.
Basically I find the comment section on any remotely controversial article far more rewarding of a read than the article itself.
I LOVE TWO WOMEN, WOE IS ME!
Really, I could go on for hours about what makes good indie music, or what makes a good indie love song, or what makes for a productive sustainable career in indie rock, why indie rock is the only critically respected form of rock anymore, all without defining what indie is. I am that talented of a circular logician/writer. But fortunately, I am not going to undertake any of the previously described tasks. I am taking on a far gloomier and more interesting task. Writing the most depressed songs I can!
There are two moments that compelled me to write this feature.
1) The first is a series of moments. Now don’t close that window, give me a chance, you beautiful reader you. Sometimes when I have my music on, my girlfriend will tell me that she is going to slit her wrists, if I don’t changethe song or cd. At first this confused me. It also offended me for a minute. The good music that brought me so much solace and comfort in my life, was making someone I love suicidal. The cd’s and songs I listen to on a rainy day, that made me hum and smile, made her want to jump out the window. What a wacky situation! Maybe it’s because her skin isn’t as tough as mine, I thought, seeing that I grew up in the most depressing environment in the country, (Seattle – where the sun never shines!) and the local art community hear is pretty gloomy to match. The “best” artists from the pacific northwest are all marginally crazy isolationists, used to be crazies that auspicously stopped acting crazy once they got monies (Issac Brock) or dead (Kurt Cobain.) And if not, then little bitches or sell-outs (Colin Meloy, Ben Gibbard. Though Meloy’s Northwesterniness is debatable, Portland transplants from Montana are still from Montana.) But this isn’t a PNW music exclusive thing. That it really could be though is an entirely seperate matter.
There are some self-imposed guidelines to this excursion. There can’t be one single upbeat quality in the song and the only extractable overall feeling should be sadness and loss. These have to be absolutely devastating songs. And I mean this in both execution and content. The good ol’ Tom Waits inversion theory: that you can write upbeat music with sad lyrics like “I Don’t Wanna Grow Up” or write a downtempo song with happy lyrics isn’t going to work here. It has to be downtempo AND have gloomy lyrics. Even a crescendo towards the end or a slight hint of irony in the lyrics should disqualify. This is only done to confirm we are talking about some fucked up songs, for the good of someone, lord knows who could actually benefit from this. Maybe someones ego.
None of these songs can I tolerate listening to when I’m not feeling blue. I have to keep a distance from them in order for their cathartic function to remain intact. That and I generally like to avoid depressing thoughts, on principle. Now that this horribly long introduction is over let’s get to the MUSIC. Most of these songs are contemporary songs. There probably are sadder, older songs out there, but I didn’t have to heart to delve into that wide of a scope for such a downer of a topic. These are songs I know to be depressing and I’m writing about why. I’m not making claim that these are the saddest songs out there. Otherwise Nick Drake would be mentioned.
The first song on the list, is also the second moment that compelled me to write this.
1(2) Damien Jurado -Medication
This is the granddaddy, wrist-slitting, life-isn’t-bearable song. This song is so brutal, so gut wrenching, so painful to listen to, so earnest, that on the first listen you think “This dude must have a brother in a psych-ward.” Then after a couple listens it turns into : “Holy shit, this guy is an incredible writer. Why does he tell these kind of stories?” I tell every one who gives a shit about art with half-a-brain about this guy. Most people, who I consider in touch with good music, have never heard of him. It’s a shame. He is a goddamn genius and the most underrated songwriter on the indie circuit. Period. The only knock I hear on him is that most of his songs are sad, which isn’t entirely true, though the ones that are sad are particularly sad, but is just indicative of the press’s unfamiliarity with his catalogue and the incredible skill this dude puts into his craft. His new album, Caught in the Trees is relatively upbeat and is a collection of the some of the catchiest, wittiest, most incisive songs and ultimately the best album released in 2008. But yes, Medication is dreadfully sad song, the saddest one I can think of even. Take a listen.
I went to a show of his in Seattle in January, and when he played the song I didn’t even recognize it halfway through. Why was this? I had heard it hundreds of times. I came to the conclusion that I have subconciously blocked out the majority of this song from my memory, for the benefit of my own psychic abilities. And I;m a guy who enjoys a sad song, and if I actually blocked it out, it is a testament to the power of this song. It fucking haunts me. When I tell people about Jurado, I never mention anything about “Medication” or even the album it is from, Ghost of David, which in it’s entirety is almost as depressing as this song which is the opener of all songs. Lines like
“Brother called this morning in a terrible panic/ Spies in the closet, bugs in the attic/ He screams bloody murder saying,/We`re all gonna die/
are just a happy precursor for the closer:
Lord, do me a favor/It`s wrong but I ask you/Take my brother`s life
You’ll see what I mean. But, don’t start there if you are interested in him. Get Rehearsals for Departure. The two super-depressing albums, Ghost and …And Now I’m in your Shadow, will scare you away from him for life. I’m lucky this is the first song I heard from him:
But enough of my hetero-boner for Jurado. The other one’s won’t be like that. I rep Jurado every chance I can get.
One final thing: the other reason I wrote this came from the comments on the YouTube video for “Medication.” It is filled with remarks about the intensity and depressive qualities of the song, and immediately followed by endorsements of emotional attachment (i.e. “I love this song.”) Why do people attach themselves more strongly to songs of a depressing nature than a happy nature? More on this concept towards the end.
2. Elliott Smith – Pitseleh
Having an Elliott song is obligatory. Not because he is the King of Sadness, but because he just does the sad song so well. He’s reference an amount of times that most of his lyrics are about his dreams.In general, dude was a jovial, gregarious person, who wrote really fucking sad songs and made a lot of teenagers feel sadder/happier depending on the inclinations of their dopamine receptors. He just must have had really messed up dreams. And from what I’ve gathered, when he didn’t like someone or an idea, he didn’t outlet his anger with his accusatory and condemnatory writing, which is well crafted, dude won’t stop until there aren’t any well placed daggers to use. He won’t let shit go. Or at least doesn’t know how to. This is why he picked fights in bars with guys he perceived as assholes. Don’t y’all give Elliott an intervention, or he’ll write one mean fucking song about you (Everybody Cares, Everybody Understands) and who knows, even if he does get tired of getting wasted and smoking crack in the back of taxicabs and passing out, and decides to clean up he might freak out and stab himself in the heart once he is stable and sober. Now who knows what’s best for a dude, especially one who wasn’t even psychotic, was inward, cared a lot about the people in his life and majored in Feminist Studies?
ANYWAY let’s talk about his music. It took me a long to pick an Elliott song for this. My initial thought was “King’s Crossing” which if we’re talking lyrical imagery, definitely takes the cake. Some of the gloomiest of the gloom, I-am-on-death’s-door-and-really-going-to-do-it, kind of shit in this one. For example:
The judge is on vinyl, decisions are final/And nobody gets a reprieve/And every wave is tidal – if you hang around/You’re going to get wet/I can’t prepare for death any more than I already have/All you can do now is watch the shells/The game looks easy, that’s why it sells.
I could just copy and paste the whole song, but that’d miss the point. The song strikes me more of a dream song, especially with the nurses and the soldiers bit, and the streaking thrashy instrumentation. It’s one hell of a nightmare of a song, the one typically pointed to in his foreshadowing of his own demise. And Basement is also littered with these little I want to die jabs, (for example “The Last Hour”; “Don’t keep me around/ Make it over), and actually his entire catalogue explores the darker corners of life examining loneliness and despair (”Needle in the Hay”, “Everything Means Nothing to Me.”)
“Everything” was actually a close second in this choice, that battering repetition of the title over and over and over again in the last two thirds of the song is devastating. But after a little while it becomes hopeful, the instrumentation gets lighter, and he raises the voice an octave (or half-octave) as he goes. The whole thing turns into an uplifting, redemptive beautiful thing. But that’s not what I’m looking for here, though it is a considerable artistic achievement, creating a positive feeling out of such an awful chorus.
Pitseleh is his darkest, most painful of songs. I don’t even need to listen to it, and I choose not to because I’m in a particularly good mood, and I can tell you all about it. I have heard the song maybe between 15 and 20 times, never truly aware of it, even it’s title. But one day it struck me particularly hard- as I was going through a particularly hard time myself- so I finally looked up the name of the track and the lyrics. The most devastating of songs end well, they know when to quit, instead of at their brightest, or highest moment, but at their darkest. Sort of like George on Seinfeld leaving work when he tells the good joke. He’s aware of the impression he can leave, and knows it’s at his best. The failling of most artists is that they add too much, one more stroke of a painting, an extra verse or two in a song, because they are so in rapture by the moment that they are producing something good that they lose track of the audience’s patience/perception.The airy, drowsy tone of “Pitseleh”, makes this remorseful dread, accentuated by the focus on pianol. It’s the usual sad song of love lost. But for some reason this song is exceptional. And it’s why I have trouble listening to it.
Give up the thing you love
It then goes into a weepy shrill piano solo that carries the song away until the final verse.
the first time I saw you I knew it would never last/ I’m not half what I wish I was/ I’m so angry, I don’t think it’ll ever pass/ and I was bad news for you just because /I never meant to hurt you
It sounds like it was taken from a break-up letter Smith found on the street. But he makes these words – which look somewhat awkward and whiny on paper, into a heartbreaking melody, concluding that it’s best to just give up what you love instead of holding onto it, even though “I was bad news for you.” It’s not the breakingup that’s hard, it’s getting over the break up that’s hard. Isn’t life fun? Thanks for the reminder of the fragile, fleeting nature of emotions Elliott!
Also for an extra bonus catch the suicide reference in the first verse;
A silent kid is looking down the barrel/To make the noise that I kept so quiet
The King of Sadness!
And on a serious note: R.I.P. Elliott. You were a dude. Now that I’ve talked incessantly about the two heavyweights, these furhter ones will be a bit shorter. Now more about the utilization of pianos for a depressing effect!
Cat Power – Color and the Kids
This downer, from the…interesting Chan Marshall, has a lingering piano that allows her voice to become the focus of the song. You can hear her thump the piano keys harder as she gets closer to the emotional climax. The song is a meditation on the past, and she does a more than adequate job romanticizing it.
She analyzes a series of important people in her life, the one she built a house on the beach with, a teenage friend who knows everyone in the city, and her own loss she must be experiencing. Becase:
It must be the colors and the kids/that keep me alive/ on this January night
Life must seem empty, she’s made poor choices and looking back on her life, something common to do in winter. The lyrics are peppered with lines insighting the best parts ofthe relationships, the little things of intimacy, you can just see her with her boyfriend at the time going to the beach and;
we can roll up our jeans so the tide won’t get us below the knees/ yellow hair, you are a funny bear/yellow hair, such a funny bear/slender fingers would hold me/slender limbs would hold me
The piano line will get stuck in your head. Her emphasis on the word such does so much for the song, it’s this tiny moment that brings a geuineness to the song, a knowledge of the depth of someone. And the loss of having that knowledge nearby, as well as familiar is what makes it so damn sad. And for the comment about the yellow bear, it fips between adorable and pitiful everytime I listen to it. So whenever I smile at thatsong I take it off the list I guess.
Next up is who I surmise is the first person in this song is describing.
Smog – I Break Horses
Bill Callahan is one cold-blooded, monotone-singing, Elvis Presley-if-he-grew-up-like-The-Kid-in-Blood Meridian, talented motherfucker. Check him out.
Maybe you don’t think he’s so badass, I mean dude looks bored and there’s some other persons shadow in the picture. You know who that is? Joanna Newsom. He is (was) hitting that. I don’t think Andy Samberg is going to stop him. Bill would just stare at Andy and he’d turn to dust. Bill would sweep him up, row out to sea and throw his ashes into a whirlpool and say to himself, “Who’s on a boat now, motherfucker?” promptly row back home and write a song about horses and how bad-ass he is. Seriously. He’s changed his musical moniker twice, and doesn’t care. That’s kick-ass.
Anyway, the song about horses. “I Break Horses” is all about being a stubborn alpha male, who uses women. The couplet that gets repeated in the chorus is a real downer.
I break horses/I do not tend to them/They seem to come to me/Asking to be broken/They seem to run to me/I break horses/Doesn’t take me long/Just a few well-placed words/And their wandering hearts are gone
The arrangement is sparse, letting Bill’s baritone enigma of a voice do the work. And obviously, horses is an interpretation for women. He’’s the one who makes the wild girls scared. He’s the guy who dates your wife before she decides she’s ready to meet the right guy and settle down. That or he kills them, but only after he rides them to the ocean, so he can go to his “favorite island.” Check the murder imagery out:
At first her warmth felt good between my legs/Living breathing heart-beating flesh/But soon that warmth turned to an itch/Turned to a scratch/Turned to a gash
So with the baritone, minimalist guitar, murder imagery, and the “ooh” and “aah” around the chorus that gives me fucking shivers, I tend to stay away from this song. But I love it. I only listen to it on youtube, and keep it off my iTunes/cd collection. I’m not even sure what album it’s from. But it’s a song that is one of Callahan’s best, and indicative of the trick in his darkest lyrics: Subtle brutality.
Now you can enjoy singing along to the song, which will be played when I dance at my wedding, to the horror of all.
That or the incredible song “Your Wedding” about getting wasted an at a newly become ex’s future hypothetical wedding. It’s a gut-clencher, for the same arguably good reasons as this song.
Immortal Technique – Dance With The Devil
Don’t think I forgot the hip-hop masterpiece about a guy raping his own Mom. I don’t want to talk about it. Real fun stuff there.
Casiotone for the Painfully Alone – Don’t They Have Payphones Wherever You Were Last Night
This pathetic song, comes from one of the self-deprecating, I’m poor white and lonely genres. The dude is like the Mountain Goats album Get Lonely except with a Casiotone keyboard, synth and not just one album but all the time. I saw him live a couple years ago and he was wearing a backbrace. He said he learned how important it is to lift with his legs. This song actually makes me want to die. Thankfully he didn’t play it at that show. Check “Tonight, Was A Disaster” if you want to hear the close second from this guy. I’m posting a link to a happier song though, to prove he doesn’t always make the thought of my own death appealing. Here he is playing the song “Calloused Fingers” in a phone booth in Seattle. I’d like to hear Bill Callahan’s version of this song.
Conclusion:
The fondness and attachment for these songs is what makes them “great.” They are propelled to an exclusive stratosphere because only a sad song can make an impact on you in an emotionally cathartic way. Happy, upbeat, pop songs that are considered great are usually only considered great because of technical prowess – an incredible singing performance, a catchy hook, a defining sound- and may impact your emotions however, but those emotions tend to be ephemeral.
And obviously, a sad song that makes you feel good is probably associated with sad times. Hearing the song can you remind you of a time when you used to be sad- like listening to Either/Or reminds of of high school, and what a fucking weirdo I was then, which thankfully I am not anymore. Lessons have been learned, happiness, or the presence of non-sadness at least, has been found, and I’ve moved on. These sad songs wouldn’t be loved so much if we were still sad.
That and liking sad songs makes you “deep,” and if you’re deep you are probably sensitive and intelligent and wouldn’t find Whitney Houston great in the way you find Elliott Smith great. Everyone loves being interpreted as intelligent and unique, and liking hard to like, or hard to bear music and/or art definetley is a step in that direction. But that is also because people identify themselves with what they like, and use that as a way to convey their personality, without having to actually present anything vulnerable or actually personal.
But I promise I’m not one of those people. You probably are though.
On occasion, I’ve been to cure my insomnia by reading asinine messages boards on IMDb on movies I like or the talkbacks AiCN for shows I’ve never seen. The amount of work that goes behind some of these posts calms me and brings me to a soothing rest like a child; it is comforting to know that I don’t waste my time arguing on the internet.
Here’s what I read last night, for the batshit movie “Dogville.”
WHERE ARE ALL THE WALLS!?!?!?!
“Why was Lauren Bacall cast as a townswoman?”
“paralells between grace and britney spears”
“I lost brain cells watching this film *spoilers*”
“An ode to Brechtian/Epic Theatre if I ever saw one”
“[Post Deleted]“
“What’s with the 10 mililons budget?”
“This movie isn’t about the USA. stop being so egocentric”
“What the word pedantic means”
“Old Testament God…New Testament God”
“awww grace, you coulda been my hero”
“This movie scarred me for life”
“what are the alligations?”
“They all deserved it, *spoilers*”
“She sure got raped a lot.”
“I fell asleep 30 minutes before the end, what happened?”
The following is a set of questions, ones that I would often pester my parents with when I was younger. This is how I would have responded to these questions, if asked them today.
I. MONEY
Why do we put money into the bank?
We can’t trust ourselves. And those large multinational corporations need to borrow their resources for ravaging the environment/civilized society have to come from somewhere. But mostly, we can’t trust ourselves. It’s safer there.
Why are we driving, not flying to Utah for the family reunion?
Now I’ve told you because it’s more fun, but that’s a lie. We’re too poor to fly. And we want to take you away from your friends for as long as possible.
Why do credit cards work?
So they can take your money before you have it.
Why do you balance your checkbook before you get out of line?
Because only poor people balance their checkbook. I mean smart people.
Can I have that?
Yes, anything you want. (This is also why we are poor.)
II. ANATOMY
What is inside my body?
Disappointment.
Why is my skin this color?
Because my skin is that color. And because I love you.
Can I have another glass milk?
No, you’ve had like eight glasses in a row, it’s starting to creep me out.
Can I see Judge Dredd?
You’d be disappointed, so no. Let’s harbor that illusion that it’s a great film. And it’s rated R, so no.
Aunt Lois, can I have that Korn cd?
No, it’s terrible music. Buy anything else. Anything. (I wonder sometimes what kind of person I would have turned out to be if Lois allowed me to buy Follow the Leader. I shudder.)
Can we ride in a hot-air balloon?
Yes, whenever you want.
III. TOOLS
What does that tool do?
Get out of the way, you’re in my light.
How is a house built?
Uhhh….lots of wood and glass. And a concrete foundation. There’s some carpet in there too. And a television.
Can we have a pet bear?
No. Because even if you buy it when it is a cub, and raise it, and it loves you everyday, and you think it is your best friend, it’ll grow into an adult bear. And then one day, you won’t be his best friend. Then he’ll claw your face off, and you’re dead. I know this. Because it happened to my friend. (This is what my father would tell me when I asked for a bear. Seriously.)
Did Eddie Murphy used to be funny?
If by funny you mean overrated, then yes.
Is god real?
IF YOU ARE!
IV. SCHOOL
Why do I have to go to school?
The state makes you go, so when you enter adult society, you aren’t a complete idiot. That and so you aren’t sitting around the house all day while I am trying to sit around the house all day, in private.
Why do I have to do well in school?
Here’s how the public school system works: If you excel in the public school system you will be rewarded with more opportunities and privileges to help you excel in the university system, and once you excel there you can excel in whichever system you choose to enter after, be it business, medicine, law or vampirism. If you can do it the first time, you can do it the rest of your life. The reward for this monotonous thinking? Money! Yes, son, you’ll make a shit-ton of money in the hypothetical future. Yes, that green stuff in my wallet, and that big number on those receipts my wallet is filled with. That can all be yours, unless you die in a tragic accident before that. But with money you can buy larger and more extravagant stuff than regular old poor people and generally be considered a bigger success. And the bigger the success you are, the better the person you are. It’s known as Worthington’s Law. Never heard of it?
You can excel in every system by following the same ways to succeed in high school.
1) Don’t backtalk.
2) If they’re older than you, then they’re worth your admiration and respect. Bend over backwards to learn from this person and/or let them torture you. Never call them by their first name. (This is why frats/businessmen refer to their esteemed elders by their last names/nicknames. First names are disrespectful to teachers.)
3) If you don’t think you can do it by your own means, cheat.
4) Don’t stand out until right before your imminent, albeit fleeting, victory. Then reap all the praise.
5) Participate in extracurricular activities.
6) Don’t backtalk.
7) Neglect development of critical reasoning skills and refine your ability to excel at standardized methods of tests.
So shut up and do your homework and get ready for that WASL. Unless you want to be an artist/poor.
Do grades matter?
Yes, unless you intend on getting high and playing video-games for the rest of your life. Grades mostly sort out the cattle without having to examine the goods too closely.
Why do we study history? It already happened.
So you don’t make the same mistakes they did. Like communism. (What my parent’s actually said.)
Why can’t I use the computers in the classroom?
Because they’re made out of cardboard and taffy. And you could break it.
Twelve months of the year, Hollywood releases a bunch of crappy movies designed to make money. The last two or three months, though still filled with crap, also have a significant amount of prestigious films, that cost the same bloated amount. It is often acceptable for these films to gross significantly less than their peers – ah, the privilege of art! Anyway, Hollywood has the Oscars to increase the mainstream visibility of these films. The more nominations, the better your film is. Now us arty snobby types are aware of these films throughout the year – from the casting to the production to the festival release- it is pretty easy to guess who or what is getting nominated in about July. But after Christmas, when the real shit dump of January and Febuary begins, as well as the nominations, studios pump more advertising money into these prestige films so more regular folks go and see them (Would anyone in Kansas drag their husbands to see Milk unless it was Oscar nominated?) This whole fun cycle exists so these films aren’t complete failures, and studios can claim a higher purpose to excuse things like Kangaroo Jack. This is how the blood sucking leeches at Miramax operated for twenty-five years. Sucking up independent films that they know they could milk during this season, and remaining a Best Picture producing machine. How am I aware of this vast conspiracy? I read Entertainment Weekly for nine years in my adolescence. You just kind of figure out that the Weinstein’s climbed out of some flaming hellhole around 1978 after three or so years of following the industry.
But don’t worry, this isn’t going to be a big rant about the industry and my numerous subsuming conspiracy theories. Lord no! I was just providing you some necessary background on my position before belaboring you wiiiiiiiiiith- an Oscar Prediction piece! First I will tell you, who should win, and then I will tell you who will in. Sometimes they are one and the same. Let’s get STARTED!
Best Supporting Actress
Amy Adams in “Doubt” (Miramax)
Penélope Cruz in “Vicky Cristina Barcelona” (The Weinstein Company)
Viola Davis in “Doubt” (Miramax)
Taraji P. Henson in “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” (Paramount and Warner Bros.)
Marisa Tomei in “The Wrestler” (Fox Searchlight)
Let’s thin this annual crap-shoot out right off the bat. Cruz and Davis have no chance. Cruz could’ve won for Volver, and the Academy rarely rewards Allen’s work these days. I have no idea who Viola Davis is, and I don’t feel like wikipediaing the plot of Doubt and pretending to you that I have seen it (I won’t do that with any movie.) I haven’t seen it. I’m not interested in paying too much at the theatre. This speaks poorly to the movies chances in this category and most others . I don’t need to speak about Amy Adams then. This leaves Tomei and Henson.
Tomei has a decent shot, though Jack Palance has already rewarded her with one statuette. I still wish he gave that award to Billy Crystal or Daniel Stern or even Jon Lovitz! Personally, I loved The Wrestler. It was the best movie I have seen all year. Unfortunately, these kind of films are usually rewarded with acting awards, instead of Best Picture awards. Tomei wasn’t really too memorable in the film, but her character provided a necessary balance and longing for the script to truly work- and for the last ten minutes to be as powerful as they were. I actually preferred her scenes outside of the strip club, and I am a big fan of Marisa Tomeis tits. (Ever seen Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead? Except for the first three minutes – don’t. Awful film.)
This award shouldn’t go to the best actress in a supporting role, the overacting woman who’s third billed or whatever, but to the person who makes the film itself better, and not her visibility in it. That would obviously be Tajari P. Henson. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button hinged on his adoptive mother caring for him, it needed someone to truly care for the movie to escape from the first act. Henson did all that and more – she was the emotional core of the movie until Blanchett’s character became more prominent. I was more pained by her characters outcome than anyone else.
Who Should Win – Henson
Who Will Win – Adams
Best Supporting Actor
Josh Brolin in “Milk” (Focus Features)
Robert Downey Jr. in “Tropic Thunder” (DreamWorks, Distributed by DreamWorks/Paramount)
Philip Seymour Hoffman in “Doubt” (Miramax)
Heath Ledger in “The Dark Knight” (Warner Bros.)
Michael Shannon in “Revolutionary Road” (DreamWorks, Distributed by Paramount Vantage)
Hoffman is out, same reason as above. I’ve heard from everyone that Shannon may be the best thing in anything all year, but it scares me Road only has this one nomination, and I’d be surprised if he siphoned enough votes from you-know-who. I really dug Brolin as Dan White, he gave the character more depth than the documentary did, and that wasn’t because of Van Sant. I would be satisfied if he walked away with this. Downey Jr., he was hilarious in Tropic Thunder (My girlfriend and I still rehash the “Full Retard” scene,) and this wasn’t even his best performance of the year. But this isn’t a typical comedy rewarding category. Especially in a year with one heavy favorite.
Ledger’s performance went above and beyond. It made the movie into something more than a supherhero/action movie. It didn’t sugarcoat anarchist the way V For Vendetta did. I watched this film more than twice simply to rewatch Ledger. The Academy always rewards method acting, and actors who do something especially big to prepare for the role – losing gaining a significant amount of weight, changing their physical appearance, being a bad guy for once, not going Full Retard but definetley part retard. It’ll be interesting to see if the Academy will go as far to “reward” an actor who got so into the role that he locked himself into a hotel room for weeks, did a shit-ton of drugs (presumably) and died. The academy is in a situation without precedent- do they reward the guy who played the Joker, when, as I posit, that playing the Joker killed the guy? Whatever happens, I hope Michelle Williams isn’t at the performance, or at least they are nice enough to leave the camera off of her whenever the obligatory mention(s) happen. And a final food for thought: What would have the reaction been like if Ledger died in a similar situation at a time considerably later than the release, instead of considerably before. It is irrefutable that his death increased the hype for the film as well as the performance. Everyone will pay to watch a ghost walk. I wonder if the praise would have been so immediate and unanimous.
Who Should Win – Ledger
Who Will Win – Ledger
Best Actress
Anne Hathaway in “Rachel Getting Married” (Sony Pictures Classics)
Angelina Jolie in “Changeling” (Universal)
Melissa Leo in “Frozen River” (Sony Pictures Classics)
Meryl Streep in “Doubt” (Miramax)
Kate Winslet in “The Reader” (The Weinstein Company)
Hathaway has a shot, but her buzz waned, then completely died, after Bride Wars. I can’t even consider Jolie as anything more than a movie star, that the and the fact that I have an allergy to Eastwood directed films, all indulgent, serious-in-dark-tones crap to me, doesn’t really help her case. That and the fact it came out in July. And it’s called Changeling. It sounds like an album title by some crappy indie rock band.
Never heard of Leo or Frozen River. Meryl Streep has enough nominations and awards, in that movie I haven’t seen. She could win. She’s fucking Meryl Streep, right? Anyway, Winslet has been nominated and lost unjustly too many times, but then again the Academy has never been a bastion or purveyor of what is just or right in the world. But it’s her time. And everyone would love to reward a Nazi turned cougar. At least I would.
Who Should Win – Winslet
Who Will Win- Winslet
Best Actor
Richard Jenkins in “The Visitor” (Overture Films)
Frank Langella in “Frost/Nixon” (Universal)
Sean Penn in “Milk” (Focus Features)
Brad Pitt in “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” (Paramount and Warner Bros.)
Mickey Rourke in “The Wrestler” (Fox Searchlight)
This is probably the only close (and interesting) race in the whole crop this year. I’m throwing Langella out of the running because he’s doing something tough. 1) He’s playing a role he has already done on stage, which was garnered which critical attention and awards already. 2) He’s playing a historical character, one already subject to much political scrutiny, but already exposed to sufficient film time as well whether he has been on the screen or off of it (All The President’s Men, Dick, Nixon.) 3) He’s in a Howard movie. I hate Howard movies. They are all resolutely over-praised without a significant amount of substance. And yes, I am including A Beautiful Mind. Once you find out that dude is imaginary, shit all goes downhill. And I don’t care if I spoiled that movie, it isn’t worth your time. The only reason Crowe won the Oscar for Gladiator is because everyone knows he should’ve won for The Insider. That was the only reason he won. Yes, this shit is all cyclical. People get awarded Oscars to remedy previous injustices, and in doing so, current nominees get screwed only to get remedied later on, screwing those later hypothetical nominees. It’d be a lot easier to give the award to the person who did the best job in their performance that year, instead of whoever “deserves” it. Am I making any sense? So ANYWAY, Langella won’t win. I don’t remember why, but it might be because it grossed like half a million dollars the weekend before the Oscars, and the guy playing Frost creeps the shit out of me. Not good. Bottom line: Fuck Ron Howard. But: I like Frank Langella. He’s the man in Dave.
ANYWAY, the other nominees. Pitt was good in Button, but the make-up did most of the acting. And unfortunately, he may have the same problem as Jolie, as being seen constantly as a movie star instead of an actor. It was only 3/4 of the way through when I started thinking, “What’s going to happen to Brad Pitt?” instead of “What’s going to happen to Benjamin Button?” Don’t see this one happening. I have my hopes for Jenkins, I am a big SFU fan, and I just watched this one last night with my girly. Jenkins is phenomenal. Jenkins brings a nerdy life, and understandable distance to this character that makes what he goes through understandable. It’s regrettable that this film is awarded merely with the nomination for actor, as surprising it may have been to most people, when the writing and directing of Tom McCarthy is as good if not better. Bottom line: He was the character out of this list that I cared the most about.
This leaves the two heavyweights: Penn and Rourke.
I’ll start with Penn. The Life and Times may be hands down my favorite documentary ever. Regardless to say tempered my expectations, and actually decided to see the movie, under my girlfriends wise guidance to hold my judgment until I see it, and appreciate it as a seperate piece of art, yada yada yada, and I did that, and I seriously enjoyed the film. But something about Penn bothered me. The performance itself was fantastic, but the overall conception of the portrayal, as sort of cutsey and sunshine and smiles, sort of betrayed the work Milk himself did. And this isn’t Penn’s fault by any means, so I shouldn’t hold against his performance. The best way to state my feelings was written in a Newsweek review in November. (http://www.newsweek.com/id/171189) Paraphrased: Van Sant does not have rage in his color palette. Perfectly stated. To portray the life of Harvey Milk, there needs to be rage in his loss, anger at the failure of the system he changed, there needs to be something that happens when he dies besides a fucking candlelit march, regardless of how sweet it is. They sterilized the power of his death by bringing it up right away, which also worked to it’s favor, people who were unaware weren’t surprised, and people who were aware were not waiting for it. But ultimately it hurts the story, that what happened with White is delegated to the denouement and then credits roll. This only supports the failure of the system by not highlighting it as well as the documentary did. It may be unfair to compare the two, but the film would not exist, at least with A-List Hollywood players, without the documentary. And all this hurts Sean Penn, at least in my snobby judgmental opinion.
This leaves Rourke. Enough has been said about him. A transformation. Redemption. Wonderful. A performance for the ages. Lots of hyperbole. He’s good. The movie is better. But he wounded the industry with his choices earlier in his career. And the Oscars are more of a celebration of the industry than it is a celebration of great performance and films. Don’t be shocked if Rourke’s comeback film (Not Sin City, hehe,) is rewarded with the nomination and subsequent supporting role in a prestigious film offers. I’m not saying it should happen, but don’t be shocked. But everyone loves a comeback story. And see the film if you haven’t, especially on the big screen. Even if you aren’t an adolescent wrestling nut. It’s always good to see the Blue Meanie still getting work.
Who Should Win – Jenkins/Rourke
Who Will Win – Penn
Best Director
David Fincher – The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Opie Cunningham – Frost/Nixon
Danny Boyle – Slumdog Millionaire
Stephen Doyle – The Reader
Gus Van Sant – Milk
If they fork the statuette to Boyle for his totally medicore feel-good gangsteresque film, people are going to be surprised when a bunch of white dudes walk onto for a “foreign” film (it’s British, member!) which many people mistakenly think is a genuine Bollywood flick, and was financied, produced and totally genuinely Indian, lots of people will feel cheated. Which they kind of should. Boyle is totally banking off these cute kids, and manipulating the global feel of the film to make it something unique. Which it isn’t. I liked it alright, but it didn’t really take any chances. There is some mundane symbolism, and a brief conversation could be had afterwards regarding fate vs. coincidence, which is really just an exchange about three phrases long, and that one girl is very hot, which is all it really takes to win Best Director, I guess. And too many cuts and fuzzy angles. In that case the award should really go to the director of Cloverfield. I am dead serious. And I like(d?) Danny Boyle. But that may because I have never seen The Beach. I don’t really like British people honestly for that matter. Except for Stephen Frears. ANWYAY.
This one should and will go to Fincher. It was genuinely artistic, and not like some slobbering half-retarded dog trying to be artistic, it just simply was. It was beautifully shot, but that may be the reward to the cinematographer, it must be nominated, I’m not even going to check. Basically if you’ve seen it, you know what I’m talking about. Best movie I have seen inyears. I’m actually going to buy it on DVD, which is something I NEVER do. It doesn’t hurt that I have loved everything Fincher has made. Except Zodiac. Ugh.
Best Picture
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Frost/Nixon
Slumdog Millionaire
The Reader
Milk
Milk is out of the running according to my reasons above, same with Slumdog Millionaire, a truly average film that people will fucking realize in a few years. Frost/Nixon is an adaptation of a play based on an interview, and the Opie factor nixes it, he makes shit. This leaves The Reader and Button. Reader is too dark and sexy, like everything Winslet does now, thank god, to be rewarded here if at all. It’s Button baby, the only movie with a memorable message that could remain entertaining for nearly three hours. It’s damn old-fashioned unpretentious American art. It’ll lose probably because people aren’t excited about Milk anymore, and because people eat up Slumdog because people are stupid/not as critical and smarmy as me.
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