Dr. Strangelove and Chinatown

I love how Dr. Strangelove plays on these hilarious stereotypes. The American general is an untrusting war-mongering militarist; the American president is a weak individual who tries/pretends to act strong; the British officer is polite but dry; the rogue American officer is just plain scary; the German scientist is a Nazi; the Russian prime minister is drunk.

The American pilots flying the bomber struck me as extremely dutiful and patriotic. I think Kubrick doesn't want to incriminate the men who actually fly the plane, push the button, and drop the bomb. They are likable, almost heroic. On the other end, Jack Ripper is the obvious villain, going Kurtz-like and taking matters into his own hands about the "bodily fluids" conspiracy. But is the true villain really that obvious and simple? It seems like the real villain is actually more intangible: it's the system, it's the paranoia, the mistrust that truly lead to this catastrophe. It's the way the system was designed so that lower level officers could actually drop bombs - a provision added for paranoid reasons. The way things could never be reversed once set in motion - another paranoid move. The way the Russian Doomsday device is automatically triggered and not overridable, supposedly the ultimate deterrent, but insanely dangerous nonetheless. The bickering and mistrust in the war room that delays any possible action.

The eponymous Dr. Strangelove is perplexing. He clearly struggles to suppress his adoration for "Mein Fuhrer," perhaps a poke at the way America is wont to short-sightedly change sides so quickly even if our new allies aren't exactly the greatest people, a perfectly relevent criticism today. Osama bin Laden was C.I.A. trained, after all. Saddam Hussein was also backed by America at one point. So clearly when Strangelove gets all excited about his plan for repopulating the earth, he is supposed to sound like a new Hitler designing a master race. But why is he so important to be the actual title of the film? What could it mean?

I have seen Chinatown before, in a class in which we studied a lot of film noirs. The second time around, the pure nihilism of the film is really striking. Jake has a past in Chinatown that he clearly has been trying to escape by employing himself as a private investigator. Yet, the more he tries to do the right thing, the more he tries to uncover the truth, the closer his plotline devolves and regresses back to Chinatown, at the final scene, which is one of the greatest final scenes I've ever seen. The dialogue is so full of futility and hopelessness. "Forget it, Jake. It's Chinatown." He can not help but relive and recreate his past, and so the film suggest an ultimate kind of impotence. Truly nihilistic. In fact, when he gets his nose sliced in the middle of the film, it is like a moment of near-castration - thinking of the nose as a phallic symbol. Jake's snooping around becomes so dangerous for him that the harshness of the world comes up to him and takes a piece of his manhood, his power, threatening to cut the whole thing off next time. Castration. Impotence. Powerlessness. Meaninglessness. Nihilism.

It's very dark.

This Is What My Mind Looks Like Right Now

Loner Turned Rebel

Loner without a friend
Rebel without a cause

I am a quitter. It's my style.

He Found Himself

He found himself leaning out of his window into the warm summer breeze, which blew cigarette drags slowly away. He saw the people walking below, not noticing his own universe just a few feet above in the air. He could feel the beauty of the world swirl around him, like he was being submerged into cool, cool water. Like ice. It was almost too cold. He took another puff of his cigarette and inhaled the smoke deeply.

He was 20 years old. He came from a town called Warren, New Jersey. He had lived there his entire life, and he hated it. As far as he was concerned, he felt like a character in a Salinger book, living in that place. It was almost as bad as, say, the entire state of Connecticut. It was always sunlight in Warren, but the light was always a little splintered. There were cracks in this town, and he was one of them.

The air felt like the warm summer wind that gently whispers the hint of rain, in an unintelligible, silently understood language between the atmosphere and the boy's imagination. The trees were all dark, forest green. Lushly green. Green was his favorite color, but only in a very accidental way. He wanted to run away. He wanted to leave Warren, and he wanted to see the Pacific Ocean. He wanted to see the world. But then, he suddenly felt tired, and realized he just might get some sleep tonight, if he went to bed now. A good lonely night's sleep, how rare. So he asked his blanket if it would be his wife, and he fell asleep kissing the pillow.

The night passed on without him.

In the morning, his window tried staring down the sun, but lost, and the millions of photons bouncing off his eyelids finally jostled him awake. So much for getting lots of sleep. He needed to get some damn blinds. Will I be grateful when I die? I hope so. I don't want to go against my will. What a sense of mortality. Of human finitude. Why do people take speed? Why would you want to fast forward through any of this precious time?

He woke. He decided he'd run away to New York today. It wasn't too far away. He could do it. So he dressed, cast one handflip to try and order his long, unruly Beatles-haircut, and then he was out the door, catching the train, catching another train, getting off at Penn Station. It could only be good times from now on. At least today.

He wanted to call a girl he knew in this city. He pulled out the paper address book he always kept in his back pocket. He found the number of a mutal friend, and called him. Yeah. Yeah. 4? OK. 4, right? Alright, got it. Thanks, man. Yeah, definitely. Alright, later. And he called up one of the girls he knew that lived in the city. An electronic approximation of her voice answered. It's me. Yeah. I'm in the city! I know! Oh, seriously? Oh, totally, don't even worry about it. Yeah, it's no big deal. Hah, right. Some other time then! Alright, bye. No go. Her "friend" was in town. Mmm-hmm.

He decided he'd just walk around New York alone. He didn't need companionship. He didn't need help. He heard the sound of an ice cream truck in the distance. Ah, summer in the city! The light, friendly tinkling of the ice cream truck, come to signal delicious tasty ice cream and frozen treats, for only 50 cents! What? A dollar? Since when? Since when was this shit a dollar? This has always been 50 cents! When I was a kid, it was 50 cents, goddammnit! No! I refuse to believe any of these prices could change! It's always been two quarters -- it's always been the two biggest shiny ones, its weight in my pocket for the weight of the ice cream treat in my hand. No more. None of this paper bill business. Children are meant to use the coins.

New York is incredible. A New York summer is like none other. He could definitely walk around all day. He browsed through poster stores. Used CD shops. Hat boutiques. Porno shacks. He stopped at all of them. He was determined to know this entire street, in and out. To claim this little chunk of New York as his own area of expertise. We all need some area of expertise, or at least the false belief in one, that one thing that separates us from the other 6 billion, the one thing that individualizes us. Because who doesn't want to think they are an individual, in some way? Who doesn't want that? But what if anonymity is an unavoidable consequence of human existence? What if these stores belonged to everyone? Who knows? No one may follow. No one may lead. There may not even be paths to go down.

He thought of another girl he could call. He called back the friend and asked for the other girl's number. He called her. Hey hey. Yeah, how'd you guess? Yeah, of course, why did you think I was calling? Sure. Umm, I'm not sure. Somewhere in East Village, I think. Yeah. Um, the CD store "Stairway to Heaven?" Oh, seriously? You know where this is? OK. Alright, see you soon. And he walked into the store and browsed around. He found a lot of great classic rock records. Jimi Hendrix. The Grateful Dead. Bob Dylan. The Beatles. And of course Led Zeppelin.

She suddenly walked in, bringing fresh minty air blowing into the store. He quickly recognized this almost imperceptible change in the weather, and turned around. There she was. He noticed how beautiful she was for the millionth time. She grabbed his hand and said, "Come on, let's go play outside!" She was so simple with her words and emotions. He couldn't really handle her. He wondered if he should have just not called. But it was too late. The time for making choices was over. He was just along for the ride now. She took him to her car and they started driving around. Oh, I don't know. Where do you want to go? It's your car. It's your city. No, no, you decide. That's true. I did call you. OK. Well. Let's go... let's go to Central Park and walk around or something. Yeah. The sun is out. It's great. The shade will be nice.

So the morning came and went. He was beginning to feel a little hungry. He had been awake for a few hours now, and he was getting hungry. They found a coffee shop called The Attic, and went in. He ordered a small sandwich and coffee, and she ordered a coffee as well. She pulled out a cigarette. Eh, the usual. Not too much. Just hanging out. You? Oh wow. That must be exciting. Tell me about it. No kidding. Are you joking? That's hilarious. Interesting. Yeah, I know. You said it. The same thing happened to me. I know what you mean. Definitely.

They left the Attic, and he felt like he was leaving the attic of his life. Girlfriend? Huh? No. Nope. Just a girl who would get really mad if she heard me say that! Haha. Yeah, it's a joke. It's this comedian, Mitch Hedberg, have you heard of him? Oh, really? You saw him live? No way! I'll bet. Damn, that's awesome. He's so funny on the videos, I can't even imagine... Oh, I'll bet. Yeah. Hah. Wow. Live.

His feet were a little tired. He wanted to go home with her. He was tired of walking. You know what's a good song? Yeah, good point. I guess so. That's a very broad perspective. I see. I didn't know American Beauty was your favorite movie. Indeed, they are beautiful. He felt suddenly attracted to her like being attracted to the constant roar of a distant waterfall during a long hike. But he made no sign, excepting perhaps a few nanometers walking distance closer to her. He couldn't help it. Her zest always overpowered his malaise. He wanted to grab her arm and stop her, and turn her around and pull her close and kiss her in his warm embrace, but he didn't want it to sound like a sappy, gross Wal-Mart checkout-rack romance novel. He needed it to be original. He couldn't come up with anything sufficiently genuine enough though, so he just followed her from bench to bench, grass patch to grass patch, tree to tree.

Maybe I should just settle down. But he couldn't. People from Warren, New Jersey are settled down before they're born. He had to be the exception, he couldn't just fall in line like the rest. He was never settling down. And so he found himself. And so he took the train back home.

And oh, what a long, strange trip it has been.

Like Water

I heard Moses on the radio, telling everyone about the Commandment of the Day. Water races up the cup to swish and splatter on our heads. He looked up "down" and found his own dead body. She taught him how to fall in love with the sound of every word he said. Even elephants travel together through space. Every drop of light that falls in my pocket, I'm keeping for later. The mortician's fingers laced around each other like the patched quilt of a baby doubling as a funeral shroud. Space fills nearly as quickly as time. I feel like a tree, and I want to move over there, see the world. Titanium is the next Adam Sandler. Screaming won't help you now. She loves those shoes. I hear every few million years, and it always sounds like a cat crying. Why not? He took a pitchfork and stabbed himself in the hippocampus, where music leaked out instead of blood. Soda matters. You walked all this way to find an empty well, only to realize all the water was inside you. Crisp applies to beer and bacon. Can't fool the reaper. We danced all night under photons that had to travel millions of miles just to be reflected by your eyes into mine, and then I kissed them. Try not; do, or do not, there is no try. The future is difficult to see with eyes under moving water. She wasn't made of matter, she was luminous. Green.

Some People Write Beautifully About Themselves

The following was actually written on June 10, 2005 at 3:44 AM.

Some people write beautifully about themselves. But it's all just flowers. I don't write like that. I hate crap like that, a whirlwind ultimately surrounding -- what? Nothing.

This is exactly what the following treatise is about. Nothing. No one. And it comes from nowhere. It comes from an empty nowhere, the alley in between buildings where only the occasional hobo dares to spend more than five minutes. That's how I write. I've already said too much.

Methinks. Nobody says that word anymore. Behold. Methinks. Good words. I think we need to... repopularize those words. Lo, another paragraph!

She sat in the rain with him, waiting for the bus. They chatted outside the arcade. She could hear the sound of music from a faraway part deep inside her brain. Was his name Alex? Or Mark? Somebody was a Mark. Oh, well. The music continued.

The same music was coming out of the radio of the car of a man driving back home after a long day of work. He was stuck in the usual traffic. He had just had a meeting with his boss. He had been fired. It was Friday. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe he had to go home to his wife and four kids -- four beautiful girls -- and tell them this news. He was 55. He couldn't just go out and find another job so easily. So he snapped and broke away from the traffic, making a U-turn into the oncoming lane, crashing his car to death. The police cleared the scene in about 30 minutes after arriving. It's those five minutes in between the crash and their arrival that everything in the universe happens.

French may be very romantic, but it's also a very sad language. It can sound incredibly... melancholy. It's just a language with a lot of emotion, of the squishy kind, not of the German kind. Take this song title, for example: "Une Année Sans Lumiere." Sad. Melancholy. In English? "A Year Without Light." Sounds like the title of a science-fiction series.

So the people rose up. The people always rise up. The people always triumph, little by little, but time after time. That's evolution. That's evolutionary fight. That's the human spirit. All genetic. Developed over millions of years. My train just derailed. I completely lost my train of thought.

Allow me to regather. People grow up in neighborhoods. I guess I kind of come from a rough neighborhood. But enough about me. Let's talk about what it's like to ride a bicycle. The beauty. The elegent movement. The wind. The speed. The balance. That rushing feeling. The sun coming through in patches through the canopy of leaves above. A paved road moving downhill. You don't even need to pedal. You just hold still and glide, float, fly...

I love that feeling, that feeling of freedom. Life is perfect. Sic transit gloria, though. And you hit a hill, and you have to pedal. You have to work hard for it. Your legs are tired. You can't make it up. But you refuse to switch gears. You push and push and push. You grind it out. You don't give up. You're never getting off this damn fucking bike. You're not pushing it up, you're not walking it up -- you're riding the fucking bike up. So you push, with everything you've got, and you go, and you go, and you go. And it comes, slowly, the decline of the tip, the tip, the final tap, and the other side... WHOOSH!

Jesus was incredible.

I don't want you to leave.

Intense. I can't handle this right now. Just give me a second. Thanks.

And so he fell asleep.

Insanity

Stairs. Walking up. Winded. Damn lungs. Phone call. Hey. OK. OK? OK! Crashhh. Wake up. Brain. Morgan. Cab. Bus. Fly Ribbon. 3600+ points. Canal St. Times Square. Aerosmith. Scientologists. Let's hit up PAX again. Do not question the Doogs. 59th. Happy birthday John. 63rd. Sundeep. Tiny glass goblets of fire. Spoon Special. Is that water? Cab. Five years. We feel bad. Buy a lighter. Dark street. Stop walking. Walk. Stop. Walk. Stop. Turn around. Done. Melody. Vin. Fuck the government. You're D. Liu? Looks like Faye. Bottle. Cigarette. Bottle. Cigarette. Cup. Cigarette. Looks like Andy Garcia. Clove. Mint. Same hookah bar, same bouncer. Deja vu. Detroit. What can Brown do for you? Yellow face. Table for ten. Sake. No bomb. No drop. Pour. Chug. Chicago in the summer. The Pacific Ocean in the spring. An ounce each. I'll get on it Monday. In the woods. Don't panic. Light. Bar. Rejected. Bar. Rejected. Stoop. Closing eyes. Hop the fence gate. Bench. Water fountain. Reverse peristalsis. Under water. Hop the fence gate again. Of course not. Phone call. No idea. Cab. 14th. Apple Bank. Sign in. Room. Pillow. Crashhh. Wake up. Cold. Who is that? Sign out. Hot. Others. Waiting. Union Square. 59th. 63rd. Free water. 77th. Spice. Spring roll. Pork. Dirty shirt. 63rd. Air conditioned room. Peace out. 59th. East Broadway. Purple ticket. Philadelphia. Heat. Languish in the language of anguish. Pottruck? Cab. Tired. Shower. Change. Clean. Bench. Cigarette. Erdman. Chuck. Allegro's. Bottles. Biopond. 4028. Luke. People. Beatles. Modest Mouse. Bert. 4051. Happy birthday Louisa. Glass. Porch. Drexel. Writing is my passion. I will never quit. Fuck the government. People. Nepal is always cool. 7-11. Coolest police officer I've ever met. Gregory. Van Pelt Manor. Third floor. What were we doing? Out. Back. Down. Lying on back. Building. Dark. Sky. Black. Cigarette. Frogro. Chair. Bum. Cigarette. Move car. Responsible. Safe. Back. Thom Yorke. Billie Joe. Bob Dylan. Playlist. Crashhh.

Ode to No One

VERSE:
I crawl into the bed you made
Sighing about yesterday
How you felt sitting in my lap
How I felt when I made you laugh

I put on the shirt you like to borrow
Smelled your skin and my sorrow
I can't sleep like this anymore
Within this empty space you wore

CHORUS:
My room looks different every night
I try to go to bed, but it don't feel right
So maybe I'll just stay awake waiting
Things always looked better in the morning

VERSE:
I like to picture the way you smile
Even though it makes me cry for a while
It's good to know that you'll always be there
In my memory's secret lair

It's too late now to call your phone
Just because I'm feeling alone
You're dreaming somewhere far away
I'm lying awake and waiting for day

CHORUS:
My room looks different every night
I try to go to bed, but it don't feel right
So maybe I'll just stay awake waiting
Things always look better in the morning

BRIDGE:
Why does it have to be this way?
Why are you so far away?
Tonight I'll stay up counting the hours
Pretending you're just taking a shower

CHORUS:
My room looks different every night
I try to go to bed, but it don't feel right
So maybe I'll just stay awake waiting
Things always looked better in the morning

OUTRO:
They'll look better tomorrow morning
They'll look better tomorrow morning
They'll look better tomorrow morning
They'll look better tomorrow morning

I Like Ironic Statements Like...

WARNING: Don't panic!

This is the hard part.

I <3 SAS

According to Wharton, I was "way too late." According to the School of Arts and Sciences, since it's "still pretty early" and I have "such good grades," it is thumbs-up for me to get a dual-degree after all. Thank you, SAS, for being the total opposite of Wharton. Thank you for being nice. I <3 SAS.

10 Grand Don't Come for Free

I have reached 10,000 visitors! Most of them being from two or three obsessive daily blog-checking friends. You know who you are. You're reading right now. Well, I owe this achievement all to you. And also to those people out there who keep Googling "quaker porn." I know you're doing it, stop hiding! Brother Jebediah's Bang Buggy is no longer a site!

I have one thing to say about the awesome Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks concert: wowee zowee! (Oh, I'm so clever.) Shout-out to Anni for being nearly as cool as me and coming with. The opening band was some insane, tripped-out post-rock/experimental stuff by some band from Detroit. They tried to do Sonic Youth without the singing and crazy on-stage antics, and they succeeded. The guitarist looked like Jimi Hendrix on acid, the bassist looked like Ashlee Simpson, and the drummer looked like... well, a white man with an afro beating on a drum set that included a timpani. He sort of reminded me of Beakman from Beakman's World (remember that show?)

SM&J rocked the house with mostly new tracks from the new album, for which I was happy, because I could recognize the songs and feel superior to most of the I'm-waiting-for-it-to-be-available-for-download-on-BitTorrent folks. I think I liked the Jicks more than Stephen Malkmus. There were a couple of times where Malkmus would start a song and then go, "Shit, never mind, I can't remember the lyrics." It was funny, and I didn't really mind, but the band always looked a little disappointed, like, "C'mon Steve, we came here to do a show for these people. Don't disappoint." Also, their drummer was hilarious, and came out and played a song for us on the guitar, also, and they had a second guitarist who, like, did everything. All of a sudden he'd bust out the tambourine, or a salt-shaker thing, or switch to the keyboards, or play more guitar, or just slap his thighs. Every band needs that one team-first guy who does all the little things. Their bassist was also female (has Kim Deal circa Pixies really been that influential?), and didn't look like any of the Simpsons, or any other pop star. Anyway, this post shall end as an ode to the Jicks, culled from www.allmusic.com: "2005's Face the Truth -- on which Malkmus embraced domesticity with a whimsical feel missing from his work since Wowee Zowee -- featured Malkmus with and without the Jicks, who also supported him on tour that summer." Damn right they supported him on tour this summer!

Now I have to decide if I liked this show or the Walkmen more.

FUCK WHARTON

WHARTON WON'T LET ME GET A DUAL-DEGREE WITH THE COLLEGE. YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND HOW FUCKING PISSED OFF I AM RIGHT NOW. IF THIS POST COULD SCREAM IN FRUSTRATION AND RAGE, AND REACH OUT WITH A CHAINSAW TO COMPLETELY DESTROY THE SCREEN YOU ARE VIEWING THIS ON RIGHT NOW, IT WOULD. THAT'S HOW FUCKING PISSED OFF.

Oh Snap

Oh snap. Insomnia bad.

June

June is a nice month.