Okay, trying to convey an idea that has been swimming around in my head for ages. Regarding films with political messages in them, actually.

Now, most films that try to approach some level of intelligence of sophistication are going to have some sort of moral, or message. Often, these are political in nature. So tell me: why is it, that whenever something like this shows up in a film, I get this nigh-uncontrollable urge to smash something? I'll take a film I recently watch - Lord of War - as an example: now, I'm not saying that this is a particularly clever movie, but I did, for the most part, enjoy it, at least as far as I saw the film as an example of a man who was selling his whole life out for his dirty business. Now, the part that gets me - that really ticked me off - is right near the end. The climax of the film, per se. Where it is revealed that the film, instead of being an example of a man's whole world eroding, is in fact, a rather clumsy shot at the American government (probably the current one, but I challenge you to find a time when it wasn't applicable). I mean, you have all this fairly passable character study stuff, and THAT was what you were leading up to? It wasn't a re-curring theme throught the film, at least as far as I saw (and it IS possible to do such a thing without beating the audience over the head with what ever you're trying to get across), so why did they bother having it drawn together like that? ARrrrrgh.

And Lord of War is not alone. While I love Douglas Adams dearly, his short story 'Young Zaphod Plays it Safe' is a six page story with a mediocre punchline, a perfect example of attempting to build a story around some kind of politically pointed idea that ends up leaving any reader with a sense of self-consciousness with a sort of twisted feeling in their stomach 'surely, we're cleverer than this.' In short, there's no way I'm ever going to enjoy a politcally themed film just because I agree with the subject matter. In fact, if, say, a film made by a neo-Nazi or an old-guard Soviet is suffciently clever or poignant enough, I might even be able to take something away from it (though it is unlikely. Nationalists tend to have about as much poetry in their soul as the Gobei desert has water) .

So there it is. A messy little rant of mine. Basically: a clumsy poiltical message does not make your film smarter, it just enrages a thinking audience. I prefer my dumb films honest about their dumbness. With that in mind, all 'Commando'. "You need to let off some steam, Bennet!" Bwhahahahaha!

This is what I shall by saying the next time I spy a collection of student activists/protestors being profoundly stupid (which is all the time, really). Of course, 'this' is currently a somewhat ambiguous term, so why not accompany it with a solid gold hammer blow to the face. I find the idea of smiting folk with a giant golden hammer appealing, and the smiting of smelly hippy's all the better.

I mean, seriously people. If you want to make a point, is it too much to ask that you do it in a way which isn't so... well... utterly braindead? I mean, mob's are fun and all, and there's always the chance that you might rub up against a slightly less smelly and possibly pretty hippy chick, but man! You folks give punk-as-fuck anti-establisment action a bad name. If you have to resort to braindead shouting (complete with rhymes!), you can at least have the decency to raze a building or two. I mean, the only thing worse than a mob, is a mob without testicles. Damn hippie's can't deliver on intellectual debate OR mindless violent entertainment. So what good are they? MULCH, THAT'S WHAT. Grind 'em up and feed 'em too the trees! EVERYBODY WINS.

I mean, I'm sure they have a marvelous goal and all (harrassing an ethnic women, I can get on board!), but God dammit. They make casual racism seem less like a gay romp and more like some horrible, bloody and vulgar thing. And that I shall never forgive them for.

Go back to Greenland, you infernal protestors! Let me enjoy the fruits of a crumbling Western society while I still bloody can! We'll all be slaves to the Eskimos soon enough, anyways...

How do I approach Christmas? With trepedation, usually... it's seems to be a holiday specifically designed to clean me out. Ah, well. At least I can rest easy in the knowledge that the gifts I have brought my family were purchased with the very money I had previously mooched off of them. Life is good.

Life's good? REALLY, you ask? I know you asked it. I know I have a rabidly devoted following here that tunes in to see just what my next excuse for lack of contribution and participation in the wider community shall be. Well, fine, here it is: I haven't felt like it. And it's this crippling lack of motivation that ensures I never actually attempt to do anything worthwhile in my life. It's different from cowardice or lack of confidence... it's just... blah. I think my general nihilistic attitude has finally gotten to me. Which could mean that I need to find something to get excited about again. Though of course, last time I did that, got my heart flayed to ribbons. I made a flag of them and wave them and anyone who cares to ask why I look so broody. It's a surprisingly colourful flag, to some. Though no one said heartbreak and misery had to all be one note. It's a rather amusing ironic rasta jingle, usually. A fun little mello-dramatic game played on the lead singer, who is acutely aware of the mess he's getting into, and sings with all the force of someone who knows the facade's about to drop any second - so he'd better belt those last few happy notes out before the crowd notices what he's doing, drags him from the stage and tears him to pieces. That damn rock chick with the stupid hair steals his good shoes.

Yes, I'm still hung up on that garbage. I'm actually trying to use it as some sort of impetus to write something, but I loathe the whole concept of angsty writing (which may seem ironic considering the previous paragraph, but regardless), at least without the appropriate poignacy. Which I don't think I've achieved yet, so I'll just keep that all bottled up and develop an alchohol dependcy somewhere down the road, 'cause if I can't really do various feelings and experiences justice, I can at least be able to belt out some half-assed story of misery and woe and score some pity-pick ups. Whom I shall then use ruthlessly before discarding them like an overlong finger nail. It just seems to be what's done.

But enough of me waxing lyrical about stuff which makes me appear a lot more miserable than I actually am. I'm all kinda one level... a little melancholey, but not much to be done about that. I do have some stuff to look forward to, such as moving out and gaining some semi-independence (I'll be mooching off of the government instead of my parents, you see). Also a possible radio show thingy, 'cause apparently that's what my face is best suited for (or something like that. Maybe that's not EXACTLY what was said).

Oh, and Christmas. Which shall involve lots of lounging around in front of fans as this whole place is currently lording it's heat over hell. Satan is considering using this place as a summer retreat and soul-toture pit, and has set up some horrendously ugly architecture to facilitate this purpose.

In conclusion, Liquido's Narcotic is a fun, obscure little song. Obscure being any song I haven't heard of. Like Motherfucker = Redeemer by God Speed You, Black Emperor! I mean, no one's heard of that song. Not even me.*



*I may be lying.

Sleep is for the weak. And the fortunate. I currently have a splitting headache and am generally not too sure on my feet. I either have tonsilitis or glanduler fever. Either way, I lack the will to even get up before 11am, let alone compose anything of note. Which sounds like a lame excuse NOW, but eh. So be it.

Of course, now that it's the uni break I have no excuse not to write something, and hey, I probably will. I'm just not in tip-top shape right now, so all you folks who await my next installment (all two of you) shall just have to wait a little longer.

Gah. The doctors' stole my blood. I don't want to stand. My stomach feels like a jumping castle full of water. And only now do I realise that a water bed probably made for a better description. Waaah. Kill me.

Is inspiration directly proportional to misery? Perhaps. Other idea is that I'm just an incredibly lazy man. That and my tendency to get distracted and procrastinate.

Oh well. Things are working (besides me, of course. I never work). Life's sorting self out. I might eventually finish this thing I'm sorta working on and display it here, (though no one will be more shocked than me if it happens). Flirting is a full time job, though it will probably take a back seat to any part-time jobs I hope to get. And I do hope to get one. I miss money.

Ah well. 21st coming up. Will be obilerated. Might end up stripted nekkid and staked out in a horse paddock. That'd be something to write about.