This is more than a little late

...but it's quite funny.

scrappleface

French President Jacques Chirac announced today that Jacques Derrida, the father of the intellectual movement called deconstructionism, died yesterday of pancreatic cancer, “if indeed ‘death’ can be said to mean anything beyond the biases of culture, language, religion and philosophy.”

“Of course, we can’t assert anything positively about Monsieur Derrida’s recent failure to exist,” said Mr. Chirac, “We can’t even state that he ever did exist, since he may have been a mere metaphysical projection of our own prejudices against absolutes. However, in as much as we may categorically claim anything–Mr. Derrida will not likely be showing up for work tomorrow. Although, who is to say?”

Mr. Derrida’s many books and teachings spawned legions of American college professors whose stock-in-trade is to “deconstruct” literature and philosophy in order to demonstrate that, for example, the so-called classics of Western literature are so distorted by their authors’ cultural prejudices as to render them useful only for literary deconstruction.

“Monsieur Derrida bequeathed a magnificent legacy to the global intellectual community,” said Mr. Chirac. “He has provided us all with the intellectual infrastructure to prevent us from seeking after truth. Thanks to him we know it is fruitless to assert anything with conviction, or to say that any ideology is less true than any other. They are all equally trifling. Their value, if any, lies only in the sport they provide for college professors.”

In lieu of flowers, friends of Mr. Derrida are urged to devote their lives to convincing at least one young person that there is nothing to which it is worth devoting one’s life.

Genius

http://www.adamgreen.net/video/video_jessica_hi.html

Declaration

Meta is just the Solipsistic Rendering of Aristotle's Recognition. I'm soooo over it.

Last Night's Dinnner

olive oil in the pan
and strainer in the sink
waiting for the boiling
to make its way
through little tunnels of wheat

Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang

I read somewhere that Pauline Kael saw those words on a poster outside an Italian cinema. Sex and Death. Eros and Thanatos. That's entertainment. You can't depict the sublime without it, even though that seems contradictory.

Anyway, the movie was quite good. A conventional pulp story done really well and with a twist of non-meta self-reference. It took the genre and ran with it. This is one Mom and Dad would enjoy, so go ahead and recommend it kids.

The Shins

I love The Shins because their music is filled with emotion but isn't emotional.

http://www.adambizanski.com/pinkbullets.html


The Shins speak of love with that sense of longing or absence which remind you that there' s a God.

The "sad stuff" is fulfilling because sadness is much more complex than happieness. There's more to contemplate and be "in wonder" about - which is more like love of the Divine than feelings of happiness or even elation.

The Man on the Street

Me and the Man on the Street

Movies I Have Seen

Since my life consists of nothing but aimless wanderings and movie watching, I thought it might be an engaging waste of time to list the films I’ve seen of late. In order to avoid any real thinking, impressions will be brief:

Thumbsucker – My two Vincents: d’Onofrio and Vaughn – both in the same film. I died and went to heaven. The movie: Family alienation. Sensitive teen. Ok. Whatever. Nice soundtrack though.

Capote – To quote The Continental: “Wowie wow wow.” What a character study. Perfection. Not played for sympathy. Not a great film, but great acting. Loved seeing Catherine Keener again.

Proof – In terms of story, the best movie I’ve seen in the theater lately. Makes sense since it was a play first. Since I’m on the verge of going nuts myself, I really connected with the madre o’ Apple character.

The Squid and the Whale – Hmmm. I like Baumbach’s other films because they have that self consciously hyper-literate superficiality that appeals to an educated sloth like myself. At the same time, they acknowledge the troubling self-delusions that infect lonely and too-busy minds. This one left me feeling a bit too self-righteous, though.

On the Waterfront – This movie sat on top of the TV for about three months. I have no idea why I avoided it. It was no trouble at all. Brando was, as always, clumsily grand.

Buffalo 66 – Another Vincent. This one lithe and stinky-looking and kidnapping a plump (i.e., pre-coke addicted) Christina Ricci. I have to admit that Mr. Gallo has a gift for hopeful bleakness that I appreciate.

The Pickpocket – Robert Bresson. The work of such a masterful, ascetic filmmaker should never be watched hot, overcrowded theater while sitting behind a woman with nauseatingly heavy perfume.

Flightplan – Peter Sarsgaard - even with half rolled-back eyes reminiscent of an epileptic or drug addict– is super hot in a bitter, frustrated grad student sort of way. (Why am I attracted to angry men?) The plot was full-o-holes. I have a hard time suspending my disbelief.

A History of Violence - Erg. Why do I subject myself to Cronenburg films? They just f me up. Why does everything have to be so damn depraved?

Children of Heaven – Lovely Iranian movie. Families are families no matter where you are. Some great shots that will stay with me for a long time.

Another Woman – One of my favorite Woody Allen films. Gena Rowlands is da’ bomb. I think that this falls into that category of film in which we realize how much more powerful (though I hesitate to use that word) it is to portray a change in the soul of a woman than it is of a man. Men will often come to realizations in films, will do things differently, turn their lives around, etc., but real change is hard to portray in a male character.