Gatochy's Blog

2008-07-07T02:08:00.001+01:00

Gatochy, 2004

Well, that's it, Gatochy died tonight, of a tumour. Best friend ever. I wish I had been a better slave. This blog is closed for three days.

The Harry Enfield show

2008-07-06T23:18:00.001+01:00

You know, these misogynistic sketches from the Harry Enfield show are ironical, but let's face it, who wouldn't rather talk about fluffy kittens and embroidery than what the stupid government is doing? She's so nice, I want her to be my mother. I'd love someone to hold my hand tenderly and call me a sweet, fragile thing, who has had a lovely thought. Gosh.

Bless this show for slapping a woman for acting all "hysterical", and having her say thank you for being slapped, like "Thanks, I really needed that". Violence: the only way to handle these irrational creatures we call women. I didn't know how much I missed that cliché until I saw it. It's like gay panic humour, I positively squee with delight.

And I love propaganda and government motivational messages, and it's amazing how well the actors pull off the veddy veddy British accent of war-time England.

Harry Enfield - Women know your limits

2:21 minutes.

Two more videos under the cut.

Harry Enfield - Women, Don't Drive

1:05 minutes.

Harry Enfield - Women Keep Your Virtue.

3:06 minutes.

Favorite movie scenes 90

2008-07-04T18:37:00.001+01:00

My favorite character in Almodovar's Carne trémula (1997) is the one played by Ángela Molina. She's trapped in a marriage to a cop who beats her -- and yet in her living room there's this huge wall-to-wall portrait of herself, denoting no self-esteem problems whatsoever!

One day she asks her husband, twice, "Why don't we split up?" The second time, he slaps her. "One day I'll stop being afraid, and I'll leave you", she says. Odiously, her husband claims that "It hurts me to beat you as much as it does you" (there's an argument I hadn't heard in years.) "All the more reason", she replies! :D

She puts all her hopes in an affair she's having with a younger man, who loves someone else, and is basically just picking Ángela's brain to learn how to become a better lover. She falls in love with him, and it's heart-breaking that once he's done with her he just wants out. She tries so hard to make some sense of her life, but nothing works.

Regardless, she finally gets the nerve to pack up her bags, and her husband tries to stop her, even though this time she's got a gun, and it's pointing at him. He stands in her way, saying, "Forgive me, dammit!" She says, "You're forgiven" and shoots him anyway! Brilliant.

Image Association 540 - Celebrity Look Alikes

2008-07-04T02:11:00.001+01:00

Mona Maris (left)

Diane Keaton (right)

2008-07-04T02:08:00.001+01:00

Cary Tennis gives advice to someone with an addiction to porn, and ends up writing a essay on addiction in general, from the standpoint of his own experience as an alcoholic.

"I drank compulsively and in secret, and I felt shame about the amount of alcohol I was consuming, and about the effect it had on my relationships and on the rest of my life. I snorted speed in bathroom stalls. I drank alone in darkened rooms in the middle of the day. The manner in which this compulsion would arrive was terrifying and heartbreaking. It would arrive seemingly out of nowhere.

It did not arrive out of nowhere. It only seemed to.

It arrived, in fact, out of somewhere. It arrived out of certain fleeting moments of barely conscious anxiety. It arose out of buried feelings that I rejected before I even knew I was rejecting them. The feelings were so deeply buried I could not even know them as feelings. I could only know them as the compulsion to drink. By the time I became conscious of the urge to drink the translation had occurred -- the way a computer system will do a redirect, or create an alias so quickly that we are never aware of the coded transactions that precede the appearance of the alias. The manifestations of our compulsions are the visible and knowable forms of an earlier coded transaction.

In this way, our compulsions take the form of metaphors, and those metaphors take on social meaning that we concentrate in futility, applying value to them in one way or another. By the time our compulsion has led us to its metaphor, we are already unaware of what has just happened. The code has run. We have to somehow slow down the code so we can see it. So we turn to the various technologies of human consciousness, of meditation and psychotherapy and 12-step work, of religion and so forth."

Although fascinating and informative, I wonder how helpful it really is, especially if you're tired and weary from facing your demons in real time, no slowing down of the code (as Cary puts it) necessary. From my experience, there's nothing quite like hitting rock bottom depression and giving up all hope to make you put aside crutches and just sit there, feeling unbearable things -- because nothing will ever make you feel better again, not even the bottle or whatever you were using to crawl out of your skin. The bottle has no power over you, because nothing does. You continue to do things that help keep up an appearance of functionality, like bathing, and putting on clothes, and playing with the food around your plate. The bottle can be picked up as any occasional toy, or put aside forever with all childish things, like expectations. Terminal depression, it's great for your health!

Interesting Links

2008-07-04T01:22:00.003+01:00

- Recently Eddie Fitzgerald was showcased in Blogger's Blogs of Note! After Final Girl, that makes two of my favorite blogs, so I take back what I once cheekily said re: Blogs of Note's irrelevancy. Bygones.

Eddie always has something interesting to say, like:

"Harris is always believable and appealing in the parts he plays in the demo, but is that all there is? Didn't Margaret Hamilton transcend "believable and appealing" when she played the Wicked Witch of the West in "The Wizard of Oz?" Wasn't Peter Lorre more than simply scary and convincing in "Stranger on the Third Floor?" How about Garbo in "Grand Hotel?" It seems to me that it's an actor's job to bring to the project a pre-existing character of great power and iconic significance."

- I've always liked Becky's about me page:

"Who am I?
I'm a Transvestite, actually. I gain pleasure from wearing the clothes of the opposite sex. Tch, who would have thought it, eh?

Why do I do it? Who knows. I once heard it summed up thusly: "If you have a reason for doing it, you're not really a transvestite."

I guess that definition fits me pretty well. I don't do it because I'm a woman who's been born in a man's body, although I respect those souls who find themselves in that position.

I don't do it because I have to, I wouldn't drop down dead if I never dressed again. Although, life does get pretty depressing during extended periods in bloke mode!

I do it to capture, however briefly, that elusive quality of "feeling girly". Sometimes I can dress to the nines, have a great evening out, followed by an even better evening in, and not really feel it at all. Other times I'll get an amazing girly fix by putting on a coat of clear nail varnish before work.

Why do I want to feel girly? Because I'm a transvestite. Why am I a transvestite? Because I like feeling girly.

Circular logic, I know, but who said it was anything to do with logic?"

- Alexandre is Brazilian, so he writes in Portuguese, but here's my shabby translation of part of his latest blog post, that I think is a lot of fun.

"Apparently I'm the last living person who doesn't keep saying he has issues with authority. Or at least I've never seen anyone explicitly say he's proud not to have issues with authority, anyone claim to enjoy obeying orders as much as giving them out. (In a non-sexual context, I mean -- or is the only acceptable kind of obedience now the kinky sort?) Every man likes to fantasize about being one of The Dirty Dozen. I guess I do too, but stop being proud of it, it's getting tiresome, and I have the feeling it will keep getting more tiresome unless lots of people start saying "I don't mind obeying at all, I really go for it", with their chins up and their penises flaccid. The next step is to say very proudly "Spineless bloke right here", pointing at your chest (if anyone says, "Unless provoked, right?", smiling complicitly because that's what people expect of those who say such things with pride, you should retort "No, go right ahead and provoke me, I won't do a thing", and don't blink), and also "You'll like me when I'm angry", "I pray I can into fights and then I pray I can get out of them", and finally, "I'm yellow, alright". You want to be proud of something, might as well take pride in something nobody else brags about."

- Stuff like this is why I heart Ruth and want all her babies (that and her LJ icons, that include Kate Bush as a child, and stills from Flashdance):

"JAVIER BARDEM, GET YOUR SWEET ASS OVER HERE RIGHT NOW AND START BEING MY BOYFRIEND.

I had a dream last night. And in hat dream it was revealed to me that I must pursue Javier Bardem with my whole heart--nay--MY WHOLE SOUL. Because he would be the perfect boyfriend, and he could act in all my plays, and give me beautiful Spanish children.

(...) And then we'll meet and I'll be like "Oh, hi," and he'll be like, "Those words you wrote, Sarah. After I first read your play, I could not sleep for ten days and ten nights. They obsess me. They consume me. My heart beats to a new rhythm because of those words. I am changed forever because of them. And I said to myself, 'Javier, you must meet the extraordinary woman who wrote those beautiful, terrible, devastating words. You must ask her out for a coffee.'"

And I'll say, "coffee would be great,"

and then we'll get married.
THE END."

- I loved Campaspe's excerpt from Joan Collin's autobiography, where Joan tells an incident that happened during the filming of The Opposite Sex, a remake of The Women where she co-starred with June Allyson (an actress who I seem to be alone in liking). It really is something worth reading.

"June was a tiny lady, about five foot two in heels. She was famous for her cute blond bob and her Peter Pan collars. She was petite, delicate and ladylike, so I was not concerned that she had to slap my face after the following dialogue.

June: By the way, if you're dressing for Steven, I wouldn't wear that. He doesn't like anything quite so obvious.

Crystal: When Steven doesn't like what I wear I take it off!

...And June hauled off and belted me. This little lady with her tiny hands had a punch like Muhammad Ali! I felt as if a steamroller had hit me. Something fell from my face and hit the floor with a loud clatter--my teeth? Oh, God, no. Please don't let her have knocked out my teeth? My head was ringing, as the slap had connected with my ears, and I couldn't hear a thing. Stars danced before my eyes and I staggered to a chair and collapsed.

"Cut--cut, for Christ's sake, cut!" screamed director David Miller. "What the hell's going on here?"

June burst into tears and collapsed into another chair. Makeup men and dressers rushed to the set with smelling salts and succor.

I put my hands tentatively to my mouth. Thank God, a full set of teeth still, but what flew off me? The wardrobe lady solved the mystery, retrieving the long rhinestone earrings which the force of June's slap had sent spinning. But any more shooting was out of the question. On each of my cheeks was forming the perfect imprint of a tiny hand! Branded, if not for life, for the two or three days it took for the welts to go down. June was desperately sorry, and it took longer to calm her down than it did me. Luckily, when they saw the scene on rushes it was unnecessary to reshoot the slap--it had complete authenticity!"

One can tell what a natural conversationalist Joan must be. I should get this book!

Bryan Adams

2008-07-04T00:12:00.001+01:00

It's a shame how Bryan Adams is dismissed as bland, "safe" family entertainment, as opposed to "real" rock. I don't know, maybe I'm biased because I was a kid when he started a career, and he's always seemed pretty cool to me. There was Run to You, where he's a guy cheating on his frigid girlfriend with someone who is easier to make love to; there's that fabulous It's Only Love live show with Tina Turner, where he more than handles his own; and there's The Only Thing That Looks Good on Me is You (a video starring Portuguese top model Ana Cristina de Oliveira) where good ol' Bryan wears boy make-up, with very hot results.

Thanks to Adam12815 for uploading this!

3:32 minutes.

I don't look good in no Armani Suits
No Gucci shoes - or designer boots
I've tried the latest lines from A to Z
But there's just one thing that looks good on me

The only thing I want
The only thing I need
The only thing I choose
The only thing that looks good on me...is you

I'm not satisfied with Versace style
Put those patent leather pants - in the circular file
Sometimes I think - I might be lookin' good
But there's only one thing that fits me like it should

The only thing I want
The only thing I need
The only thing I choose
The only thing that looks good on me...is you

Ya it's you - it could only be you
Nobody else will ever do
Ya baby it's you - that I stick to
Ya we stick like glue

The only thing I want
The only thing I need
The only thing I choose
The only thing that looks good on me...is you

The other two videos under the cut.

Run to You.

Thanks to yakayakayaka for uploading this!

3:59 minutes.

She say's her love for me would never die
But that'd change if she ever finds out about you and I
oh - but her love is cold
It wouldn't hurt her if she didn't know cause...
When it gets to much - I need to feel your touch

I'm gonna run to you
I'm gonna run to you
cause when the feelin's right I'm gonna run all night
I'm gonna run to you

She's gotta heart if gold she'd never let me down
But you're the one that turns me on
You keep me comin' round
I know her love is true
But it's so damn easy makin' love to you
I got my mind made up - I need to feel your touch

Brian Adams and Tina Turner, It's Only Love.

Thanks to hunbadfan for uploading this!

4:52 minutes.

When the feelin' is ended
There ain't no use pretendin'
Don't ya worry - It's only love

When your world has been shattered
Ain't nothin' else matters
It ain't over - It's only love
And that's all - yeah

When your heart has been broken
Hard words have been spoken
It ain't easy - but it's only love

And your life ain't worth livin'
And you're ready to give in
Just remember - that it's only love

You can live without the aggravation
Ya gotta wanna win - ya gotta wanna win
You keep lookin' back in desperation
Over and over and over again

When your world has been shattered
Ain't nothin' else matters
It ain't over - It's only love

And if your life ain't worth livin'
And you're ready to give in
Just remember - that it's only love
Ya - that's all

Ya it ain't easy baby
But it's only love - and that's all

Dracula

2008-07-03T23:14:00.006+01:00

I know not 'seems.'
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly: these indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play:
But I have that within which passeth show;
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

Shakespeare, "Hamlet", Act 1, Scene 2

If I were a comic book artist, I'd make a story where the appearance of the characters, the very way in which they're drawn, reflected their inner feelings. I once had this idea for a short story, that I couldn't pull off, of a couple walking down the street; as they're walking a series of hot girls pass by, and the girl starts feeling bad about herself, and getting more and more poorly drawn from panel to panel. Then her boyfriend says something nice, like "I love you" and she turns into a Jessica Rabbit!

I don't know if Francis Ford Coppola's Dracula (1992) is a good movie. It's good enough to make you wish it was great, without ever quite getting there. But Coppola succeeds in making Dracula a man whose very shape reflects his inner landscape, not only through Gary Oldman's facial expressions and body language, but thanks to his wildly theatrical characterization.

With a shape-shifter you never know what his real appearance is -- is it the old man, in regal costume? Is it the young lover in top hat and John Lennon blue spectacles? The hairy monster, the vapour, the bat? But the beauty of it is, he's exactly whatever he appears to be, as the mood strikes him. He is totally transparent.

A lot of the movie revolves around what he looks like at any given time, and what he's looking at, and how other people see him. As a predator he covets with his eyes, first at a distance, and then coming closer for the taking. Even when we can't see him, we still know what's going through his mind, because Coppola makes us share his hallucinations. He first sees Mina in a photograph, and we know she reminds him of his long lost bride, because a drop of ink falls on the photo, giving her the same long, black, silky hair.

The first time they meet he is in the shape of a monster, feeding on her best friend. He recognizes her from the photograph and says "Don't see me like this". There's a thunder and Mina forgets her vision. When they next see each other it's daylight, and he's at his handsomest, wearing an eccentric fashion style that marks him as a foreigner. "See me now" he whispers from across the street, and Mina finds herself looking at this stranger who is looking at her.

When she runs off to marry Keanu we see Dracula crying alone, in the same room where he danced with Mina so many times, and his face is again that of a monster, tears staining his face, trickling down like ink. When she is sleeping, he gets into her locked room through the window, by taking the shape of green vapour, and turns into her handsome lover. When men barge into the room to "save" her, he transforms into a fearsome giant bat, and then a pile of scattering rats. During the movie's finale he is unrecognizably old and wounded. Mina must chop off his head as an act of mercy, to put an end to his suffering.

Each time, what he looks like is a literalization of his feelings -- he feels young and confident, he feels like a beast rejected by the beauty, he feels like a monster rejected by God and men. He is what he seems, fully expressive of himself through his skin. He's an actor's dream.

Vintage ad # 272

2008-07-01T19:16:00.002+01:00

G. Washington's Coffee, 1953, originally uploaded by Gatochy.

G. Washington's Coffee, 1953. Scanned from Taschen's "All-American Ads of the 50s". Click image for 640 x 861 size.

Amadeus

2008-07-01T19:01:00.006+01:00

If you wish to shine like the daylight, burn up the night of self-importance. Dissolve the self like copper in the elixir; dissolve in Him who fosters all existence. But you are bound by the discord of "I" and "We." The cause of your ruin is this sad dualism.

-Rumi, "Mathnawi"

I was just reading a criticism of feminism, and how it's failed us all, because women aren't really happier now, and maybe things were better in the old days, yada yada. I'm sticking with my theory that history has proved how terribly unwise it is to let your husband be the sole bread winner. It's humiliating for a grown woman to have to ask for money, as if she were still a child, and her husband were her father. It's dangerous to depend on someone else, especially if you're romantically involved with him; love can turn to hate, and divorce is very real. You have to have a career of your own. Even when divorce is out of the question, it's naive to believe men won't take advantage of money to control you, as do women when they are the ones with the power and the money.

The article claims society doesn't need women to work, and that it's basically a capitalistic plot to generate more consumers. But statistics have shown that one of the best measures a government can make to raise quality of life is to encourage higher salaries for women, because men tend to spend any extra money on selfish pleasures, whereas women spend it on their families -- meaning their kids get to wear better clothes, eat better food, get more frequent medical care, etc. There is less child mortality and just generally better quality of life for the whole family, and therefore for the whole country. Getting women in the work place is the most responsible thing to do, for oneself as for society.

The most interesting part of the article for me, though, was when the writer claimed that women use motherhood as an excuse to stay at home, because they've discovered what men have known all along: working is a drag, and it's comparatively speaking less soul-deadening to do house-chores at your own leisure, and to spend time with the kids ("They grow up so fast...") than wasting endless hours in traffic to get to an unrewarding and thankless job, as most jobs tend to be.

From that perspective, it's no surprise that women who still try to get a higher education go for arts and entertainment, as opposed to the more practical professions because, unlike getting a "real" job, arts are fun. This rings true to me, as it confirms my suspicion that the arts is what everybody really wants. People value artists much more than those who provide them with very essential services, like housing, food and water, because artists are sexy. The sexier the artist, the more he is valued. Angelina Jolie just got 15 million for her latest role, and what has she ever done for me? She sure looks purty, though. Art is one great personal ad, and the best artists are those who can sell themselves as desirable human beings. You know a good artist when he makes you say to yourself, "I wish I could paint like that, I wish I could play the guitar like he does, I wish I wrote this poem". An artist is sexy. No one gets applauses and awards for growing turnips.

The character Salieri in Amadeus (1984) thinks he made it as an artist, which is all he ever wanted to be. He has public recognition, a high position in society, money, the works. Even the Emperor himself praises one of his operas as the finest ever made. But then Salieri comes in contact with Mozart, who doesn't get any way near as much recognition, and he realizes his work is nothing compared to his. From that moment on the glory and the fame aren't enough, more than anything he wishes he could be a genius too. This envy consumes him, and he starts living for revenge -- revenge against God, Who endowed this unworthy creature with the fire of His divine inspiration instead of him, Salieri.

I think his life poses an interesting question: what do you do with yourself when you realize you're not the hero of any story, not even your own? What happens to your soul when you realize it's your fate to be one of the many who live lives of quiet desperation, because they can't meet their own standards of greatness? One could say Salieri's biggest flaw is not his envy, but his impeccable taste, which doomed him to recognize genius before anyone else did. If only he could have seen Mozart as nothing more than an enjoyable composer, like most people did, he would have lived peacefully for the rest of his life. But he falls in love with his music, and what's more he knows he's right to love it so. The moment he says "I wish I could be like him, instead of me" he's doomed to self-loathing.

His coping strategy is to try to annihilate Mozart. If he can ruin him, he'll at least get the satisfaction of beating him on some level, of punishing him for making him feel so bad about himself. I don't see how that helps. If you're not a psychopath, what can you do for yourself? Some would say you should focus on other people, try to find a cause higher than your own petty interests, do something for the greater good -- that'll give you a reason for living. This prescription sounds to me pretty much like just a way to get your mind off your own suckitude. Knowing you're a good person who does constructive things that benefit others is small consolation when you know you would have done them anyway, because, hey, you happen to be a good person. Having self-esteem does not necessarily mean you're going to live your life in a wholly self-centered and selfish way. And after a hard day being good to others, you still have to come home to your thoughts, and face, however briefly, the fact that you're not sexy. That actually matters, no matter what spiritualists say.

Smashing #180

2008-07-01T15:18:00.000+01:00

Thanks to Irish Elk for the plug!

And thank you to Claudia for her very kind words.

Image Association 539 - Homages

2008-06-30T15:57:00.002+01:00

(Clickable Thumbnails)

Gianmarco Lorenzi
Sophie Dahl in Opium perfume ad

Snegotron, cd-cover for Auktyon
Masters of the Fontainebleu, "Gabrielle d'Estrées and one of her Sisters" 1595

Carole Lombard, 1939 (Fabulon)
Madonna, Vogue video clip

Mentholatum Japanese ad, 1930s (scanned from Taschen's "Japanese Beauties".)
Wally Torta, "self portrait"

Waterhouse, "Sleep and his Half Brother Death"
Carlo Mollino

Homosexuality in the movies

2008-06-29T23:03:00.003+01:00

In the past, homosexuals were often presented in the movies as either suicidal, or homicidal -- two clichés that have caused a lot of resentment.

Audrey Hepburn and Shirley MacLaine in The Children's Hour [1961]

The first instance sparked a torrent of sarcasm, the implication being that if you have to be gay it's good that you at least feel bad about it, and see fit to redeem yourself through suicide. But, for what it's worth, when I was a child, and a lot more ignorant about homosexuality, the message that came across to me was very positive. At the time a lot of people labeled homosexuality as a "choice" some made just to piss other people off, or viewed it as the last resort of the sexually bored, who would try anything new just for the sake of another orgasm. These movies were saying that homosexuality was not a choice, but a real impulse, and therefore in its way, as natural as heterosexuality, no more nor less. They simply were the way they were, and who were they hurting, anyway? Why couldn't we just leave them alone to find love in a gay relationship, if they could? Maybe it was society's intolerance that drove them to suicide. I didn't read the message of those movies as "The only good gay is a dead gay" but rather as an effort to humanize them, and to ask heteros not to be cruel. To me it was beneficial.

As for the cliché of the murdering homosexual, I reckon it has to do with people's fear of anything different they can't identify with. When you're different, just how different are you, and how far will you stray from the norm? Homosexuality becomes this surrealistic thing, an exaggerated metaphor for something else, like vampires or zombies. That anxiety about the nature of homosexuality, and whether it's good or bad, isn't just a projection of gay panic. There's a generalized fear of sex, because when you really want something there's no telling what it will bring out in you, how far you will go to get what you want, and sex is something everybody wants, a common human experience. Homosexuality has often been used as a perfect canvas to project this kind of fear, because it's outside the norm. If people's desires are outside the norm, and they still go for what they want anyway, how far will they go, and how many other things outside the norm do they want? And so you enter this fairy tale land where you're stepping out of the beaten path, and there's no telling what wolves will come your way, or what monster you'll turn into. It's a metaphor. Homosexuality is romantic.

The earliest instance I can remember of a murdering homosexual is not from the movies, but from literature, in Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray -- and, although technically married and with kids, Oscar was gay.

Dorian starts out as a pretty boy, in a supposedly platonic relationship with a well-meaning maturer man, who is infatuated with his beauty and paints his portrait. Although essentially romantic, their relationship is chaste, and he's a benign presence in Dorian's life. Then another older man appears, who is clearly bad news and not of a chaste, contemplative nature. He could never be content with simply worshipping Dorian from afar, touching him indirectly through brush strokes, and thus sublimating his desire through art -- he wants to penetrate Dorian's mind, and change him. He moves Dorian more deeply in a single afternoon than the painter friend in the course of months. One could interpret this as a sexual initiation.

Once Dorian has been "corrupted" he slowly evolves into a monster of egotism, who thinks nothing is more important than his looks, and getting what he wants thanks to his looks, and who won't hesitate to take a human life if it serves his interests.

The preoccupation with youth and beauty, homosexual sex as a corrupting experience that leads to worse things, the boy/older man relationship... these are all clichés, but they were written by a homosexual, not by a straight man. If Oscar had been straight, probably he would now be reviled as an instigator of hate.

Interesting Links

2008-06-29T18:00:00.001+01:00

- Very funny review by Camp Blood of The Fan (1981).

"Enter The Fan. The centerpiece of one of the most ridiculous and embarrassing films I have ever seen, Michael Biehn's Douglas Breen tops the list of Fags Hollywood Didn't Know What to Do With. Imagine a cold-blooded, manipulative, calculating killer. Imagine him tracking his prey for months or even years, picking off her network of friends one by one as he infiltrates her inner sanctum. Imagine him brutally murdering people with a straight-razor and beating his victim bloody with a riding crop.

Now imagine all of this madness as committed by Wayland Flowers.

(...) Lauren Bacall is Sally Ross, a wizened, tobacco-stained Hollywood has-been who looks like she's been ridden hard for 40 years and put away wet. Try though the cinematographer (the unfortunately named Dick Bush) might, Ms. Bacall looks about the worst she ever has, despite his employment of every fog filter on the East Coast and one scene in which I insist he actually shot her through a bowl of milk. Between drinks and 120's (or as we used to say, "bitch-sticks"), Sally is mounting a Broadway show the likes of which no one who didn't see Legs Diamond has ever seen. She'll sing (croak)! She'll dance (waddle)! She'll charm the pants off every tonedeaf and nearsighted person in the audience, dammit! The development of this musical is deserving of a film of its own, but we've got other fish to fry."

I do remember a looong time ago watching this turkey, in disbelief at its kitschness and awfulosity. But not only do I have a crush on, I also sincerely admire Michael Biehn's talent. I see him as a male Angelina Jolie: it doesn't matter what crap he's in, he always gives it an intensity, and psychological complexity that you didn't expect. I believe him on the screen, and he's invariably excellent. The final scene where he, playing a crazed fan, finally gets to confront his diva (Lauren Bacall) is moving, and it's all thanks to him.

- I don't know if you've seen this before:

"A look at what phone sex operators look like as well as their desires, fears, motivations and most memorable calls from Philip Toledano Phone Sex project whose new book will be published in July 2008 by Twin Palms. The book interviews nearly 30 phone sex operators so that we can hear their stories during their work in the phone sex industry."

One of them, a 60 year old woman, says she now earns twice as much as when she used to have a corporate job. And that last part, where an operator says she's had three people commit suicide while they were on the phone with her, was disturbing. I wonder if that sort of thing also happens to other operators, only they choose not to talk about it.

- Alexandre always has tons of great links. I loved this post by Michael Tully on the book Seagalogy, by Vern.

"Seagalogy reads like the work of a renegade film aficionado who became disgusted with the stifling atmosphere inside his Film Theory master classes and retired to a basement to invent his own language, pursuing a genre that mattered to him. Vern earned his invisible PhD by coining the “Badass Auteur Theory,” which, in his words, is “the idea that in some types of action or badass pictures, it is the badass (or star) who carries through themes from one picture to the next.” To the untrained eye, the genuine sincerity Vern applies to Seagal’s forgettable straight-to-video catalogue, his reckless use of foul language, and his atypical perspective mark him as an untrained amateur. But to someone who respects film history, who admires strikingly personal writing, and who shares a similar sensibility, Seagalogy is superior to ninety-five percent of the film writing out there. Vern is a truly distinct voice that deserves to be taken seriously."

Sounds great! Following a link on that article, I stumbled upon this page, where Vern offers a review of a Segal Blues concert (oh yes, Segal plays the Blues, and, according to Vern, not all that bad).

"Another thing I wondered when I realized I had a chance to see Steven Seagal playing music was whether or not he would have guitar face. I don't know if anybody else is as fascinated by this as me, but alot of guitarists make goofy faces while they play. They bob their head around and mouth the sounds they're trying to make. Or sometimes they scrunch up like somebody just farted in their face. With somebody like Jimi or some of the traditional blues guys it might be cool. With alot of people, especially white people, it looks ridiculous. And when you are better known as a movie star, like say if you were Al Pacino or Patrick Stewart, you would look even funnier making guitar face. So this was an important question in my mind.

The answer is that Seagal has a very powerful and unique guitar face that is entirely contained within his brow. For most of his playing his face was completely motionless. His mouth just looked like a bracket tipped over. Like in his movies, his eyes were so narrow that you couldn't tell if they were open or closed. But his eyebrows would tilt in and out of a concerned upside down V and he'd shake his head slightly side to side. This is an entirely respectable guitar face that in no way compromises his tough guy screen persona. In fact it emphasizes it, using my Theory of Badass Juxtaposition. Blues guitar is pretty manly so it's not as strong of a juxtaposition as jazz piano (Clint Eastwood) but personally I believe any expressive art counts."

Also via Alexandre, this illustration by Puño that's pure awesome (click to embiger).

- Stuff like this is why I love My New Plaid Pants:

"Screw the election - I need to know if Shia's bust has buffed up. Now I have some visual of him laying at home in bed at night repeating that manta, "I must, I must, I must increase my bust!" I don't know. I keep typing, thinking I might say something worthwhile. Can I stop now? It's obvious this is going nowhere. You know it, I know it. Everybody knows it, but we're all just watching it happen, saying nothing. It's like a car crash in slow-motion. Viscera metallic and human blending together in a whirlwind of frozen horror. It's just like that. Indeed. Amen. The end. And stuff. Dear god make it"

- Stacie of Final Girl in good form (re: Horror movie Lifeforce). Being called a pile of caca sure takes the glamour out of being sucked by an outer space vampire:

"The poor guard withers away as they make out- it seems that Space Girl is sucking the very life out of him...his lifeforce, if you will! He ends up dead and looking all caca, like this:

Space Girl makes her way out of the Space Research Centre and just like that, the very thing mankind has feared since the beginning of time has come to pass: there's a naked space vampire on the loose! We all knew this day would come eventually, yet we find ourselves so unprepared."

True.

Terence Trent D'arby - Sign Your Name, 1987

2008-06-29T17:47:00.001+01:00

A tender song, from a truly brilliant man.

Thanks to haoshop for uploading this!

4:46 minutes.

Sign Your Name

Fortunately you have got
Someone who relies on you
We started out as friends
But the thought of you just caves me in
The symptoms are so deep
It is so much too late to turn away
We started out as friends

Sign your name
Across my heart
I want you to be my baby
Sign your name
Across my heart
I want you to be my lady

Time I'm sure will bring
Disappointments in so many things
It seems to be the way
When your gambling cards on love you play
I'd rather be in Hell with you baby
Than in cool Heaven
It seems to be the way

Sign your name
Across my heart
I want you to be my baby
Sign your name
Across my heart
I want you to be my lady

Birds never look into the sun
Before the day is gone
But oh the light shines brighter
On a peaceful day
Stranger blue leave us alone
We don't want to deal with you
We'll shed our stains showering
In the room that makes the rain

All alone with you
Makes the butterflies in me arise
Slowly we make love
And the Earth rotates
To our dictates
Slowly we make love

Sign your name
Across my heart
I want you to be my baby
Sign your name
Across my heart
I want you to be my lady

Quotes #226

2008-06-29T17:39:00.000+01:00

(Beliefnet Muslim Wisdom newsletter)

His words were filled with such eloquence and wisdom, as though an ocean abided inside him, and the ocean filled with eloquent pearls. The light that shone from every pearl became a criterion of right and wrong.

-Rumi, "Mathnawi"

(Beliefnet Hindu Wisdom newsletter)

Student: "How can I become enlightened?"

Neem Karoli Baba: "Feed people."

Can any lock keep love confined within,
When the loving heart's tiny tears escape and confess it?

The unloving belong only to themselves,
But the loving belong to others to their very bones.

-Tirukkural 8:71-72

(Beliefnet Daily Inspiration newsletter)

The foolish man seeks happiness in the distance; the wise grows it under his feet.

-James Oppenheim

If there is any kindness I can show, or any good thing I can do to any fellow human being, let me do it now, and not defer or neglect it, as I shall not pass this way again.

-William Penn

Sexual masochism III

2008-06-29T17:29:00.013+01:00

The most traumatizing thing may not be being attacked per se, as much as your perception of how other people will respond to what's happened to you. The worst part may not be henceforth knowing that there are bad people out there who may harm you; but the knowledge that you can't count on your group to support and protect you, and how desperate and vulnerable that makes you feel. I don't mean just fearing they won't believe you, or take your side, or that they'll think you had it coming somehow -- I mean it may be instinctive that people right off victims as spoiled, even if they are sympathetic and compassionate towards them. They see you as degraded and debased, and further down the social ladder. A sexual masochist may brand himself as bottom of the food chain because other people perceive him that way, or he's aware they would if they knew the truth. From that perspective, you could say what traumatizes you is not your attacker, but society.

In some cultures men won't marry a woman who has been raped, and the rapist may be forced to marry his victim. Awful as that sounds to the victim, the logic here is exactly the same as "You broke it, you buy it". You spoiled her, so now she's your responsibility.

One would like to think that things have evolved in our culture, and it's indisputable that a conscious effort has been made in that direction. But if the human instinct to recoil from victims of abuse remains, then it's really immaterial how people respond outwardly, if the victim still knows that he/she, on a basic level, is rejected as a ruined thing.

One of the most important things one can do to help a traumatized victim is to just be there for them, willing to listen to their horror story. Sharing what's happened to you, and getting a sympathetic, non-judgmental response, is helpful. But there is more than one reason not to share, apart from fearing the wrong sort of response. One may have scruples about sharing the horror of what one has experienced. One may feel the need to protect others, to keep the horror contained within oneself, to not release one's ghosts to haunt others.

In the end, people keep their traumas to themselves because they don't want other people's perception of them to change. Victims couldn't help themselves when they were attacked, but they can manage the consequences of what's happened, if they can at least keep others from knowing about it. If one can seem on the outside to be the same as ever, one can be treated the same way as always, and hopefully one will not lose one's status in society, or become known as a victim.

This is harder to pull off when the consequences of being attacked can't be disguised. In Coming Home (1978) Jon Voight plays a Vietnam war veteran who comes back paralyzed from the waist down. He has no control over his legs, his bowels, any muscles under his waist, and he's understandably pissed off about it 24/7. He has a lot of anger and self-pity. Then he's invited to speak in public about his experience, and he actually claims he doesn't feel sorry for himself. Instead he chooses to focus on the bad things he's done during the war, and how awful he feels about having killed for "not enough reason, man".

It's a nice gesture, to act as though he's not self-involved, when it would be easy to just care about his own losses. Beautiful as that is, though, it's just a survival tactic. It's better for him, for his full re-integration in society, to draw people's attention away from his wheel-chair and make them see him as a killer, even an immoral one. If they see him as a man who couldn't defend himself and is now crippled for life, no matter how much sympathy they feel, in their minds he will be branded as damaged goods. It's safer for him to be feared, even at the cost of being despised, than to be pitied.

Maybe it's human nature that society doesn't value whether you're a good and peaceful person, as much as whether you are strong and self-sufficient and able to defend yourself and your community. Maybe it's in our genes, inherited from the pre-historic era. A good person is no use to anyone, not even himself, if he's dead, or polluted, or maimed. Mahatma Gandhi never had as many suitors and admirers as some murderers who await their turn on the death row.

2008-06-29T11:35:00.002+01:00

Donate to help this private phone line for suicide remain private, and not government owned.

(Via PostSecret).

Image Association 538 - Celebrity Look Alikes

2008-06-24T17:29:00.001+01:00

Andre Breton (left)

Steve Valentine (right)

2008-06-24T16:50:00.005+01:00

Fight Club (1999) points out that an easy life of consumerism and luxury leaves one feeling pointless and drained of energy. When you're poor and struggling you can find a meaning in that fight for simple things, like a roof over your head, and putting food on the table. But when everything has come easy to you, and you spend your days comfortably at a well paid desk job, you can be left with a feeling of purposelessness -- or as this movie puts it, emasculated (if you're a man). I guess if you're a woman it doesn't make you feel less feminine, because women are fortunately spared the burden of a soul, and as such don't get to experience existential emptiness.

But the fact is, life is unfair in every walks of life, and there is no such thing as no fights left. It's just that, poor or rich, people tend to be selfish and mind their own business. They don't want to jeopardize what they have for the sake of sticking their necks out for their fellow man. They will fight when their own concerns are at stake, and recoil within their shell when that has been accomplished. There may be a greater feeling of camaraderie among the poor, but it's brought on by necessity. The guys in Fight Club could, if they so chose, give their lives meaning and feel like men with a cause, if they put their youth, energy, and unused testosterone, to the service of those in need. But that would take caring for something other than yourself. It's easier to start a secret boys club where they beat each other to a pulp, to the service of nobody and no thing. This hobby doesn't imperil their corporate jobs, and their status in society -- all those things they claim to find so uninspiring and emasculating. Hitting each other gives them a temporary rush, like buying a Gucci bag to feel important, or taking drugs to numb yourself.

I guess my idea of a real man is more in the lines of Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront (1954). There he plays a guy who also used to be a fighter. He could have been a contender... but things didn't work out that way. Now he's a nobody, running around doing errands. One day he has the chance to fight against the bullies who oppress, and bully, and take advantage of the little people like him. He could mind his own business, and not get himself in trouble. But, being a loser, he knows something those pampered Fight Club boys don't: he has tasted defeat fighting over stuff that, in the end, are pretty superficial, and ultimately not important, like fleeting glory, a bit of money, or a trophy that will just gather dust in a corner. Whether you win or lose, when you fight over stuff that doesn't really matter, you make yourself unimportant. But the greater good is important. He goes ahead and puts himself in danger, not to show that he's tough, like the Fight Club boys, or because he's after fame, or trophies or money, but so he can finally be a winner on high moral grounds, i.e., a real man.

The truth is, the Fight Club boys don't really want to get into any real fights that might cost them any of the futilities they can't stop caring about. They can't care about anything that matters. They don't matter. They're not manly, or feminine, or anything at all. They are curiously asexual, like little boys. Brad Pitt's character, for instance, the "hero" of the story -- literally -- doesn't exist.

Shallow Betty

2008-06-23T19:19:00.001+01:00

Some said Ugly Betty was a good tv series, but in my heart I knew better. From a distance it smelled like a condescending show about how we should all assume ugly people are inherently better on the inside, and feel ashamed and responsible for making them so miserable; never minding the fact that they are neither, thus perversely reinforcing people's paranoia about ugliness dooming one to unhappiness, and adding to their prejudice. A little voice inside me whispered "Watch not that stinker, grasshopper -- trust your instinct, let the Force flow through you! Stick to good movies like Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy in Desk Set (1957)". Then I relented to watching ten minutes of this crap.

In this episode, Betty somehow got a hold of an extremely expensive Gucci handbag, that was ugly and trashy, but with that all important label on it, that I guess made Betty important by association. It made me appreciate Sex & the City, where women at least don't pretend to be deep.

Then her father is sick and he can't afford the medications, or he doesn't have access to the necessary prescriptions, something like that. In any case, his health is at stake. So, as the good person she is, Betty trades in her extremely tacky but financially valuable Gucci bag for the medications. Wouldn't you? It's a no brainer.

Her family is so appalled at her self-sacrifice that they forget to say thank you. Not... the Gucci handbag? Betty flees in tears to her bedroom, because she can't talk about the immense loss she just went through.

In her shoes I wouldn't believe my luck. I would see that Gucci hideousity as a winning lottery ticket, that enabled me to buy something that was actually very necessary and truly valuable to me. A bag is just a bag, a disposable item; she could get a much nicer one, much cheaper, but hey, minus the all-important Gucci label. I guess you can't buy taste or common sense, especially when you're shalow and a snob, who craves money to feel important. If I were her I would be jumping up and down, and celebrating with my family this incredibly joyous occasion where a huge problem was taken off our backs. But everybody acts like she just donated a kidney, and she's clearly devastated by her excessive generosity. Whatever happened to perspective?

I could hear the wise words of Howard Payne in my head. I hate to concede a point to an eccentric, but how did we go from I'm sorry I have but one ~~fugli Gucci bag~~ life to give for my ~~father~~ country, to ~~I'm going to my room and cry~~ Fuck you? How did we go from point A to point Bizarro?

My fashion sense

2008-06-23T14:17:00.001+01:00

I like a unisex, teenager, urban look, with an edge. I'm cool with a girlish accent to it, but I find a manly edge just as sexy, and switching between the two, in a transgender way. I love cool punk rock t-shirts, something with graphics; it doesn't have to be loud, and jeans and a short jacket in one colour makes it discreet.

I don't have fashion icons, but Chrissie Hynde comes to mind. I think she wears too many big man coats, and too many ties (I only like ties on skin, not under the collar of a shirt like a man, and I don't wear them anyway). If I liked my legs I'd be cool with a skirt, but it's jeans for me, and I don't have to wear high heels thank God, so I wear sneakers. Lots of sneakers are much better looking than so-called nicer shoes.

I once read an interview with an actress who said she had been sewn into her dress before the Oscars, and been warned she couldn't use the restrooms for the duration of the show, because she wouldn't be able to take it off. I like clothes you can run in. The concept of being stopped from doing something by your clothes is stupid to me.

I enjoy watching red carpets, and seeing those beautiful designer creations, some of them are real works of art. But frankly womanly clothes almost instantly bore me. I'm sure I could look better if I "made and effort", but I feel energized by clothes that say rock to me. I think one of the reasons models advertising t-shirts on the internet always catch my eye is they stand out as individuals, as opposed to simply clothes' horses that look stylish, almost stylized beyond human recognizability. Their natural features and imperfections aren't brushed out, and to me that makes their look inherently sexier.

Sometimes you see middle-aged people wearing clothes that are too young for them. One gets the feeling they were disappointed in life, and maybe they're dressing now as they did at the time when they were happiest, trying to recapture it. No matter what, I don't intend to wear pig-tails like I did as a child, or anything with Hello Kitty on it, or a mini-skirt (I didn't wear one when I was younger, anyway.) But an urban teenage style looks good in people of all ages -- kids, teens, adults, and seniors. It's something you can grow old in. There's a certain charm to seeing old people still wearing the same clothes that were in fashion twenty years ago, like they're walking fashion museums. They bring a bit of the past with them, and it says something about their personality. But I also like seeing a granny in jeans and a bright t-shirt. It doesn't make her look ridiculous, like she's trying to pass for young, but simply as someone who is still alive, and of this era. If I live to be that old, I can see myself dressing the same way then as I do now, and I like that concept.

This is a t-shirt I gave myself for my birthday. It rocks! Dig the asymmetry, the flames, the meteor, the ragged sleeve, the graphics.

Click image for 800 x 991 size.

Click image for 741 x 783 size.

Click image for 900 x 698 size.

Sinead O'Connor - Mandinka, 1988

2008-06-22T10:12:00.000+01:00

Yeah!

Thanks to courageousjohnny for uploading this!

3.45 minutes.

I'm dancing the seven veils
Want you to pick up my scarf
See how the black moon fades
Soon I can give you my heart
I don't know no shame
I feel no pain
I can't see the flame
But I do know Man-din-ka
I do know Man-din-ka
I do know Man-din-ka
I do
They're throwing it all this way
Dragging it back to the start
And they say, "See how the glass is raised?"
I have refused to take part
I told them "drink something new"
Please let me pull something through
I don't know no shame
I feel no pain
I can't
I don't know no shame
I feel no pain
I can't see the flame
But I do know Man-din-ka
I do know Man-din-ka
I do know Man-din-ka
I do
I do
I do
I say I do
Soon I can give you my heart
I swear I do
Soon I can give you my heart
I do
Mandinka
Soon I can give you my heart
Soon I can give you my heart
Soon I can give you my heart

Interesting Links

2008-06-22T08:49:00.000+01:00

musculatures*, originally uploaded by joycake.

- Such an interesting post on blogging, by Stephanie:

"I really do not understand the charge that writing a blog is the last refuge of the self-absorbed, a parade of self-advertisement and narcissism that displays an excessive concern with the petty and trivial details of everyday life. Well, real life, for most of us most of the time, is not the grand events that take place on the world stage but the endless conversation around the kitchen table. Why shouldn’t we be concerned with that? For a start, it is only by paying attention to the succession of small things, the things close to hand, that happiness is gained.

Why do we enjoy gossip so much? Why do we read biographies? Why do we pore over diaries? Why do we subscribe to blogs? Surely it is because we are all fascinated by the minutiae of other people’s lives, because we are desperate to know how everyone else gets through life? We want to identify the similarities and ponder the differences. But then comes the cry: “What makes you think anyone is interested in you?” The obvious rejoinder is that we are interested in each other. We are social beings, we seek to connect with our fellows. And in order to really connect it is necessary to share some intimacy. Indeed, generally speaking, when anyone makes a too hasty accusation of egotism one can often be assured that the true problem is that people are in fact not egotistic enough. So with blogs - the great fault with many of them is not that their authors are self-obsessed. On the contrary, what makes them frequently tedious is that they don’t in fact say enough."

Right on!

- A most thought-provoking analysis of the issues raised by Fight Club on modern masculinity, from the point of view of a Later-Day Saints believer:

"The film opens with a dilemma. The group we're called to identify with and which gives us our starting point and groundwork for the film is a group of testicular cancer patients. The film's world is populated very literally and allegorically with de-masculinated males. The dilemma throughout the entire film is what should be done about this de-masculinization. The cause is unclear. On the one hand, as Meatloaf's character suggests, body building — striving towards the appearance of strength — has done the de-masculization. On the other hand, selfishness is to blame. One thing I'm glad to see is that the text avoids demonizing femininity and blaming it for the cause, as it would be so easy. There is of course the film's implied misogyny, but never does it assert that femininity is to blame. So whatever the cause, it is entrenched in the modernity and bourgeoisification of men, or as Tyler Durden states, a move away from the "hunter, gatherer" notion of masculinity."

- He Shot Cyrus is a delightful movie blog I discovered recently. Check out elgringo's entry for the Dads in Media Blog-a-thon, where he writes about the dad in the film Say Anything:

"Question #1: Your daughter comes home early one morning. She hasn't called. You've been up all night worrying. She tells you that she just slept with some wannabe Karate Kid in the backseat of her car. What do you do?

Do you: A. punch her square in the face? B. talk openly and calmly with your daughter, giving her any support she might need? C. ignore the problem, "America's Got Talent" is on.

If you answered "A," seek counseling. If you answered "B," you're either a liar or a better parent than I'll ever be. Shame on you or congratulations. If you answered "C," then did you see last week when that old lady tap danced like she was in a David Lynch movie? Scary, huh? Also, you kid just snuck out the window."

- I officially love Cinema de Merde. (Re: Raise Your Voice, starring Hilary Duff)

"There are TOO MANY problems to count! There are layers of falsity built upon layers of falsity! Look, this review thus far is the equivalent of SIX single-spaced typewritten pages, and I have been GLOSSING OVER a great deal of all that is wrong here. The biggest, funniest problem is the concept that this elite arts academy, which is, you recall, "the best music school in the country," aspires above all else to turn out the next generation of Hilary Duff-style wispy-voiced little pop tartresses. It takes years of TRAINING, bitches! We have a few shots interspersed here and there of people playing classical instruments, but it becomes clear after awhile that this school is NOT interested in classical music. They even have a bongo training program! I also love the pure fantasy that the STAFF of this elite school appreciate any and all forms of music expression, including said bongos and scratch percussion. You should see the nod Mr. Torvald gives Hilary during her big number, as if to say "Yeah! That's what I'm TALKING about!" when in fact she's just singing a song that sounds like any other Hilary Duff song, which, even then, is interchangeable with any number of breathy-voiced little non-singers."

- Bo quotes from Jeanette Winterson on the current state of British libraries (something Stephanie also addressed in one of her posts, as you may remember):

"Margaret Thatcher, of course, was a utilitarian, a dismal philosophy now embraced by Gordon Brown and welded to the famous Blair anti-elitism. The British Library has had to prove itself to be the “people's” library, with access and education programmes to the fore, and plenty of crowd-pulling exhibitions - and last year, with its funding threatened, it had to prove its usefulness too. The plan was to charge users, restrict access, and cut acquisition funding. After all, how many people actually used and really needed its services?"

And will you also read this awesome poem by Pauline Stainer that he shared:

"Figures in a Landscape

You can see landscape through their eyes -
The wide, green-folded dreams
Of King and Queen.

Swallows cleave their bronze cheek-bones;
Crowned they are
With field-garlic, fool's parsley.

She bears the silver-torque of the snail's trail;
The moon plumps out her breasts
Like sleepy pears.

He, with a hole in the thorax,
Wears floating sedge over floating-rib,
Cresses in the heart's alcove.

If they speak,
it is with hart's tongue:
with fern, self-seeded invisibly on the wind.

Inlaid they are;
their limbs lichened
As with immortal lesions.

They survive all dissolving mediums.
But at stubble-burning,
Through vansishing-points of smoke,

They raise for a moment
Earthly bodies to unearthly light,
Lovers in an assayer's fire,

Whilst at their feet
Red clover blows
As if they bleed."

Dangerous games

2008-06-22T04:49:00.015+01:00

The other day I stumbled upon the blog of a psychopath. I was sick to my stomach, and ever since then I've felt the morbid need to go back a few times, just to exorcise my fear.

This guy's mission is to come up with strategies to sucker beautiful girls to sleep with him. He totally dissociates the person from her body, so that he has no problem sleeping with women he utterly despises, as he so often does, and he despises most women anyway. He cultivates that hate, as it justifies using them as sexual commodities -- after all, why should he worry about the feelings of enemies? His logic is easy enough to understand. It would be hard on his self-esteem if he believed he was using good people. This way he doesn't have to empathize. That's the basics of being a psychopath.

In his latest post he tried to show a more human side of himself, an attempt at self-redemption perhaps, that smells to me like he may have found a girl he likes for a change, and so he's feeling a little uneasy about his usual modus operandi. It's self-justification time, wherein he explains that, though he has nothing to apologize for, he can rise above it if he so chooses, i.e. if the girl is worthy (such rare cases do come along once in a blue moon). When a girl has the power to make him care, he is willing, even eager to drop the mask, stop the games, just be himself, unguarded. Unless, of course, the bitch starts giving him a hard time, and she turns out not to be so wonderful after all. Then it's back to playing games -- he meets love with love, hate begets hate, if you don't want to see his bad side don't mess with him, etc. He's fair.

I thought, I got you now. I know something you don't. You are S-C-R-E-W-E-D fucked.

You know that old hogwash about turning the other cheek? It's bullshit, of course, you must protect yourself. You can't let people treat you like a door-mat. But there is a bottom line of decency and fairness and respect, even when dealing with your enemies. You may be right to think that bad people should have a taste of their own medicine, that if they wronged you you have just cause; and people whose judgment you respect may encourage you to do very unethical things in the name of getting even. But if I never say anything important in my life, I'll say this much: however you treat your enemy now, is how you will treat your loved ones later. Don't be kind to your enemy for his sake, but for your loved ones'.

No matter what type of relationship -- with a friend, with a spouse, with kids -- people go through periods when they just don't feel the love, but more often than not, it's just a phase. A loved one will do or say something obnoxious and, suddenly, he's a jerk, and you hate him more than you would any normal jerk because you feel as though you've been conned; like this person has been pretending all along to be wonderful, and now you see his true colours. How could you have felt so much love before, and feel so little now? You feel betrayed and duped and ashamed of your gullibility. For a while, your love turns to hate, and you see your loved one as an enemy, and you exact revenge. Then he'll do something that makes you remember why you loved him in the first place. Love comes flooding back, you forgive him everything, and you realize, to your horror, that while in anger you caused damage, and now you can't take it back. You may have really hurt someone you always intended to love and protect. For a while, you became his enemy.

You are what you do consistently. If you have trained yourself to be ruthless and unkind to your enemies, you will be ruthless and unkind to your loved ones during those phases when you perceive them as enemies. If you've trained yourself to be kind, though, to maintain a certain level of fairness and honour and decency, hopefully you won't have destroyed what you have.

This shit is so important that it was worth starting a blog just to say it. Don't let your enemies turn you into a bad person. Don't give up on your ethical conduct for their sake. Ultimately your loved ones will pay the price, and that means ultimately you will pay the price. The wrong people will have had total victory over you.

That psychopath blogger is like the Vicomte de Valmont of the movie Dangerous Liaisons (1988), who never saw the danger in training himself to see women as the enemy, and sex as his personal victory over them. He thinks they're the only ones who'll get hurt, and he shouldn't concern himself with their well-being.

The day will come for that blogger, as it did for the Vicomte, when that once in a blue moon person comes along. You can see exactly how things will play out. There will be arguments, falling outs, disagreements, these can not be avoided; it's not possible to be mesmerized by someone 24/7. There will be moments when he'll see this wonderful woman who came into his life as a bitch who had him fooled for a while, but not anymore. He'll quickly go back to predator mode, and treat her worse than he'd normally treat any woman, because he'll feel that much more disappointed and betrayed. He'll fuck it up in more ways than can be imagined, and when he comes back to his senses it will be too late. Like Madame de Tourvel, she will have seen the psychopath behind the mask. His repentance will be sincere, but it will be of no use, because the next time there's an argument he will just make the same mistakes. He's made it his mission in life to fashion a second nature out of these mistakes. You are what you do consistently.

This guy has no idea the world of pain he has to look forward to. I could almost feel sorry for him, if it weren't for all the damage I'm sure he's caused, and will continue to cause, for as long as he can.

Look at these two:

The Marquise Isabelle de Merteuil (Glenn Close) and the Vicomte de Valmont (John Malkovich)

They've made themselves totally unfit for love. They are, truly, morons. Never underestimate the stupidity of intelligent people.