the daily bush-bash show

jon stewart is a great comedian, no doubt about it. just remember him on last oscar's night - he blew that entire hall. but the daily show starts to bore the crap out of me. it has some funny gags and all, but it's the same all the time - stewart opens his mouth and he starts bashing george w. bush and all of his administration and policies. i mean, it's not that i like bush and cheney and the rest of the staff, mind you. nor do i agree with all they say and do*. but watching day after day the same bashing on the same characters - meh, it's just gets boring like hell.

*still i'm curious about what he'll talk about if in the next run for the white house the show still lasts and the democrats win - will he bash them as well, or will he go headhunting bush all the way down to texas?

cheese me up

i know i'm not handsome and all - euphemisms aside, i'm kinda ugly to be quite honest - but for fuck's sake, do i look like a damn mouse? or a rat, even, like those animated creeps like mickey and others alike? no, i don't. ugly i might be, but not that much (even though my ears are funny). so if i don't look like a damn rat, why do the folk at the local grossery keep giving me all the time eight (8) slices of cheese if i only ask for six (6)..?

quoth the raven:

to see what's in front of one's nose needs a constant struggle.

- george orwell

ratings (I)

to rate something - a movie, a tv show, a book - is one hell of a hard job. it's quite subjective. i mean, a great book for me might be the biggest piece of shit to you. for example. i once told this friend of mine i was reading the catcher in the rye, by salinger, and she said "it's an o.k. book and all, but are you turn into a bloody psycho? i mean, you know the guy who shot john lennon had that book with him? and a lot of american psychopaths read that one too."

well, if a lot of american psychos read that book, then allow me to congratulate them - they might be murderers, but they have taste. they would kill a man, but they wouldn't burn a book, and that's a nice thing. then again, yes, i'm a bit psychotic - not the type that goes out in a rampage with a .44 or a pump action shotgun, but still.

but i digress.

take v for vendetta as example. the internet movie database (imdb) rates it with 8.2 stars out of 10. fair enough, i think for myself. it doesn't beat some of my favourite movies (like the matrix, the return of the king, the night of the hunter, barry lyndon, yada yada, it goes on endlessly). this portuguese gal named rute gonçalves gives it 4 out of 10 (while the public on the online poll in the same site gave it 9 out of 10). crappy acting, bad script, bad characters, bad plot, "low quality anarchic phylosophy" (gal's being redundant, mind you), she says all this and more, but i'm too damn lazy to quote it all. i, for one, would say just the opposite. hugo weaving does one hell of an acting, enough for the entire movie. nice shots (not a kubrick, but hey). the script is very nice, even though some points are not as clear as they are on the comics, good plot, very nice characters - even though the big boss could be a little more evil.

but rute says something that i loved. i really did. allow me to translate (or die trying): the idea of a so-called freedom fighter to think wonderful the act of bombing a building that stands for democracy itself. this is to die for. really. probably she'd never studied semiotics or semiology, for if she had, she'd understand v's lecture on symbols. it makes sense all along. allow me to digress again: if a democracy becomes stained, corrupted, then it must be torn down so from the ashes it can be reborn again. and its symbols (which have no meaning themselves, it is we who give them one; i've already explained it on another post) shall fall with it, and new symbols shall be made anew.

back to the topic. a movie that i'd rate with 8 stars out of 10, rute rates with 4. can anything be more subjective than this? anyway, all this load of bullshits to tell that, from now on, i'll randomly post something like-a-review-but-not-too-much-like-it about a movie, a book, a tv show. and now i remember i'm supposed to do the same about some of my friends. meh, i'm getting busy i guess.

sledge hammer!

i don't usually like to think about my childhood. it's wasn't a good time, even though there was nothing really wrong with it. but there is one thing that i like to think about - those weekend afternoons (can't remember the exact day, it has all been long ago) when, instead of going out to play, i sat on my unconfortable couch, hid the remote somewhere so my sis wouldn't stand a chance to snatch it from me, and watched one more episode of sledge hammer!

sledgehammer's plot is simple. there is this police detective, named sledge hammer (hence the series' title), who has this big .44 magnum gun, and the guy is deeply mad for it. mad enough, let's say, to have the gun on a pillow besides him in bed while he's sleeping, leaving his hot and sex-starved friend dori sleeping on the floor. man, he does everything with the damn gun. and he has his peculiar way to solve the cases he's investigating. note that peculiar here means with a lot of violence, guns'a'blazing, shrapnel and general mayhem.

to sum it up: it was fun. damn fun. they don't make tv series like that anymore.

and it all started when i missed the damn bus

a cold wind under grey clouds by the morning augurs a bloody day. i hope it ain't literally though.

what does your nickname tell about you?

well, i guess nicknames aren't picked up by chance. they gotta have something to do with us. it cam be something that we like, something that reflects our personality (sulky, melancholic, efusive, joyful, you name it), some character of this book or that movie in who we've found a little bit of ourselves. or it can be sheer style.

the irony is when one picks up a random nick because it is cool, stylish, without having anything to do with one though; but as years go by, that nickname - randomly picked up out of style - becomes the mirror of that one's atittude and personality. meh, life's ironically twisted. and i kinda like it that way.

the absurd null

i have been quoting samuel beckett lately, and that's not merely because he's one of my favourite play writers (after i've been given the chance to see end game and waiting for godot plays a couple of years ago, both remarkable in every way). it's because of what he wrote - the absurd. like having one guy who can't see or move ruling over a guy who can see and move, but can't disobey, as if bound to the other by a somewhat absurd link. or having two guys eternally waiting on a field for someone named godot, who never shows up, and who they would be unable to recognize. while endgame's action, apparently, takes place in one single day, waiting for godot spans for two; but they seem to take place forever in both the past and the future. and so is the absurd - the non-sense of an endless situation who could be over if only one of the parts had the will to do so.

the thing is, with both plays beckett caught the essence of life - the absurd of lacking will to move, because there's no other place to go, even though we deeply hate the place where we're stuck. the knowledge that we walk, every single day, towards our doom, and as unavoidable as it seems we don't even try to challenge it. to change. to make things better. to give a meaning to something as meaningless as only life can be. we see the end, we know what's going to happen, and yet we stay, unchanged. weak ruling over the strong, and waiting endlessly for who won't show up to change our lives and give us a reason to stay here.

we may argue that we are free, but we are mere peons waiting to be overtaken by a black king.

quoth the raven:

the mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one.

wilhelm stekel

the end is in the beginning and yet we go on

(...)
HAMM:
Go and get the gaff.
(Clov goes to the door, halts.)
CLOV:
Do this, do that, and I do it. I never refuse. Why?
HAMM:
You're not able to.
CLOV:
Soon I won't do it any more.
HAMM:
You won't be able to any more.
(Exit Clov.)
Ah the creatures, the creatures, everything has to be explained to them.
(Enter Clov with gaff.)
CLOV:
Here's your gaff. Stick it up.
(He gives the gaff to Hamm who, wielding it like a puntpole, tries to move his chair.)
HAMM:
Did I move?
CLOV:
No.
(Hamm throws down the gaff.)
HAMM:
Go and get the oilcan.
CLOV:
What for?
HAMM:
To oil the castors.
CLOV:
I oiled them yesterday.
HAMM:
Yesterday! What does that mean? Yesterday!
CLOV (violently):
That means that bloody awful day, long ago, before this bloody awful day. I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.
(...)

| samuel beckett, endgame, 1957 |

semiotics

things, words, they do never lose their meaning because they have none. it is us who give them meaning. therefore, when we say that something has lost its meaning, we mean, in fact, that we have ceased to give that thing the usual meaning.

mindreader

it's weird when we have an issue quietly disturbing us, and someone alludes to it without knowing it in a random conversation. but somehow it is funny as well.

to curb the depression

sometimes a lie is your best friend

one is a skillful liar not when one can make everyone believe one's lies, but when one can speak the truth and make everyone believe that one is lying.

morphine (II)

for there are things that i do only to hurt myself. and knowing that, if it's not certain that i'll end up hurt, the chances are high for it to happen.

morphine

money might not buy us health, but helps easing the pain.

deceiver of fools

i'm no deceiver of fools. i'm too fool to deceive anyone.

(and fool enough to be deceived)

gravity

seriously. voluntary human extinction movement? and you say "many see humor in the movement and think we can't be serious about voluntary human extinction, but in spite of the seriousness of both situation and movement, there's room for humor". for god's sake. when one thought that the world couldn't reach a new depht of insanity, somoene comes along to prove one wrong.

besides, if they stand for human's self-extinction.... how can they ever know if they have succeeded in their goal?

still i have to agree with the movement in one thing: a little levity eases the gravity.

instant messaging

my best friend of old (not even an acquaintance nowadays - life takes us through strange paths) starts an instant messaging conversation with me, which i miss it due to a couple of sandwiches. here's everything that he, who knows me for at least twelve years and have shared a house with me in the last four, has to say to me:

- hello.
- are you there?
- just to remember you about the bill you have to pay.
- my girlfriend asked me to ask you if you could water the flowers a bit, not much though, just a few drops.
- two more things:
- pay the totality of this third bill, for i have paid all the current others. we still owe you fifteen euros, around seven each.
- if you haven't checked the mail yet, do so.
- bye bye.
- call me or send me a message if you have something to ask.

not bad, hum? twelve years of close friendship end like this. not a simple "how are you?" or "can you please do it?" or "take care of yourself, mate, will see you soon." nothing. sheer indifference, as if i was someone unknown with whom he had the misfortune of sharing a house. and guess what? i think i am.

friends and enemies

making friends is an intriguing and rather random art. i think about some of my closest souls, and it's quite funny to think of how it all started. memory doesn't help though, and mine is particularly useless - i can't remember the first words, the first thoughts, anything about the moment when i've met someone who, randomly, became part of my life. i remember gestures, though, topics of conversation. and, of course, we all have those moments that, by their exquisite nature, became immortal in our minds.

making foes, on the other hand, is different; we usually remember the time we've met someone we disliked, and the exact reason why we disliked that person - even if the reason is translated in something as rough as this: i don't know, i just don't like that one.

still i'm not intending to talk about my enemies, at least not any more than i usually do - and i do it quite a lot. chance drove me to the webspace of a good friend of mine, who happens to be a great musician. on the web, listening to his songs made me wonder - and now, amidst my recurring nightmares (they never really go away, do they?), i decided to dedicate some posts to some of my friends. random posts, scattered through the time, for there is nothing more random and chaotic in time than one's friendships.

epiphany of winter

the wind that rushes through the fallen leaves of summer whispers of winter already. cold, icy words augur under the sun promises of darker days, when the stars are veiled and the pale moon turns tranquil gardens into haunted graveyards. our time is coming, say the recurring nightmares, quietly howling at my window.

quoth the raven:

morality is temporary, wisdom is permanent.

- hunter s. thompson

it's ecology, dumbass!

everyone oughta know by now what happened last friday in a farm located in southern portugal, where a farmer was growing gm corn. a bunch of activists (you know, those guys and gals that don't know what a shower means, who like everything "au naturel" and who would wage a war against global warming, genetics and stuff alike. basically these dumbasses had a bit of fun by raiding (they called it harvesting; i call it devastating, so you see, it s purely a matter of semantics) that farm, under the passive eye of local authorities and much for the dismay of the farmer.

for further and rather interesting readings about the subject i recommend reading the last entries in this blog and this one, too.

but funny, funny, is this post, by tim worstall. I'm sorry, mate, i have no clue about how to get a shotgun license in this country, but one of your readers came up with a more interesting (and gory) idea:

for large gatherings a homemade claymore mine might be more effective. to paraphrase mr du toit: old-style dutbin lid, bucket of home made explosive, bucket of nuts and bolts. some assembly required.
some disassembly guaranteed.

pure brilliance. it made me laugh my ass off. and it's quite true, in fact.

(not) understanding women

girls, women, shall not be understood by any man. and if a man understands one, he must pretend not to. i tell you, my friend, i have a fair bunch of girl friends, and i really appreciate their company (sometimes more than the company of my male friends). all my confidents are girls - and the few chosen ones to whom i have told everything that could be told about me were girls. there are some girls who consider me such a friend that they called me on the phone to tell me that they had lost their virginity a few minutes after it happened. with details. see, this happens because i tried to understand them, to reach them, instead of merely being there and chat with them like a good friend. and what have i got from that? some really hot chicks telling me that i must be a great boyfriend, that i am one of the best friends they've ever had. in other words - they see me as a girl friend, no more. so unless those hot girls become lesbians one day, i'll never have a chance to get laid with them. and that, my friend, is a pain in the ass.

back to the civilization

after almost one month stuck in a distant countryside village, i'm back to the big city. at last. the village might be my homeland, might have delicious and cheap cakes, as well as cheap beer, whisky and alcohol in general. when i'm there i might not care about cooking and cleaning and any house duty. but dogs barking all night long are not as sweet as the sound of buzzers up and down the street all night long. the bats quietly avoiding the streetlights are not as nice as the noise of airplanes preparing to land in the nearby airport. and the empty, dark streets and alleys might not be dangerous in the village - but are far more scary.

thoughts in exile - offline series (I)

for some, it might be a strange sight: me, alone in the local pub with my coffee and my whisky (1,70€ for both - the end of the world is still cheap). i miss my cigarrettes though, but hey - it's the homeland, and there are some things that have to remain secret for the time being.

it's sad, but true - i have no acquaintances with most of the people i've grown up with. therefore, when i come home for a couple of days or even for holidays, i never seek any company to go out, let alone to sit at the pub and have a drink. well, it happens sometimes - we talk about the weather, about the life here and in lisbon, about this guy or that gal. about the holiday, about that football game. nothing really interesting. they're bound to find me the most uninteresting guy on earth: the one who talks about things no one care to even think about, the one who reads books that no one reads, the one who was still studying a couple of months ago. for some (i know who you are and where you live *insert maniac laugh here*) i know i'm merely a snobish son of a bitch in a permanent ego trip who thinks himself better than anyone down in this end of the world.

on the other hand, i see all those souls without a single purpose in life. i go downtown, i pick a chair at a table in the pub, i have a couple of beers with my old friends. we talk, i get bored. nothing interesting. too many opinions that have no logical foundations, when it's pointless for me to discuss any idea - who would understand?

we have anything to do with each other, me and the folk who have grown up with me. that's why i rather stay alone in the pub, quietly drinking my black coffee, my whisky, lacking my cigarrette, wishing to be somewhere else with my girlfriend or with any of the good friends i've met in lisbon.

but hey, the whisky is still cheap down here.

quoth the raven:

a cigarrette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. it is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. what more can one want?

- oscar wilde, the picture of dorian gray

while by the end of june and in july this blog was particularly active, it has been quietly enjoying the wonders of silence - if silence is possible in written words! such a situation is not due to lack of inspiration or time. it's simply because of my forced exile on my homeland, where the only internet connection i can afford is old, slow and expensive. right now it's working at 28,6kbps - hardly enough for me to post something on the blog. will try to come and keep the place tidy now and then, but there isn't much that i can do for the time being.