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Minister of The Je-Ne-Sais-Quoi In Yr Heart.
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| round 4, ballot 2 |
[Sep. 5th, 2008|03:02 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  exanimate | ] |
sorry, late again:
1. Eugenie...The Story of Her Journey into Perversion (1970, Franco) v. Trouble Every Day (2001, Denis)
2. Phenomena (1985, Argento) v. Wings of Desire (1987, Wenders)
3. The Thing (1982, Carpenter) v. A Thousand Clouds of Peace (2003, Hernández)
4. The Great Silence (1968, Corbucci) v. Lucifer Rising (1972, Anger)
5. Throw Away Your Books, Rally in the Streets (1971, Terayama) v. The Man Who Left His Will on Film (1970, Oshima)
6. Night of the Living Dead (1968, Romero) v. Dumbo (1941, Sharpsteen)
7. Crazed Fruit (1956, Nakahira) v. Mean Girls (2004, Waters)
8. King of Comedy (1982, Scorsese) v. Ikiru (1952, Kurosawa) |
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| Rap/Hip Hop |
[Sep. 5th, 2008|02:55 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Spontaneous Music Ensemble - Karyobin | ] |
Top 5 posse cuts?
I'm talking about a track with 3 (preferably 4) or more rappers from a posse or extended group. Let's also try to limit the number of Wu Tang-related tracks, okay? |
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| V's mask |
[Sep. 5th, 2008|08:44 pm] |
Only in one panel of "V for Vendetta" V shows up horned, but this picture stuck in me and in order to get rid of its murmur I hat to make it into its papier-mache flesh. So here it is:
And at Christmas time it hanged abowe my PC in the company of Oni :)
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| Huh. |
[Sep. 5th, 2008|02:04 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Bauhaus ~ "Dark Entries" | ] |
Your result for The artist type Test... ITYou scored 40% modernist and are a 80% good judge of artistic quality! You are it - the culmination of the moment and the synthesis of idea, form, beauty and concept. Your actions are engaging but still full of meaning. Your images are profound and sublime without out requiring some large body of knowledge to appreciate. You are my ex-girlfriend ( :( ) Marina Abramovic, Jean Badrillard, Duchamp; all these artists are people you should check out (but if you are reading this you proabaly already know these artist). If you are interested contact me and I can give you some more names.  Take The artist type Test at HelloQuizzy
Whatever you say, funtime quiz thing. |
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| Anyone else here do this? |
[Sep. 5th, 2008|05:19 pm] |
I just found out about this yesterday and have become unreasonably excited about it:
http://www.bookcrossing.com/
I just registered as CarolyninYork. I go lots of weird places, so it'll be fun to release books in them, particularly if I can think of clever ways to tie them in with where I'm visiting. |
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| Thought for today |
[Sep. 5th, 2008|08:57 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | wakey-wakey | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Teenage Wristband - Twilight Sngers | ] |
"Those who make peaceful revolution impossible make violent revolution inevitable"
-John F Kennedy |
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| One of many of my FAVORITE hideaways! |
[Sep. 5th, 2008|11:10 am] |
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[Sep. 5th, 2008|08:59 am] |
1. Really want to see Van-Damme's dramedy metafilm, JCVD, which is one of the highlights at the Toronno Flim Festival. Never have the time & money to catch anything, but I see much of what I want to see eventually.
2. Excited about the Robocop & Starship Troopers double bill at the Bloor at the end of this month. Let's make it happen.
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| wish i could be more like Donnie Yen in th morning |
[Sep. 5th, 2008|08:45 am] |
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| The Natural Four - Can This Be Real?: The Complete Curtom Recordings, 1974-1976 (Soul/R&B) |
[Sep. 5th, 2008|08:22 am] |
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AMG:
"The Natural Four began their quest for stardom in Oakland, CA, in the mid-'60s, landing their first deal with a local outfit called Boola Boola Records. Initially, they had two 1969 releases on Boola Boola — "You Did This for Me" and "Why Should We Stop Now" — that did well in the San Francisco/Oakland area. ABC Records took over distribution and pushed "Why Should We Stop Now" to number 31 R&B in 1969. At this junction the group consisted of lead singer Chris James, Allen Richardson, John January, and Al Bowden.
Three more releases followed on ABC: "The Same Thing in Mind," an old Boola Boola track named "I Thought You Were Mine," and a remake of the Temptations' "Message From a Black Man." Nothing approached even the minimal success of "Why Should We Stop Now," and their relationship with ABC ended on a sour note.
In 1971, they did a one-off single for Chess Records ("Give a Little Love"), after which Chris James completely overhauled the Natural Four. By 1972, Richardson, January, and Bowden were out and in came Darryl Cannady, Steve Sriplin, and Delmos Whitney. They signed with Curtis Mayfield's Curtom label and released "Things Will Be Better" in 1972; it flopped, as did their second Curtom release, "Eddie You Should Know Better" (a remake from Mayfield's Superfly album). The third Curtom release was the charmer "Can This Be Real," which soared to number ten on the R&B charts in 1973 and cracked the pop Top 40. Its successor, "Love That Really Counts" (1974), was too similar to "Can This Be Real" to be taken seriously: same melody, different lyrics.
Leroy Hutson, the first replacement for Curtis Mayfield in the Impressions, produced the Natural Four on Curtom for several promising releases, but four flops followed during 1975-1976: "Heaven Right Here on Earth," "Love's So Wonderful," "It's the Music," and "Free." Curtom released three LPs by the Natural Four: The Natural Four, Heaven Right Here on Earth, and Nightchaser. The Natural Four certainly deserved better; they had a crisp, smooth lead singer in Chris James, who had a tenor similar to the Spinners' Bobbie Smith but heavier and more melodious. The group had no writers of substance though, and were usually at the mercy of producers and songwriters. Still, the Natural Four voiced some of the sweetest harmony ever laid down. Sequel later compiled all three LPs on two CDs in one sweet package."
1 Can This Be Real? 3:30
2 You Bring out the Best in Me 4:39
3 Try Love Again 4:30
4 You Can't Keep Running Away 3:27
5 This What Happening Now 4:10
6 Love That Really Counts ... 4:23
7 Try to Smile 3:01
8 Love's Society 3:24
9 Things Will Be Better Tomorrow 3:34
10 Eddie You Should Know Better 2:18
11 Heaven Right Here (On Earth) 4:19
12 Love's So Wonderful 3:27
13 Count on Me 4:06
14 Baby Come On 3:40
15 What Do You Do? 2:53
16 Give This Love a Try 3:43
17 What's Happening Here? 4:32
18 While You're Away 3:18
19 It's the Music 3:15
20 Free 2:57
21 I Think I Found That Girl 3:02
22 Night Chaser 3:16
23 The Pacifiers 4:15
24 How Have You Been 3:08
25 Get It over With 2:55
26 Nothing Beats a Failure (But a Try) 2:37
27 It's the Music [instrumental] 3:17
Darryl Cannady - Vocals
Chris James - Vocals
Steve Striplin - Vocals
Delmos Whitley - Vocals
( Read more... )
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| interview |
[Sep. 5th, 2008|06:03 pm] |
LINK (via Journalista)
Not sure how old this is; haven't read it yet. :)
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| I have better taste in music than the rest of the world |
[Sep. 5th, 2008|02:56 am] |
| [ | music |
| | Enslaved ~ "Haavenless" | ] |
And I love telling myself that.
There's nothing quite like walking from the store, singing the beginning of this song to an empty town.
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I'm afraid, constantly, of the future. I do my best not to take anything for granted, only because I'm terrified of losing it. I'm in the Lj-comm ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) poor_skills, and I'm terrified of losing anything, risking anything, being in a number of these situations that I read about.
I can't be happy for myself, even if I don't have a whole lot, and don't honestly want a whole lot.
I'm thankful, every night, for my piddly MP3 player, a job that doesn't make me want to kill everyone, food in my belly and working electricity, movies sent to my house. So many don't have these, and a lot have fewer than that.
I try not to compare my world to that of others. It helps, a little.
But how long will I have it? Will I be able to keep it? For how long? I keep feeling like it's going to leave me somehow.
Fear is a terrible friend.
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Ogami Ittō is going to Hell:
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I'm going to try and cheer myself up, by watching one of my favorite Marx Brothers classics...A Night At the Opera.
(I don't really expect anyone to watch all of these, but I kind of hope they do, anyway) |
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| Need reference for a project... |
[Sep. 4th, 2008|06:52 pm] |
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Top 5 film sword fight sequences in film! youtube footage would be great if it exists. |
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| Because A Headstone Isn't Big Enough |
[Sep. 4th, 2008|08:45 pm] |
It is the little differences. Perennially. I'm starting to feel appreciated. A customer brought me fifty pounds worth of fresh curries from his restaurant for getting him compensation from a network. They're promoting me, pay rising like the moon over my secluded rabbit spattered manor, curbing the wide boys, trying to make them help old ladies cross the road rather than Acme acre type loose sewer covers with slides and wrists glancing pens that sign lives away on the way down onto a pile of skulls and squealing lollipop lady cuddling kids under those mean Stevenage streets, where the only plant pots are with the secret underground cults who live by candle light waiting for the fourteen year old mums to ravage their prone bodies in slumber.
I've been to hell and back, but last week I went more local and used Ryan Air to Ireland, which was wonderful and the sun followed me, hiding behind dark glasses, creeping out of the trees with a pronounced glare, no doubt at seeing my hateful visage. In the spirit of tradition I had to pay one of Suzie's friends to intercept her passport which had the temerity to abscond to a passing drawer, checking on the last day. She thought she could get away with using a photocopy because that's how she rolls. We played cricket, I took her out to dinner, she doesn't love me, won't love me, but she has a nice laugh and I have new mesmeric shoes, which I stare at laconically until I forget the things I most vividly want to.
You know it is a bad sign alluding that the festival toilets are reaching their peak for the weekend when the patrons hug each other with a silent pause when they reconvene at their designated meeting point or look over their shoulder with a withering glance of pity at the successor to their fecal throne.
I loved the My Bloody Valentine homecoming though I was deaf for two days afterwards from the epic ten minute closing sonic squall posthumous of all the hoped for mellifluous shoegazer heroics, seeing Pivot, The Roots, the legendary Congos on a perfect cider soaked afternoon, the genre defining Funkadelic's George Clinton with his whacky funk entourage play my favourite burdensome dance tune Cosmic Slop, and Germanic rhythmn rocking Faust, who threw grass into the crowd proclaiming 'its great to be vegetarian!' and started doing paintings on stage and chainsawing everything up, the music lived up to expectations, mingled amongst going around the strange sand sculptures and eating recycled pasta.
It is always the spoken word tent though I end up enjoying the most and reason enough to go to the festival in its own right. Tony Walsh, Andy Craven Griffiths and Gideon Conn all of whom I have a lot of time for lit up the show, loads of celebrated slam poets and Dizraile teaming with Baba Brinkmann was an awesome late night hip hop experience with the dull Irish murmur of far away finales of the night's music, but sounds so comparably watered down on record. Fondly I shall think for days to come of going to Chai Wallahs for late night milky chai, it is what Glastonbury should be like but seldom is now that all the idiots have found it. I hope this festival remains my dirty little secret.
As a someday aspiring actor and a writer and a poet, Shane Koyczan was the pleasure that stood out however, youtube him if you do nothing else for me tonight loyal readers, if no money wends its way to me or ceramic and porcelain offerings of your humbling love are to be ferried to my ripened toes, an orator who knows how to make every second count and linger, malinger and satisfy, who makes the most basic language acicular on his lacerating lightning quick tongue with the grandstand finishes.
Of course, it wouldn't be a festival if Suzie 'Spielberg' Owens hadn't insisted on immortalising the festival with her unique amatuer footage, angrily cutting sequences in huffy tent edits every time I boldly warned the solitary pairings of loved ones on camera, addressing in moments of quiet Janet and her tolerant mum, who would be forced to be exposed to this tepid hilarity to get out of the viewing room pre-emptively 'whilst their lives lay before them,' imploring them to find a good book or excuse to prevent exposure to her raison detre, which she said was counter productive promotion to our adventure thank you very much refusing to shave her legs for the remaining days of the festival, blind to the fact that no one wants to see her do 'arty shots' zooming in on her hands and the bus driver's admittedly darkly fascinating prodigious growth of unwarranted and untameable nasal hair, like great spidery thickets in a fettered Wiltshire woodland as he nudged and nurdled us to our destination with his knees whilst he drank cold PG tips in a charming family mug and did the Sun crossword [3 across, 3 letters 'enticing mammary glands of a spherical feminine nature' ] with his free limbs and orifices re-assigned more enriching goals.
Feeling a little strange but sadly no strangers up, I listened to the Irish lasses binging on their euphoric exodus as we meandered home, them to medical school, us to Irish bed and breakfast fodder and a glorious cafe called Munchies, who had enjoyed life changing weekends, cathartic toiletry experiences and late night dynasties formed amongst the parties and kinship, the way I had the year before, going on to see Byron Vincent and Nathan Filer in Bristol, this time I felt muted, elderly, searingly jealous, a cacophony of white emotional noise washed over me and I found myself internally remarking how these events provide an barometer of a year. Strange seeing festival regulars whose lives have accumulated so much in verse, relationships, journies, me pottering around in my shop, stronger, wealthier, but as a person, a well rounded non entity, unexciteable like a blind nun in a knocking shop. Not really knowing where the next twist is coming from.
I mean learning to drive and playing Badminton with the qauint and quintessential English gal pal Liz in the coming weeks, learning French, will be quite the gladdener in cosy domeciled bliss and fitness, all very Pride & Prejudice I'm sure but it won't shake my life to its foundations and it needs one. By the throat. I hope I'm good enough to make this theatre business, that I'm working so many phone shop hours for, come to mean something. Or still care enough to enjoy it when it does. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, the highs were every bit the Godly yearning I'd hoped but I feel... so little these days. Haven't in a long time, not since I've been in love. I lack that soul mate to bounce off. I am ashamed to admit I am very little on my own. A vanilla gorilla in the making. I palm off some more essential oils onto tourists and make my mint as I quaff a cheap cigarette, saunter the Irish high streets, and lollop to the airport in a ludicrously high and blue jaunty hat I obtained free to much scorn and derision from my camp mate on the way in, who was worried I was going to get her strip searched at the airport for dropping my poetry cd in her mug of horlicks on the flight over leading to a number of pointed drugs mule tip off related threats, so she would keep subliminally mincing with her bottom arched very high.
The experience perhaps to remember most potently from the festival was camping next to two tittering girls, in our rag-tag tettering tent we had to weigh down with a goldfish bowl and a snow globe due to its lacklustre foundations from Suzie 'Norman Foster' Owens and Benjamin 'Millennium Dome' Gilbert, these girls, girls who were seemingly upsetting a local called 'Dave' [the ideal name for any faceless international malignant psychopath, anonymous yet sinister, and who doesn't know a Dave that personifies a loveable rogue they don't entirely trust] whom they had met at the festival proceeded to rile him at distance, to mental extinction, the brink, deliberate or otherwise, in a neighbouring tent within comfy earshot, talking about one of the squawking bakewell's dawn raid conquests, in the brisk Irish due, cover sheet flapping amongst the boardy hollers of sweltering lashed back on canvas. Dave it became apparent from his fevered reaction had evidently been rejected in favour of a mutual friend, in a sexual sort of way, and started referring to said Irish Bakewell as a copious harlot, only in a less pleasant vernacular along the lines of porky fox hunt, or something similar, before threatening to burn their tent to the ground, which only endured more emasculating meaty cavalcades of laughter littering the night sky, startling the owls. Feeling a gesture was in order, he came out and kicked their tent fairly hard then walked off, huffy as a man who had seen their last rolo sequestered from them by a racist judge, them still benignly tittering to themselves, evidently feeling quite safe, carried about their business. Stomp stomp squelch squelch in the distance. Retiring to my tent, I heard him return, more friendly in tone, amicable, conciliatory even. It wasn't. He wanted to know where their sounds had refrained from in the dark, a bright flash, a blowtorch sound, he was trying to burn them alive and had started with the door of their tent.
Dave, not being a master of negotiation or physics hadn't taken into account the collapsible nature of the target material, nor the limitations of his choice of device in the wettest country on Earth, but both girls were palpably shaken from the experience, tearful, angry, and the police had to come out. The hole left on the tent was hardly an evisceration but nonetheless at such a mellow festival, someone trying to murder your neighbours through inaccurate pyromaniacal tendencies certainly gives you pause for thought and kept me awake a couple of hours. Suzie being Suzie slept through it. Which is why I always miss a good festival. I shall ham fistedly sandwich photos into this entry at a later date to double repeat business value in what is being described as 'a marketing ploy of the ages' by the Scotsman, who really will review anything these days and give it four stars. |
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| in less dramatic "news" |
[Sep. 4th, 2018|03:22 pm] |
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i transfered to a new position with set hours, and i make $10/hr! and it's just three night shifts on weekends, which means i can write at work and my whole week is free! |
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[Sep. 4th, 2018|02:00 pm] |
sometimes...i feel like i can't handle the responsibility (or possible responsibility) of seeming smart or attractive to someone, and i want to give any seemingly smart/attractive aspects of me to other people...assuming that person knows what to do with said "attractive" aspects.
like...i have a lot of clothes that are really pretty, but i always look at myself in them and think they'd look better on someone else. so i give them to my friends, and i get excited when my friends put them on and look "right" in them. same with food. i wish i could just make big dinners all the time and feed everyone around me without feeling obligated to ingest anything myself...hoping it feels good to them in ways socialized eating never feels good to me. any drawings i've made, anything i've sort of liked that i've written, any awards i've won...i want to give them away, i want someone else to have made/earned them. i want other people to take "credit" for my existence. it's not that i don't "deserve" any praise i earn or any sense of belonging/accomplishment/being-likedness/etc...it's that...it doesn't mean what i think it should mean to me.
i get worried that anyone who likes me will eventually figure out that things don't "mean" what they're supposed to mean to me/feel deceived or shorted somehow. like if you read a book and loved it and felt like the author was a person "like you" then realized it was written by a madlibs program. or like those people in rogerian therapy experiments who insisted rogerian computer programs (that just parroted information back at them in question form) were really empathizing with them. i want to know people. i want to be friends. and maybe some people don't mind having a rogerian computer robot like me for a friend. but...i still feel like i'm cheating. i really just want to give everything away to "real" people. |
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| Oia town, Santorini island, Greece |
[Sep. 4th, 2008|09:08 pm] |
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