Unfinished vs. Undone

Momentum mustn't waver at this most crucial of junctures.

You see, it is too typical that, when I write about a niggling bit How Things Sometimes Are, I get sidetracked. By children, by circumstance, by this-or-that that I've forgotten to do. But not this time. No, sir and/or madam.

The secret to avoiding this, I surmise, is brevity. Starting with the premise: it is patently uncool for shows/movies/plays/productions that are set in a specific time to use music (for "atmosphere" or "legitimacy") that had not been written or released at the time that HAS NOT [expletive] BEEN WRITTEN OR RELEASED YET. This sickens me. It punctures suspension of disbelief, and constitutes an utter ignorance for what anything was ever actually like (inasmuch as that can be depicted anyway).

I think about the if-you-must climactic scene of 1987's "period piece" Dirty Dancing, set (as we all-too-likely know) in 1963. Johnny and Baby (Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey, respectively, although it'd be great if they switched) perform a dance for somebodies (I forget whom).

Anyway, the chosen soundtrack? A duet of Bill Medley (once, but never truly, a "righteous brother") and Jennifer Warnes (whom didst Jennifer warne?) that was written and recorded in 1987, and sounds like it. Granted, the movie is full of stupid selections (e.g., 1964's "You Don't Own Me" performed by The Blow Monkeys), but that's neither here nor there. To end the movie with a non-anthem from Reagan's second term is an abomination.


Agggh. Children, whom are lovely, need my attention. More very soon.

New Age against the Machine

1/27/2011, 1:36 PM


I've chosen to stop cusping. It's been ages that something of outrageous substance and/or significance has been "just around the corner," like anybody ever specified which corner, and imminence bothers me, and the things that have done have only been muted by comparison to how they feel in the intractably amorphous alchemy whence they originate. Where have the wires frayed? Is there merely a shyness of signal? I have innumerable carcasses that were never bodies of any kind, and it's a good idea to stop gathering (dust? acorns? senses?).

So, I'm forcing my own hand, and love not knowing what that means or if that means anything. Where do I begin? I was gonna, and have attempted to, write about how dog breeders should be prosecuted (which is true--they're a bunch of profiteering pervs).

Or about how a way to reduce unemployment while solving a myriad of infrastructural crises au courant would be to build an extensive and thorough cross-country network of underground trains, all with subway stops that are each denoted by a Subway™ shop (they already have signage, restrooms, and cash registers). 

Also, I was gonna write about my ages-old wannabe contributions to the Lexicon of Millennial Youth, now that they're older and their innards are rotting just like everybody else's always have (the term chilling like pie filling is the only reasonable antidote to the hopeless moronity of of chillin' like a villain and/or the obscenely insipid chillin' like Bob Dylan). But I won't get into any of that.

Instead, I'm going to celebrate my wife's birthday. She's absolutely marvelous.