This may be an important occasion to note that I am posting on consecutive days. That I have been unconscious during the vast majority of the intervening time could be a factor. I've got an enormous checklist of emails to be sent, forms to be filled, and cheques to be written, but I am putting aside those onerous responsibilities to blurt out my thoughts on this particular medium. Nothing quite like the mute shouting nothing to the deaf, one might say.
Music
I doubt that anyone cares, but at some point in history, someone might put these posts on ping-pong balls and pull them out of a bingo machine tumbler to reveal the history of the English-Speaking Peoples, or Why Billy the Bin-Man Ate That Thing Last Thursday. Any road, here's the shower music list:- "Tired All The Time" by Big Sugar
- "So Let Me Go Far" by Dodgy
- "Live and Learn" by The Cardigans
- "Novocaine For The Soul" by Eels
- "Kilimanjaro" by Johnny Clegg and Juluka
Films
- "Going in Style" is a wonderful little film. If you've always liked Alan Arkin as the crusty old bastard in films like "Grosse Pointe Blank" or "So I Married An Axe Murderer" and if you know that he's been around since the late fifties/early sixties, your heart will leap to know that he FINALLY gets to have it away with Ann Margret, who is almost the same age but many multitudes of pulchritude greater. Sir Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman are ostensibly the lead characters, but Arkin drives the logic of the film. It's not an all-time classic, but it's fun to watch. Kenan Thompson is a particular nugget of delight in this silver mine.
- "Predators" Adrian Brody must have owed some money to someone nasty. For those of you who have read the "Walking Dead" graphic novels, the device that allows Thomas to be the character that lulls you into complacency before nauseating you out of your socks is employed here to much less effect. To put this into context, Thomas forced Jeff Han to stop reading the graphic novels altogether. This film is such a bland ripoff of the original "Predator" film that he wouldn't even notice. There weren't even any character idiosyncrasies memorable enough to recount.
Rant
I don't hate Jimmy Fallon. Hate isn't a language in which I have fluency. He's a chipper little fella that wants to be in the same orbits as the stellar celebrities upon whom he fawns. My problem is the enthusiasm he injects into his obsequious catering to the egos of his guests. A typical expostulation might sound like:Barry Manilow. He's just the greatest. He's my jam. I listen to his music every day. He's all I dream about at night, and everything that fills my days with hope... blah blah blah, etc., etc.
And yet, 24 hours later, he'll spew forth a bellyful of the same analingual tripe about someone who wouldn't pee in Barry Manilow's mouth if Barry was dying of thirst.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Killer Mike (who wasn't born when Barry Manilow had his last chart hit). He's my jam. He's my one, my only, my everything. If I chose my time of dying, I would listen to Killer Mike, because he's the greatest musical act ever to have occurred in human history.His sycophantic drivel never seems to slow, unapologetically flinging itself into a mocking self-parody. Monty Python might imagine himself blurting out something like:
This guy who hits kittens with mallets to make squeaking noises, he's my jam. He pounds those mallets, man. Roots! From Philadelphia! Can you play "Good King Wensceslas" on a tray of squealing kittens? I didn't think so! This man has revolutionized music as we know it. He's just great. I've named my firstborn child after him. I've volunteered my tongue as a boot polish instrument because of my soul-bound worship of his greatness.In short, I tend to tune the wee chap out after his monologue, because it embarrasses me to see a grown man humiliate himself in such a ritualistic fashion.
In conclusion, it's not all bad, but there are some really crap bits in life.
Until next time, good night England and the Colonies.
—mARKUS
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