Lick Your Finger, Hold it to the Breeze...Nothing

Tomorrow's forecast: Clear as crystal, no chance of snow whatsoever, and winds blowing at 0 miles an hour.

Sam Alito is on the verge of being sworn in as America's next supreme court justice. Iran is testing the patience of the international community's with their insistence on enriching uranium. And Martin Lawrence is back in theaters this weekend with Big Momma's House 2. And I thought things couldn't possibly get any gloomier and then...

Wednesday started out promising enough. After nearly two wintry months sans snow, it was blissful to wake up to the sound of cars sloshing their way through the streets, their vulcanized rubber tires slapping against the wetted pavement. A quick peak through the louvres confirmed that the precipitation puddling the streets was indeed snow, and it was falling heavily. But the air temperature was still warm, and the snow didn't stick, and within thirty minutes what had been a billowy affair turned into depressing drizzles borrowed from the Pacific Northwest.

While I have already come to terms with disparaging conditions of Taos Ski Valley, what happened next was more upsetting than finding out your girlfriend is nothing more than a mannequin, a tape recorder and a malicious friend who doesn't know when to end a prank.

I escaped the amassing storm by ducking into a nearby coffee shop. I sat down with my coffee, opened up my laptop, and was delivered an email from the editor of Crosswinds magazine, the independent publication for which I have been a food writer and movie reviewer for the past three months. The gist of the email was such:

We really enjoyed your writing but Crosswinds has gone out of business. Toodles.

I was, understandably, taken aback. Crosswinds had been a godsend for me, but there was no longer any hint of a gentle breeze, nor an airy whispery, nothing. The publication had vanished faster than the interest surrounding Tom Green. The absence of Crosswinds meant I no longer had a forum for my garrulity. No longer will I be able to rant about the shortcomings of subpar films and the scurrilous servers at Albuquerque's eateries. No longer will I get paid for making a meal and then submitting a point by point reenactment of my meal, aka a recipe. No longer will I receive advance copies of CDs months before the album hits the streets. No longer...oh what am I saying, I'm sure there's another publication that would be happy to have me write for them. It's only a matter of time. Until then, the blog continues.

Before crosses folded faster than a origami paper I had written two pieces that were slated for publication this week. Theses pieces will never see the light of day, however I put a lot of time and effort in them so they will appear in digital form. My review of Woody Allen's amazing new film Match Point appears below, and my restaurant review of Chef du Jour appears at WriterlyRights.

RIP Crosswinds, the freedom you granted my writing will be missed. And in death, all is forgiven, even the times you had to edit my articles for length.

The Score May Be Love, But Allen Is Winning Again

At 70, Woody Allen is finally growing up.

In his new film Match Point , Allen has successfully made a movie that'’s more about the complex strata of human emotions than it is about double entendre of his first name. Given that Allen, Hollywood's most successful Freudian auteur, has made a career out of exploiting sexual indiscretions for the sake of a few laughs, it's refreshing to see him foray into Freud's other binary - violence. Not that Match Point isn't a cascade of frothy hormones and swapped bodily fluids, it is. Like most of Allen's films, sexual impertinence plays an important role, but Match Point is ultimately a picture of violent provocations more than a movie about trousers around ankles.

The premise of Match Point is simple enough. After stock Allen moves like black and white credits and music that sounds as though it's being played on Thomas Edison's original phonograph, we are introduced to Chris Wilton (the androgynous and Irish Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, Bend It Like Beckham). Chris, a former tennis pro, has left the rigors of the touring circuit to give lessons to London's upper crust.

"If we keep this up we'll never help Little Red Hen harvest all this wheat."

Still young and aimless, Chris despises giving tennis lessons and has aims of making a "contribution" to the world; training dilettantes with money to burn is not his life'’s ambition. Fortunately for the desperate Chris, a racketeer on numerous levels, he has a grifter'’s eye and stunning good looks. United by a passion for opera, he quickly befriends the dapper Tom Hewett (Matthew Goode), becomes embroiled with Tom's sister Chloe (the quintessentially Brittish-looking Emily Mortimer, Lovely and Amazing) and accepts a job working under Tom's father Alec (a subdued and goateed Brian Cox, Red Eye). Chris has seemingly been handed a one-way ticket to Nuclear-family-and-untold-riches-ville.

But (like most of Allen's films) sex muddies the waters. With total disregard for his opulent lifestyle and doting wife, Chris cannot refrain from soliciting Tom's fast fiancee, Nola (Scarlett Johansson, The Island). Nola, over-sexed, neurotic and detached from sobriety, is as close as Match Point comes to presenting the audience with a typical Woody Allen persona.

Despite his recent marriage to Chloe and her desire to become pregnant, Chris persists in pursuing Nola. They eventually succumb to their wants, shuck their clothes and adulterate in an open pasture on the Hewett family estate. Nola later rebukes the encounter because Chris, after all, is married to Chloe and she's engaged to Tom, but Nola's barb cannot be so easily withdrawn from Chris' cheek. He carelessly continues his affair right under Chloe's nose, a woman who wants normalcy to a fault, and even when Chris takes phone calls from Nola at the dinner table or says he's too tired to have sex Chloe remains oblivious to his infidelities.

"Really? I always thought satin was related to ermine."

Allen has never faltered in his mastery of dialogue, and Match Point is no exception to this rule. He's has done a marvelous job of capturing how discussion can degenerate into overlapping monologues where several characters speak simultaneously without truly listening to what others are saying. And more than any other movie before, Allen has written about the realistic failings of domesticity as opposed to the burlesque histrionics of celebrity from which his characters usually suffer. Allen adeptly depicts the infliction of pain without hamming it up and leaves the viewers with very serious questions about sacrifice and self-preservation.

In past endeavors, Allen portrayed man as little more than savage Id-driven individual thrust into a society full of temptations. With Match Point, he shows how, given enough time, the savage will reestablish his hierarchy of needs. Chris, as the embodiment of Allen's evolved figure, goes so far as to deregulate the power of sex and choose security over tawdry temptations. However, Chris is hardly a civilized character, for freeing himself from the tether of sexuality he only strengthens the grip violence has over him.

Two thousand six will mark the fortieth anniversary of Allen'’s first film What's Up Tiger Lilly? and he is just now growing out of the genital stage of his career. His symbolism is maturing, his gimmicky reliance on pathology is waning, and though he's always been philosophical (especially in his written work) he's now capturing the paradoxes of the human condition on screen.

Many critics berated Melinda and Melinda for not understanding the notion of tragedy. Match Point redeems Allen on this point, proving that he understands tragedy only too well. Though none of his characters are tragic figures themselves, the movie as a whole speaks to the injustice of luck and how the indiscriminate nature of good fortune is often wasted on those who deserve it the least.

"Oh, drat, I think I left the infidelity on again."

Mental Image for 1/22/2006

The wretched substance above is responsible for the disturbing image that follows...

A pot bellied pig is riding a unicorn. And the pig is wearing a pink tutu. And the unicorn is smoking a corn-cob pipe. And the unicorn's hooves are made of salt-water taffy. And small children are trying to eat the unicorn's hooves as he trots into outer space to fight space crime, even though the unicorn's lieutenant made him turn in his badge and gun because of the reckless behavior that endangered those around him.

Back to the Future of Honkytonk

Dear loyal readers,

I'll be heading back to Nashville next week to take care of some unfinished business, so I probably won't have time to post for a few days. However, I will resume posting when I return, and I should have some interesting things to report.

-Bizzle

The Backseat Driver, the Out of Control Passenger

Before last week, Michelangelo Antonioni was as unknown to me as the bouquet of a 150 year old cognac, however his 1975 movie The Passenger, starring Jack Nicholson and Maria Schneider, is a masterpiece.

On the surface, The Passenger is a transcontinental journey through Saharan Africa, Great Britain and Spain in which one man, David Locke, assumes the identity of a dead man. However, dig a little deeper and you'll see that The Passenger is a film of provocations, a film that explores the illusory elements of Don Quixote but with a degree of sexuality the Don Quijote/Sancho Panza dynamic never offered.

Through a series of events, Jack Nicholson assumes the life of another man, and scrambles for control of the other man's life. Though what Nicholson's character could not have predicted was that the life of the man he impersonates is anchored to the ocean floor, and Nicholson can only stray so far before the chains around his legs restrict his movement. Of course this is all metaphorical, but those who have seen the movie will understand how Nicholson's character discovers that taking on another man's life means taking on everything entailed within that life - include it's responsibilities, not just its freedoms.

The Passenger made me wonder: Am I a passenger or a driver? Am I in front of the rudder-wheel of a double-masted schooner or am I down below, rowing my life away, not at all able to see where the boat is headed?

For the most part, I think I'm in control. This makes me a driver. I call the shots. I accelerate when I want, brake when I must, and honk the horn when someone gets in my way. But at other times, I am also a passenger in my own life. There are times, although less frequent, where I take a backseat and relinquish control to others.

Like most binaries, the driver/passenger dynamic is a complementary one, each with its own advantages.

THINGS I HAVE LEARNED FROM BEING A DRIVER:
-I have free will; I must take responsibility for my successes as well as my failures.
-I can pretend to be someone else, but I won't enjoy it.
-I want simple things, but I don't want to obtain them through simple measures.
-Difficult = exciting. Challenge = reward.
-If I get food poisoning it's my fault, but it's a risk I've always been willing to take.
-Life each moment not as though it's your last, live each moment to a degree of satisfaction that if you were to get stuck in that moment for all eternity you would be thankful.
-Passengers often fall asleep and miss the best scenery.

THINGS I HAVE LEARNED FROM BEING A PASSENGER:
-The most beautiful things happen to those who let things happen to them instead of always pursuing them.
-There's much to be learned from not being the center of attention. You can see a lot more of the circle from the outside looking in than you can from the inside looking out.
-You're not always right. And sometimes "right" doesn't even factor in.
-Books, music and movies are not substitutes for life, and comparing your life to these objects will only frustrate you.
-There is no algebraic function that guarantees the slop of love will always be positive and rising. The direction of y=f(love) can change on a dime.
-Those who are constantly in the driver's seat are easily agitated.

Big. Bigger. Biggest News Ever.

This elephant has absolutely nothing to do with the novel The One Way Rejuvenation of Allowishus Scrimshaw. I don't even think elephants are mentioned in passing. However, the illustrated pachyderm wholeheartedly, and whole trunkedly, endorses all 59 chapters of Allowishus' shenanigans. Guaranteed or your money back! (?) The novel is currently available in mint condition for FREE...but hurry! Enjoy this book before the pages are eaten by digital bookworms and the entire thing deteriorates into illegible binary code.

Click HERE or on the link labeled Allowishus: The Novel to read the amazingly blasphemous adventures of Amaury Objetsculpte, aka Allowishus Scrimshaw, aka scapegoat extraordinaire.

Surgeon General's Warning: You are hereby advised to relieve yourself before reading this hilarious novel. THE HEREAFTER will not reimburse those foolish enough not to heed this warning, despite exorbitant expenses incurred from dry cleaning soiled garments.

Sections I and II Available Now!

Sections I and II of the novel The One-Way Rejuvenation of Allowishus Scrimshaw are now available online. Chapters 1 through 34 have been edited hastily so as to preserve the integrity of the 3-Day Novel Contest. Some clarity has been added to muddled text, but 99% of the novel has remained untouched. Enjoy it, warts and all.

Section I - entitled "My Cheese, My Digestion" - introduces you to the beast that is Allowishus Scrimshaw.

Section II - "Rennet" - drafts the difficulties Allowishus Scrimshaw must face.

Lots of curse words, name-calling, cheese eating, God-condemning behavior, and wine guzzling will ensue. Click HERE or on the link labeled Allowishus: The Novel to your right to be whisked away to a land of depravity and debauchery. And it only gets funnier.

See what all the hype is about! Allowishus was shortlisted as an Honorable Mention by the editors of the International 3-Day Novel Contest.

Enjoy!

January 3, 2006, 9:35 p.m. Live Radio News Update

This just in...

The results of the International 3-Day Novel Contest have just been announced, and America's very own Bizzle Fitz was bestowed with honors. The annual contest, often likened to an invasive surgical procedure performed with a pen, is an anguished marathon of writing and self-torment. Two-thousand-five was the first year Mr. Fitz competed in the contest, and his training regimen consisted of drinking inordinate amounts of bourbon and performing no more than 10 push-ups a day.

Though Bizzle, representing America and the Libertarian party throughout the trials and tribulations of the gruelling affair - was not announced as the contest's clear winner, he did indeed proudly defeat hundreds of Canadians and other relatively unknown nationalities who deserve to be mocked. Mr. Fitz, was shortlisted as one of the contest's Honorable Mentionees. Mr. Fitz, 25 years young and strong as a feeble ox, had this to say at a press conference held at an undisclosed location somewhere beneath the earth's mantle (transcripts of the press conference were released by a Spanish seismologist whose Geiger counter happened to pick up the sonic reverberations):

"While I wanted to crush all of my opponents in stunning victory and quaff the curdled blood of the petty losers, winning for the sake of winning is like vomit for the sake of falconers. But I swear on the sanctity of St. Vincent Bazzle that my performance in the contest next year will be one for the ages. Historians may as well ready their pens, for when I conquer the International 3-Day Novel Contest in 2006 I will leave so many decimated bodies in my wake I will henceforth be known as the most dangerous writer since the discovery of Hitler's diaries. One word, nay, one letter from my novels will cause your eyes, ear, and throat to erupt into cankerous sores. And your brain will ache for days and no amount of aspirin will save you."

In an attempt to ring in the frenetic author, Mr. Fitz's personal assistant, Devunkel Studebaker, threw a bucket of sangria on the bucking word-smith, rendering Mr. Fitz sane and wet. After collecting his senses and flogging Mr. Studebacker with a gutted trout, Mr. Fitz apologized for his outrageous behavior and closed the press conference with the following."

"True, I would have preferred to be annointed with fragrant herbs and a garland of freshly cut buckwheat, I would have found great honor in being appointed 3-Day Grammarian of the Year, but I will, humbly accept an honorable mention from the International 3-Day Novel Contest with great pride and copious amounts of humility and an air of superciliousness nearly, but not entirely, balancing an extravagant display of modesty that radiates my superiority over the hoipolloi. Now out of my way, I have an honorable mention to celebrate."

Mr. Fitz, nearly unknown in the literary world save for small circles of the unfortunate who come within earshot, completed his cumbersome novel "The One-Way Rejuvenation of Allowishus Scrimshaw" in just under 72 hours. The novel, didacting the exploits of a salacious cheese-lover, will make its inaugural appearance on this very site within a few days' time. Mr. Studebaker told the Associated Press that Mr. Fitz will cursorily edit the novel and publish it piecemeal - chapter by chapter - until it is available in its entirety.

On a lighter note, Mr. Fitz successfully completed his New Year's Resolution for the year 2005 to refrain from swallowing his bubblegum. Mr. Fitz has yet to inform the press of his resolution for 2006, however, when he does, The Hereafter Radio will be there to cover the story.

This is Noumena Phenomena reporting for K-ABSRD Radio, Madrid.

End transmission.