i'm a rabbit, i'm a rabbit, i'm a fox

In case you missed it, but your probably didn't, but you might have saved it for later and maybe forgotten bout it, in which case this is a reminder - Jeff Vandermeer's short movie for Shriek is online. Go use up some bandwidth. The voice acting is quite luscious, and it falls half way between being read to, or in the range of a fascinating conversation that isn't yours.

I recently finished reading Ghost in the Shell 2: Man-Machine Interface. It took me about three months to do this, because it was just that bad. I'm not even going to go into it. What struck me though, was the sheer amount of authorial notes scattered through the pages. There are artist notes, about whether or not he should have drawn her nipples (no exaggeration), design notes on why the motor bikes are kind of lame (then why did you put them in?!), and tech notes on exactly what is going on at any given time, because just reading the actual comic won't tell you that. They're everywhere! I could not escape the author tapping me on the shoulder.

Even in a story I'm not enjoying, this isn't a good thing. Every now and again it is an interesting diversion, but with this concentration, it was nothing but a huge distraction. An obnoxious one at that. Trust your reader, or trust your work. If it's really necessary, end notes are your friend.

Finally, I give you a video of a $40,000,000 US military satellite exploding (filched from haha.nu).



Impressive, no? When I grow up, I want to be a military satellite with a 17 foot crack in my fuel pipe.

I have to wonder how a 17 foot crack goes unnoticed.

Well...I guess cracks go unnoticed in people all the time. They're not always in easy to see places.

Do you think car insurance costs more around Cape Canaveral?

and so she can't complain

Dear the Australian Dollar,

Please stop that shit.

Sincerely,
Sir Tessa.

#

After being certain, and being wrong, I did some not particularly thorough trawling on the subject of certainty. There isn't much to be had. A smattering of philosophy, and articles on physics. Uncertainty, it would seem, is a much more meaty topic. I wanted brain scans, actually. I wanted those funky orange, black and blue photos of brain activity, so I could see what certainty actually looked like. Maybe even what hormones make up certainty. I figure, if i find out where certainty lives, at least I have a target.

Doubt is much easier to pin down. Doubt is everywhere. I am, therefore I doubt.

#

Dear Japan Rail,

The rail passes were supposed to arrive last week. Hint, hint.

Sincerely,
Sir Tessa.

#

Sophie is depressed.

She won't play. She just sits, and whimpers in the most heart-breaking and pathetic manner imaginable. She isn't off her food or drink, she's just miserable. The lead theory is that she misses Dad, but he's gone to Malaysia before without this happening.

You have no idea how upsetting a depressed dog is.

#

Dear Sir Tessa,

You suck.

No love,
Sir Tessa.

#

If I could manufacture certainty, I'd eradicate those oh-so mediocre self-esteem issues. Imagine how much more I could squeeze into a day if I didn't spend so much time and energy on self-loathing. I could create cold fusion. Abolish starvation. Write a fucking book.

Whoa. Delusions of grandure.

#

Dear World,

I'm down, quit kicking.

Even less than no love,
Sir Tessa.

#

But you know, the narrative laws of my life dictate that an injection of certainty would concrete exactly the wrong area. Instead of being pretty sure that I'm a useless sack of meat, I'd be certain of it. That would kill all motivation to roll with the momentum of life, so I'd lose my job pretty fast, wouldn't write, wouldn't get out of bed, probably wouldn't bother waking up, because seriously, when you're a useless sack of meat, there isn't much point with the whole being awake thing.

And then, because the narrative laws of my life dictact that Thou Shalt Not Have Any Excuse To Sleep Like A Lazy Snoring Bear As Thou Doest Desire, my own super-charged-mutated-giant-walrus doubt would come into play, and I wouldn't be certain of my uselessness as a meat sack. This would leave me with no alternative but wakefulness.

Shit. This hypothesis is fucking lame. Where's the reset button?

#

Dear World,

You're also too fat. Please lose some weight, and shrink the distance between this family.

Much Despising,
Sir Tessa.

#

I did a little reading on Descartes, not that he had much to say on the subject of certainty, other than he wasn't certain of much at all. The only thing he really concludes is that his own existence is certain. This is a conclusion that can only be drawn about the concluder, by the concluder. So, I cannot be certain about sun rises, or chairs, or that ever perplexing subject of the colour orange, but I can be certain I exist.

I think life would be ever so much nicer if I could trade that certainty for, say, the certainty that flowers sing only in barbershop quartets.

But I can't be certain of that.

#

Dear Sir Tessa,

Seriously. Shut up.

Much Tolerance,
The World.

...even my spam is telling me to cheer up.

red wine with every meal and absinthe after dinner

• Haha! I'm not hungover!
• There exists no make-up that will stop an asian-blooded monkey from going red when drinking.
• When I make an effort, I am hot. Damn hot. So hot, heads turn and people say, "Wow, Tess, you look hot!" and they all sound surprised.
• This is why I never make an effort. I have to hide my hotness away, or there will conferences and summits about how I contribute to global warming.
• With my bright red face.
• But, you know, if ever Rudolf is retrenched, I could totally take his job. Only his nose was red. I'm a fucking lighthouse.
• Although I don't think I'm all that keen to be harnessed up by a jolly fat man.
• And I'm not that into manual labour.
• He can pull his own sleigh. Would help lower his blood pressure.
• Plus I bet he doesn't pay much for one night of work a year.
• Nah, fuck it. He can install spotlights like all the other rednecks.

PS: T minus 12 days and counting.

and don't bother leaving the light on

I was certain today would be different.

This certainty was unprompted. It wasn't like the certainty that concrete is hard, water is wet, I am a typist, those tried and tested and proved irrefutable facts. It wasn't highly probably either, as there were no plans for today that would alter it significantly from every other day. I just knew today would be different.

But I woke up, and I was still me.

And I stepped out, and the world stayed in character.

I don't know what I was expecting-

(...a sky so green, so lush and verdant, that as we stood in the streets marvelling at it, a hundred thousand dandylions bloomed in the clouds, and showered us in seeds and fluff.)

(...a pink unicorn to come charging into the office, atop Yul Brynner, prancing and dancing, and saying "Dollface, have I got a ride for you.")

(...I would put on my earphones and press play, and instead of music my iPod would tell me, in hushed and fearful tones, the truth about the moon landing.)

(...all the buildings in the city to unhinge and unfold and dance, townhouses gamboling about the feet of the sky scrapers, and no pigeons seen for another hundred years.)

(...no people, only sharks, so many sharks, walking the streets and smiling shark smiles.)

(...a stranger to say, "You know, it's okay.")

-but it hasn't happened. It won't happen. I am as certain of that, as I am certain today will be different. They contradict each other, and they're both true. What a daft, illogical, frustrating thing a mind is. How am I supposed to know where the ground is, carrying around a contradiction like that? How can I trust anything I think when the things I am certain about are wrong, wrong, wrong?

I've been here before.

Today will not be different.

Overclocked: Stories of the Future Present - Cory Doctorow



Hehe. Heh. That was cool.

A collection of not-very-short stories (bar one) which concern the future, but not the distant future. The story Anda's Game could quite possibly be present tense, happening right now, somewhere in the many MMORPGs out there. Shifting the sense of 'possible but not in my lifetime' to 'this could happen far too soon' gives the collection a marvellous frisson. Just as we watch disaster films and true crime shows, a sense of impending doom is disgustingly addictive. There isn't much dignity to be found in the dooms offered here.

When Sysadmins Ruled the Earth made me laugh and groan to begin with; I remember being woken up at obscure hours due to living with an oncall sysadmin. Thankfully, the world didn't end whenever I was trying to get back to sleep. This story seemed to wibble a bit, just as the characters lost their own sense of purpose or direction, but it remains a great piece, and delightfully chewy stuff for the brain.

Another favourite, I, Row-Boat had me giggling for the whole fifty pages. In a future where the majority of the human race consists not of walking meatbags, but uploaded consciousnessesseses, and conscious sentient intelligent robots exercise free will on the Earth, someone has taken it upon themselves to start awakening and connecting...pretty much everything, from the sound of it. Robbie the Rowboat, whose days normally consist of shuttling out human shells for day dives on the Great Barrier Reef, has to deal with one of these newly awakened consciousnesesesessses, namely, a reef.

The reef is kinda pissy. It is hiiii-larious, in that sad, grieving sort of way. I can't help thinking that in such a world, there are no humans. The homo tree we are a part of is largely defined by physical characteristics; if there is no physical, then is there a species? Does it matter anymore?

Also had a "HEY! I KNOW HER!" moment when Kate's full name was revealed. After which I was unable to see the character the same way again, but oh well.

Favourite, absolutely favourite, is the final story, After the Siege.

...I've deleted about five stalled paragraphs attempting to summarise this story, and how deep it went. I don't think I can do it justice. On the surface, it follows Valentine, a girl becoming a woman whose city is devastated and starved and ground to dust by war, as is her home, her family, everything she knows. They starve. They die. They lose. Yet in the city is one who is well fed, well dressed, has the cure to all the things that kill those who aren't dying on the front lines. Valentine finds that person, and doesn't accept their reasons and excuses, and eventually forces them to stop the slaughter, instead of watching.

The author notes mention AIDS treatment and copyright as a comparison. It is true. This story alone is enough reason to buy the book. It is well bloody brilliant.

There are others I haven't mentioned, all very much tasty and scrumptions, but these three stood out. Most excellent.

Verdict: Totally worth your time and money. The book is available for download under a CC licence, but seriously, just fork out the money and buy it.

i've been thinking about a broken line



I know nothing about Jon Protas, other than what his myspace page says, other than he's a musician. He was recommended by the every funky Martha, and given she's a member of Trocadero, we can only trust her taste in music.

I'm abusing the fuck out of No Buses Leaving. To truly appreciate this song, your headspace should be--

--well, a bit fucking bleak, really.

think i never killed a man
been thinking 'bout the wrong things at the wrong time
turn his hand against himself
and the things he loves

i've been thinking about a broken line
of old connections starting out in springtime
disconnecting on the way
quiet by the road

and i've been thinking where a life should go
and wondering as hard enough to keep myself
from answering

how it is i wound up here

i don't even know this place

i don't know what i'm doing here

and all the empty yards and hollow houses
all arranged in solitary segments

and there's no one in the streets

it shouldn't bother me

but i've been thinking where a life should go
and thinking it should always travel forward
thinking it should never wind up here

i'm thinking i should hop on the next bus heading out of town
but i
i see no buses leaving
i
i see no buses leaving

(Lyrics transcribed by ear and probably wrong, but close enough to be right.)

It's a good song, good piece of music. I can't find any album or such to buy, unfortunately. So I do my part to smear him around the intrawebs a bit.

(Here is a photo of people waiting for trains, waiting to go home, just generally waiting.)

I zoned out.

When I zoned in, I was singing along to Avril Lavigne, and it was good. The end is nigh. Make soylent green out of me now.

Quickies

I stopped writing up the books I've read, for reasons absolutely saturated in self-pity and horseshit. But the write ups are actually the best way of counting up how much I've read in a year, so, sally forth, as they say.



Picture might look funny; the camera on Eddie flips images, and I can't hold books steady. Even with both hands. Fail.

Blindsight - Peter Watts
First ran into this book at worldcon last year, with that most scrumptious woman Nadini. A couple of months later, I picked it up while in Sydney. Many months later, I read it, and loved it. Such a lonely, unfriendly, isolating book. I wasn't in a great headspace at the time (wow, like that's new), and a story set in the emptiness and hostility of space felt entirely right. A crew of specialised freaks is sent out to investigate possible alien contact, which turns out to be this giant thing; Rorschach. In the middle of everything that is threatening and unknown, the question is asked, 'what is self-awareness good for?' and oh, what a good question. I obsess over it still, I chew it over between turning the light out and falling asleep, while on the train, while not working at work. None of the answers I come up with a nice ones. That's okay. Neither was the book. There is a very good reason this is nomianted for a Hugo: it is roxxor.

Natural History - Justina Robson
I've had this book for ages. I don't entirely remember where or when I bought it. But I wasn't done with stories-set-in-the-vast-emptiness-of-space books, so I munched on it. It wasn't quite what I wanted; this space lacked the isolation I was sniffing for, as each character was connected to the rest of the known universe by intrawebs. The characters were nicer, in fact Zephyr was down right likeable. It was largely a story of trascendence, which wasn't as tightly written as I expected. Possibly I was distracted by story elements that were too similar to some in my own WIP. That Westerfeld guy informed that the reason people keep publishing books containing my ideas is that I write too slowly. I prefer to think I'm derivative, like the best of the wannabe writers out there. It was a good read, but not the right book to follow the one before.

Vampire Hunter D: Mysterous Journey to the North Sea (Part One) - Hideyuki Kikuchi
It's D. Doing his thang.
Actually, this book was more interesting than the previous ones, as the heroin isn't some perfectly beautiful little waif. She's quite plain and practical, and not a brat either. You go, girl. We'll see if it lasts into the next volume.

Calling You - Otsu-ichi
Three novellas, each one stark and soft and raw and tear-inducing. The first was a girl who had an imaginary phone in her head, which is far more beautiful than it sounds. The second is a boy who takes the injuries of others onto himself, which isn't a new idea, but is wonderfully drawn out. The third is a sad, sad song of flowers. Each story has a touch of wonder to it, and each deals with loneliness quietly, quietly. This isn't a big read. I ate it in an hour. Investigate. It will surprise you.

Temeraire: His Majesty's Dragon, Throne of Jade, Black Powder War - Naomi Novik
I've had these books for ages. A combination of Justine nagging me and actually having a second Hugo nominated book on my shelves prompted me to hurry up and read them. The first was a delight; like reading the Pern books again, I wanted want my own dragon; like discovering Hornblower again, I want my own square-rigger. What ho! A good frolic in the Napoleonic Wars with big roarming beasties, who could ask for more? Not I. The second book had less shine, but in itself was quite interesting concerning the politics of dragons. The third book felt very much like filler; our heroes must get back from China to England somehow, in order for the rest of the story unfold, and the final defeat of Napoleon to take place. Black Powder War is that getting from A to B. Fun books, yes indeed.

I'm not really a writer. And I'm a lazy reader. All this is just life spent pointlessly.

Japan Sinks - Sakyo Komatsu (or is that Komatsu Sakyo?)



Morris read this and said, "oh yeah, shit like this happened when the dinosaurs were wiped out, YOU'RE SCREWED." I'm inclined to agree with him, from the safety of Australia.

You'll never believe where I found this book. In a second hand book shop in Gardner, the small two saloon town at the entrance of Yellowstone while I was doing my trek last year. It was one of those moments of "o rly? YA RLY!" I wasn't looking for it, and yet there it was.

You can't really go past the title as far as story summaries go. It's about Japan, which sinks into the ocean. YA RLY. Well, no. It's about looking at the possibility of something that catastrophic occurring, and what to do about it. Would you believe it, given all the facts? I can't say I would. Say you accept the inevitability, what then? How do you prepare for the physical loss of a nation, the displacement of millions and millions of people?

How do you deal with the disappearance of your entire civilisation?

That is what the book is really about. It's crushing and devastating. There isn't an enemy to be angry at, it is just the Earth, doing its thing. Unstoppable continental drift, which won't be intimidated or reasoned with. It comes down to getting the population off the islands before its too late.

Australia makes an embarassing appearance, with the Prime Minister being approached by the Japanese ambassador, requesting the immigration of five million japanese workers. About a third of the Australian population at the time, a time which comes shortly after the abolition of the White Australia Policy. I cringed.

One scene that stood out vividly in my mind was a collection of international diplomats leaving a conference to check out the TV, a broadcast of the beginning of Japan's destruction on the tube, and of one man looking back to see the Japanese ambassador remove his glasses, and wipe his eyes, before putting them back on.

Even abridged as it is, this book was a punch in the guts.

Verdict: Depressing and upseting and very, very powerful.

Arthur & George - Julian Barnes



Rav Deeves (that's his name, serious, it was on the box) is all "eh, whatever," about this book. I wouldn't put it like that, but the sentiment is the same.

I first read Barnes in university, and there was much love involved. For years, I'd intended to eat more of his books, but only now got around to it, and I have to confess that the physical beauty of the book was a fair chunk of the motivation. Cloth-bound books are just nice to stroke. No, stroking books is not weird. Shut up. Stop looking at me like that.

This book, well, it didn't trigger the big love boom I was hoping. It is very well written, and an intriguing look at the vastly different lives of Arthur (that's Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to you) and George, who probably would have never met had it not been for whim. Life, you know, she's a whimsical creature. But meet they do, and Arthur is not the gallant knight he wishes to be, although he almost convinces the reader otherwise. George is not a helpless victim of hate, although it is tempting to paint him so.

The England of fiction remains a strange soggy place, and I find that the mental landscape it creates in my head tends to be dreary, bleak, and colourless, and as much as I wanted to enjoy the book, that sort of saturation is a downer.

I guess I'm not academic or intellectual enough, because I reached the end, and after their lives were spent and all had failed and been achieved, I thought to myself, "yes, and?" Perhaps the fact that it reads in a somewhat autobiographical manner brought that on - lives don't have a point, they just happen, and then they end. The last three lines;


What does he see?
What did he see?
What will he see?

and in fact the last scene of Arthur's funeral knocked down the interesting structure of thought I'd built on this story. Perhaps that is the point. What you want to know, what you think you know, all of these things are-

Verdict: Eh. A lot of people loved it, but it didn't rock my world.

Kamakazi Girls - Novala Takemoto



Leonardo totally approves of this book, because Leonardo is in touch with his feminine side.

I agree with Leonardo. I don't remember exactly why I picked up this book, but I'm glad I did. I went through a brief, three book stint of not particularly wanting to read any speculative genres, and I think this was the most fun of those books, and the most surprisingly awesome bestest.

(Disclaimer: I've just come off nightshift and I'm doing my staying up through the day to crash my sleep pattern back to normal. I'm not responsible for anything. At all. Ever. Not even my sentences.)

It is the story of two girls, one a Yanki and the other a Lolita, practically polar opposites when it comes to subcultures. Of course they fall in with each other, they're doomed to from the very beginning.

This is not the story of their growing friendship. Ichigo's impassioned speech at the end summarises precisely why they're not friends, and exactly why they'll always be there for each other. It is a story of being true to yourself, no matter what the cost.

At first, I was appalled at Momoko's first person narration. A Lolita consumed by an intense pursuit for a Rococo spirit and lifestyle, she came across as gobsmackingly selfish, self-aborbed, shallow and callous. It isn't a large book, but after the first chapter I did wonder if I wanted to put up with her the whole way. This wondering happened while I read, and read, and found myself deep in the book. First impressions, you know, they really aren't everything. The selfishness and callousness were the symptoms of a breath-stealing determination to pursue her dream, no matter what the cost. No matter what thet cost. She discard practicality and comfort and friends and company for this dream ofa Rococo lifestyle. Beneath the frills and lace, she's fucking hardcore.

Ichigo initially comes across as a naive fool, striving to be fulfill that Yanki dream of riding around in a biker gang until getting knocked up and having a shotgun wedding and 'graduating', although she failed her motorcycle licence test and only rides a scooter. It's easy to assume she's yet another dumb girl being led astray by falling in with the wrong crowd, but like Momoko, it's a first impression, and like Momoko, she's chasing her dream down, damn the consequences.

"Because Yanki are so uncool."
"Did you just dis my entire life?"
"Well, yeah."
"I'll fucking kick your ass."
"Go ahead, if you want to."
"You ask me, you're the one who's uncool, wearing those frilly-ass outfits when you're in high school already."
"They're not 'frilly-ass', they're Lolita."
"What's the fucking difference?"
"There's a world of difference."
"I'll kill you, I swear."
"Go ahead."

I love it. The book is full of clashes just like that. Neither grasps the other's choice, both thinks the other is just fucking ridiculous, and I want to reach in and tell them they're both daft and brillant.

This book is very well written, and exceptionally well translated. At no point did I feel that I was reading a translation, real care has be put into the english version. It isn't translated, it's written.

I want to say it isn't a girly book, because it isn't...but I think that maybe only girls will really get it.

Verdict: This is not a "heart-warming tale of two girls growing up in the country", it is a brilliant, brilliant, brillant piece of writing about knowing who you are.

That Camera Is Not Neenja

The train pulled into the station, the door opened, he set up his tripod, pointed and clicked.

Apparently he wasn't entirely satisfied with whatever showed up on the screen of his enormous DSLR, because he went for a second shot, and when he looked up, noticed that I'd noticed him photographing me, and was leering in an entirely "Haha, caught ya!" manner.

His smile wasn't entirely comfortable. I think I busted my chance of appearing in a photography exhibition with a caption along the lines of "Unknown Commuter Zombie, 7:08 Glen Waverley, Southern Cross on Spencer Street".

FUCK

I've lost my white hair. It's gone. Almost, ALMOST a year, and it just had to fall out. Now it'll take me another 25 years to grow another.

and the world just happens

A couple of family members who I happen to live with forgot my birthday was imminent. One them only remembered 8 hours before the clock ticked over midnight because the one family member that did remember asked if they remembered.

The fact that I forgot my birthday was coming too is quite irrelevent.

The only way to sing in such a birthday is to go and harass online roleplayers while in a mildly intoxicated state until 3 in the morning. Far more entertaining than it sounds.

Last year, I was proud to turn 25. It's a nice shiny number, 25, and a big number at that. Look how long I've hung around this Earth, 25 years, remarkable!

This year, not so much.

I am 26 years old and I still live with my parents, in the same room I spent the first 18 years of my life. I have a university degree that is useless, and a job that does nothing, goes nowhere, provides me with no skills I can apply elsewhere, and is neither challenging or stimulating. I don't have a significant other of any description, or children, or the potential for either on the horizon. I haven't seen the world, I haven't changed the world, I have achieved nothing of significance and I STILL HAVEN'T FINISHED WRITING A BOOK. ANY FUCKING BOOK.

The cake was nice though.

Warm-blooded Sunshine Batteries

I don't think I get much physical contact. The other day, someone put their hand on my arm, and my brain went "Oh!" It was the sort of "Oh!" that happens when you rediscover something that you hadn't realised you'd forgotten, like the smell of pine trees, or the taste really good cheese.

Wow. Other people are so warm.

It was exactly like sunshine, that perfect snuggly sunshine in Spring that I go nuts about. And I'm going nuts now. It isn't about sex, or affection, or raffirming my existence as a human being, but just how deliciously warm it was. I need to find someone who won't be freaked out if I say, "er, can I, like, maybe, sorta hold your hand for a bit?"

(I daresay this has been brought on by the fact that Melbourne just faceplanted into Winter in true Melbourne fashion, and I'm cold all the time. That said, if you can't find another human being to warm your bed for you, I can confirm that two dogs and a hot water bottle do an adequate job.)

Trailers - Mark Kneece & Julie Collins-Rousseau



The Other Alien is all messiah about this book. I agree with the Other Alien.

This was an impulse buy. I went shopping looking specifically for a one shot comic that wasn't about superheros, or great epic battles, or anything that wasn't the norm of life. I wanted a story that might have mabye reflected this pointless struggle I have with the mediocre humdrum of life, a story that wouldn't patronise me and wouldn't offer false hope or comfort, an ordinary story about ordinary people who don't have happy endings.

This isn't quite what I was looking for, it was better.

Josh has a shit life. He lives in a trailer with his no-good mother and three younger siblings of different fathers, and does most of the parenting, and has to deal with school, you know, school...and then his mother goes and kills her current squeeze, and he's left to deal with the body. Unfortunately, the body just won't stay buried, neither will any of the secrets, and what little control he had over his life is slipping away.

And Josh is just a teenage kid in over his head, and he doesn't have special friends, lucky breaks, convenient powers, a place to retreat to, and he isn't coping, it isn't fair, and he's angry.

And that was refreshing.

Maybe I'm looking in all the wrong places, listening to the wrong conversations, but lately, all I've seen is people doing their best to cheer others up, insist that the person in strife look on the bright side, and be grateful for what they have. Perhaps. In time, maybe.

It's not my approach, mostly because it shits me to tears when someone tries that on me. It's as though there is some unspoken rule that anger is bad. It is, but it isn't wrong. None of us like being powerless, and most of us don't accept that politely. If you want to be angry, then go, be angry. And when you've ranted and yelled and spent it all, then you can go on with life, pick up the pieces, and start again.

This is a very well written book. It's solid, full of real people who say real and stupid things, do real and stupid things, and don't cope with life. There are no clever answers, easy solutions and neat resolutions. There isn't a happy ending. But, the end is a better place than the beginning, and I think that's all we can really hope for.

Verdict: Excellent. Good, good stuff. Well crafted, in terms of writing and art. Muchly worth your time.

The Adventures of Johnny Vermillion - Loren D. Estleman



The Alien is trying to eat this lump of dead tree matter. I agree with the Alien.

This isn't a book trying to be a movie. This isn't a movie pretending to be a book. This IS a movie. It doesn't want to be a book, and it's thrashing and screaming and in rank bloody denial about the fact that there are no moving pictures involved.

You've seen it before: a succession of stoked boilers streaking towards the screen, intercut with close-ups of charging wheels and plunging drive rods. On the soundtrack, short cello strokes imitate the chomping of pistons and steam whistles blast from the brass. Depot signs loom at us from the far perspective...

And so on. And so forth. That is one of the tamer passages. I stopped before it got to the montage of robberies. There's even a travel montage in this book, you know, when there's an overlay of the map with a line moving across it to indicate the movement of characters from one place to another. Yeah. One of them. In a book.

I know I've harped on about respecting the medium you use and all that, but this just stumped me. I think I was too shocked at just how brazenly "THIS IS A MOVIE" the book was to be affronted. If you're going to do something, then do it properly, and this is a movie in an all balls out sort of way.

Still. It's a book. Not a great one at that. The title indicates that Johnny Vermillion is the centre role, but he isn't. Far more POV time is spent on his accomplices, who are far more interesting than he is. Vermillion has Mary Sue stamped all over his face. The others, while skirting the realms of cliche, are quite well drawn and the dynamic between them is terribly amusing. Together, they form a travelling theatre troupe which is really just a cover for the fact that they're bank robbers, and good at being both.

The story isn't much to speak of; they're criminals, they're in danger of getting caught by either the law or the other criminals whose toes they're stepping on. Nothing particularly new is attempted with the story, or the characters, and it rolls on pretending to be a movie so there's pretty much sweet fanny all in terms of proper climax and resolution. Mildly intriguing character conflicts are seeded, and then entirely ignored and forgotten.

It could be said that Estleman is deliberately playing with the great many cliches that Westerns are open to, but he fails to then do anything new with them. He fails to do anything with them at all. The story just...stops. There are plenty of nice elements, but they don't gel together as a whole.

Which isn't to say it wasn't fun, but...fuck. It isn't a movie, it's a book.

Verdict: You know, I can't recommend this as fluff, because it's just...wrong.

Music = Mountains

I went to the Nine Inch Nails concert alone. Some people flip out when they discover that I willingly go to movies on my own, so I didn't advertise this. It doesn't faze me, and I've never been able to explain how experiencing something alone makes it purer.

It was brilliant. I stood in a crowd of total strangers, strangers who ignored me and expected nothing from me, totally incognito, and loved it. There was nothing for me to do, nothing to fill up my head except a gazillion decibles of industrial rage.

For some people, music is a social thing. They get together over it, talk about it, share it.

For me, it's ridiculously intensely personal, and I don't want to share it with anyone, because if they judge it, they're judging me.

Being swallowed up and made insignificant by loud music had the same calming, clensing, euphoric affect as standing alone in the mountains. I'm at my highest when the world around me makes me so small, I cease to exist, even to myself.

Curse of the Golden Flower

Pretty, and lacking a point. The lessons I took away from the cinema were: "when families go bad, they go BAD" and "it's GOOD to be king".

Overwhelming colour though. That palace! In the first five minutes I was saturated. How can you live in such a palace and not go insane?

Also: asian women have boobs. This film is proof.