"I am an angry bird, and you are a pig!"

Veep has become insanely other-worldly good this season.  I do not even know where to begin. They got their first season under their belt, added brill new characters, and are even starting to throw in great new guest stars, i.e. the fabulous Dave Foley as the Finnish Prime Minister's husband last night.

There just is not any better show on television right now in my opinion.

What is intriguing is that the liberal political blogs are still reluctant to do live open threads about the program, or even frickin' use the hundreds of great lines in their postings.  This troubles me. Fair enough, if you do not like the show on its merits, but what I really suspect is that many serious Lefties can not take a joke.  (I also understand if folks do not like the program because of the swear-y language -- even though Lefties have been lambasting Winger blogs for being prudes for ages now.)

And, Lefties, including myself, have been ridiculing the Wingers for decades now as the Political Wing with Absolutely No Sense of Humor.  There is a lot of truth in that.  Wingers are getting busted by satirical websites daily, seriously embarrassed.  But, one of the most important characteristics of a sense of humor is the ability to laugh at yourself.

Even though Veep has never made a big deal about Selina Meyers (and the Administration's) political party affiliation, it is becoming increasingly obvious to viewers that she is a Centrist (just like all Democratic Veep and POTUS' since LBJ) Democrat.  And, if the "serious" political blogging Lefties can not deal with that, or are going to get up on their high horse about satirizing serious political issues, and how mean these folks are, then I give up.

I am 'bout the Leftiest guy any of you know, and I am still a pragmatic proud Democrat, too.  But, I also know that No Matter Who You Vote For The Government Always Gets In.

Mindbogglingly highly recommended, everyone should be watching Veep right now, best thing on teevee by miles.

All my love,
From the Axis of Dick,
Ardent Henry

I know, I know, I know, ...

Everybody and their Mum has already written a novel or a play, made a film, done a dissertation, or a song, or a power point, or a conceptual performance art dance piece about the year 1968.

"A young girl disturbed  by thinking too often of the future."

But, what the heck, I am officially throwing my hat in the ring, too.  I will be doing a 1968 Timeline here on fauxluxe over the coming months.  The Timeline will be distilled down to twelve longish pieces that will cover each month of 1968, perhaps the most tumultuous and thrilling year of the Twentieth Century.

May 1968 graffiti, Paris:  "Beneath the paving stones, the beach!"

It will not be all doom and gloom.  It will be a fun ride with lots of YouTube videos and serious and sometimes not so serious observations about the year in which I was born.

I plan to write the January installment sometime next week, and publish it here by Monday, May 20th (My Wife and I's second Anniversary!)










Right on,
Love you all,
Have a great Mum's Day oot there,
All you Mums,
Mwah, ... 

Yeah, that is right.

I see my Wife's Mitchell and Webb Grammar sketch, and raise her The Inebriati.

"Just slightly less than two drinks."

I finished reading The Great Gatsby yesterday.

And, it is a truly smashing novella; a tiny tour de force, if you will.

Honestly, I think Fitzgerald goes a little overboard sometimes, tries to pack so much style and attitude in to it that it can come off as if he is a little in love with the sound of his own voice.  That is forgivable though because the book is so good, and it is extremely typical of great young men writers in their twenties.

Man, F Scott F, how'd you get so bitter?

My gosh, he is certainly heavy with the similes and metaphors, though? Early in the book there appear to be at least two or three per page! Most of these are jaw-droppingly gorgeous, i.e. the simile about children leaving the street at dusk; or, the metaphor about the row of houses on a street like a birthday cake, etc, ... There are a few clunkers, too, but not many.

I also love our narrator, and his sly way of passing judgement on all these really awful people that he spends the Summer with.  I love the incredibly voyeuristic style that Nick Carraway employs to tell his tale.  I love the fact that Carraway, himself, the one passing judgement on these folks, is really a pretty despicable person, too.  I love Carraway's whole "the other things I did that Summer" passage, as well:  He kept signing love to his girl back West, even though he kept thinking of the "moustache of sweat" on Jordan Baker's lip while he did it; that he had another girl until her brother starting looking at him sideways; that he cares for Jordan Baker despite the fact that she is a liar and a cheat -- in fact, Carraway goes on to say that lying and cheating is to be expected of all young attractive women.  I also love how all "the help" are portrayed throughout the book, as rude, idiotic, stuck-up buffoons.  Even Carraway's personal "help" is only ever referred to as "The Finn."  We never learn their name.

This is an extremely cynical book, a real indictment of wealthy America.  There is really not a single likable person in the whole novella.  Carraway tries to paint a pretty picture of Daisy Buchanan, but by the end, one gets the feeling that Carraway is trying just a little too hard; that most likely, Carraway, is probably in love with his second cousin, which has blinded him to Daisy's very silly and slight nature.

I am so glad I have finally read the book.  If I had read it in High School it probably would have been wasted on me.  The Great Gatsby is a true American Masterpiece.

(Now back to Parade's End!)

This is for Nick C,

My friendface friends have already seen it:

"A real minute of silence takes forever."

(And, yes, they are attempting to break the World's Record for running through The Louvre.)

I am going to suspend reading Parade's End

This weekend, so I can read The Great Gatsby before I see the film next Friday.

(By the way, I am near done with the first of the four novels of the Parade's End tetralogy, and  it is definitely one of the greatest books ever written, as far as I am concerned.  The forty page Sylvia/Tietjens conversation that begins Part Two of the first novel is just out of this world amazing, with numerous major plot points just dropped in, or thrown away in conversation.  The whole dynamic of Sylvia and Tietjens' relationship is another stunner for the ages, and most certainly can resonate with modern readers.  It certainly resonates with me.  Just fantastic brilliant writing, including some crazy stream of consciousness passages that exhilarate.  Plus, the way young Miss Wannop stands up to Tietjens, and demands his respect, and goes toe to toe with him! And Sylvia, too, of course.  Tietjens only seems able to keep the company of strong, smart, forthright women.  Great stuff.  I could go on longer, but will not, ... )

My history with The Great Gatsby is I was required to read it in High School, but I do not even remember if I finished it.  I did not like it then.  It was completely wasted on me.  I simply refused to read anything I was told to read (except some books my parents pushed on me) and read other things, and wrote terrible love sick poetry, or poems about time or sunsets, or whatnot.

I expect I will really enjoy Gatsby this time, and am eagerly looking forward to it.

(Here are some more fun Criterion Three Reasons!)

Happy Friday, everyone! Have a great day!
Michael

"Dear Mr Rossellini --

"I saw your films, Open City and Paisa, and enjoyed them very much.  If you need a Swedish actress who speaks English very well, who has not forgotten her German, who is not very understandable in French, and who in Italian knows only 'ti amo', I am ready to come and make a film with you.

Best regards,
Ingrid Bergman"

It was that beautiful and ever so elegant, and eloquent, letter that sent off a chain reaction of events:  Ms Bergman went on to have an affair, and a professional relationship with Mr Rossellini, eventually divorcing her first husband, and having three children with Rossellini, including the exquisite Isabella Rossellini.

Once it was learned Stateside that Ms Bergman was living "in sin" with Rossellini she was censured by the United States Congress, and was blacklisted indefinitely from working in Hollywood.

She eventually returned, of course, and won two more Oscars, but that is so ludicrous to me, what those white men in power think they feel they have to say about a woman and her personal private life.  Screw 'em.

Ms Bergman is forever.  Nobody knows those yahoos' names anymore.








mds

So, Nick C,

I am sticking with Bitch by the Rolling Stones for my at-bat song, and if I was a Closer, I would come out on to the field to Reuters by Wire.

I think those are great choices, Reuters, especially.

Go Rangers!

I remember one of the coolest things my

Mother ever did:

When I was around six years old, and we were living in Norman, OK, Donna -- my Mum -- brought home a couple of children's storybooks from the college bookstore.  I was reading literally every thing I could get my hands on at that time.  I was obsessed and delighted with this new thing I could do, read.

These new storybooks though were from the Soviet Union, and were written in cyrillic.  I had no idea what the text meant.  I secretly hope now that it was pure unadulterated party propaganda (except I severely doubt it.) I explained to Donna how I could not comprehend the book, and Donna sweetly told me that I should use my imagination, looking at and absorbing the pictures and the beautiful Russian letters, and make up my own story of what the books said.

Beautiful, right?

(And, you gotta love the fact that my Mum was getting that Soviet Commie stuff to me at a very early age! In Norman, OK! In 1974! Indoctrinated, indeed!)

Happy International Workers Day, everyone!

My three beautiful notorious Swedish idols for you

On Walpurgisnacht:

Happy Walpurgisnacht, my Sweet Ones!






Mwah, ... 

I do not really have anything,

So, here are some videos:

Everyone have the greatest Saturday evah!

Nope, there is absolutely nothing to see here,

Just neveryoumind, already! Got this from Charlie Pierce today, who got the picture from Gawker.  I already knew about the heinously unconstitutional anti-choice law signed by Governor Brownback the other day, but I had no idea about the whole Jesus hearts Mary angle for Brownie's notes.  Kissing in a tree, indeed.  (Plus, am I wrong, or is the bill called Mega abortion bill?)

Meanwhile, Fox News wants to get the towels ready for another waterboarding party.  The Koch brothers are interested in buying eight newspapers, including the LA Times.  No one seems to be the least bit interested in doing something about the West, Texas fertilizer plant owners, despite the fact that they were in serious violation of just about every regulation imaginable and had not had a inspection by OSHA since 1985(!)  Really, I know.  I should just lay off those guys. Goshdarnit, they are the job creators in the boo-ti-ful Right to Work Bidness Paradise that is Tejas.

Then, there is the extremely icky icky story about Adam Savader.  Sad, too, as this might end up putting a crimp in his plans for his shiny new political blog that he had planned to unveil on us (and the world.)

Anyhoo, there is an antidote for all this awfulness.  On May 8, in Oakland, California at the Paramount Theater, Noam Chomsky will be a voice of reason to talk you off the ledge, and, perhaps get you in to the streets instead, trying to change life, as opposed to just reforming capitalism (policy, laws, etc, whathaveyou, ... )

(Oh, and two days after Chomsky's rap at the Paramount, the Paramount will be showing the noir classic, Laura, too.  Sweet!)

Mwah, ... 

Learning about wine

Is like climbing Enchanted Rock in the beautiful Texas Hill Country.

Every time you have thought you have reached the Summit (and knew it all), you realize there is another summit yet to climb (and more to learn.)

- Ardent Henry

Letter from Reno

Perhaps the strangest moment I had in Reno was when I was first left alone, to my own devices, a subject to immense culture shock, in the smokey pit of the Atlantis Casino.  As I pondered my options bewilderingly -- I could not quite yet check in to our hotel room -- I sat at a poker slot, found an ashtray, lit up a cigarette, and began to read from Parade's End by Ford Madox Ford ("... they shortened their hairs and their skirts and flattened, as far as possible, their chest developments, which does give, oh, you know ... a certain ... ") just as Something in the Air (smoke?) by Thunderclap Newman cascaded down from hundreds of tiny speakers (all next to hundreds of tiny cameras), snaking its' insidious ways through the labyrinthine carpeted pathways and curlicues and cul de sacs, all designed to disorient and subvert psychogeography.  I was certainly disoriented.

"No, I'm never gonna do it without the fez on 

Oh no 

No, I'm never gonna do it without the fez on 

Oh no 

That's what I am 

Please understand 

I wanna be your holy man" 

No clocks, and where does all that smoke go? Ring ring ring.  Waterfalls and eagle squawks. Even sainted Hansel and Gretel's bread crumbs might not work here.  I was always lost here.  I swear the card tables were by the cabaret bar.  Were not the dollar slots by the elevators? How many circles have I made? How could so much undead life exist here? Or, rather, the undead are the actual sentient beings.  The "life", as it were, were the buzzers, blings, chattering canned voices, and a million lights of neon and ice cold illuminated digital ink.

The cocktail waitresses were near as grim as the punters, clad in short-skirted brown dresses and "nude" Mary Tyler Moore pantyhose.  Most barely uttered the word, "Cocktail?" as they passed. They seemed mostly defeated and embarrassed at their prospects.  They would occasionally liven up, speaking to their co-workers, or recognizing an old regular.

The first machine I played I won about eight dollars on just the second roll.  I cashed out straightaway, and sent a picture of the ticket to my Sweetie, Renee.

I felt so out of sorts here at first.  Perhaps it was because I was sometimes sitting idly at machines, smoking, clutching a nine hundred page paperback about the last Tory, set during World War I.  I was convinced the die-hards had sorted my figure but quick.  I was a dilettante, a parvenue.  Not a soul, was I, to be suspicious of, as much as be curiously tolerated.

I had a v limited amount of money to gamble with, and I had had depressive frustrated relationships with these machines before.  Twice before in Vegas, and once before, here, in the Biggest Little City in The World.  Therefore, I was resolved to play penny ante bullshit drowning games with mostly nickel slots.

What a waste! Nickel slots are the vilest of them all, and I do not know why I am so attracted to them.  Actually, I do know.  The nickel slots give you the impression that you are actually "playing" something.  And, they while away the time.  In fact, the nickel slots are the best way for small-timers like myself to cadge free drinks (The typical desultory tone, "Cocktail, Sir?" "Budweiser, please.") and smoke furiously without guilt or shame.  Except that California has changed me so much, that even in Cigarette Heaven (But no cigars or pipes in the Sports Book, please!) I could not help but feel a twinge of criminality every time that spark-like click was created by the roll of my thumb on my lighter.

"No, I'm never gonna do it without the fez on 

Oh no 

Ain't never gonna do it without the fez on 

Oh no 

That's what I am 

Please understand 

I wanna be your holy man" 

But no more nickel slots for me! No, I have kicked them for good for sure at last.  Surly cocktail waitresses with free drinks and cigarettes aside, they are humiliating machines.  You can not really win anything on them, and they devour your pitiful bets in such small degrading amounts as to cut your soul.  Death by a million paper cuts! Slow and wretched expiration.

Anytime I had won on my original bet on a nickel slot, even if it was only ten cents, I immediately cashed out.  A ticket I could put in to another machine to change in to cash, deluding myself that I had won.  Won what exactly? Ten cents? A good time? Entertainment? What sort of entertainment is this? (More on this later.)

But, eventually the specter of "entertainment", and "time to kill" conspired to change my mood, or strategy.  I let a nickel machine (something about wolves) consume my meagre winnings, and finally, after hours of "play", put me in the hole.

I was furious with this wolf machine! This wolf had eaten me alive! I would either make it pay (Not bloody likely!) or would let it devour my spirit.  (The real result.)

I moved over to the next machine (Glitter Kitty or some such) and played down my last four dollars I was willing to splurge on.  Glitter Kitty was evil in different ways.  Every time I would get down to ten cents it would pay back fifty.  It did this, this bedazzled Kitten monster, about a half dozen times.  So nasty!

Meanwhile, a youngish attractive man sat down to play the Wolf That Ate My Heart right next to me.  And, as I was traveling from ten cents to sixty to ten to sixty to ten, etc, ... he had promptly turned his twenty dollar investment in to fifty! The nerve!

Seriously?!

But, ha ha ha, his machine malfunctioned and would not produce his ticket.  He stood up and looked at me.  "Damn," he said, "And I work here, too."

I returned to my one line two credit rolls:  Credit $0.32.  Bet $0.02.  Credit $0.30.  Bet $0.02. Credit $0.28.  Bet $0.02.  And on and on and on, ...

"And," he said, "I thought I just saw an attendant walk by."

I pulled from my Budweiser.  Credit twenty-two.  Credit twenty.  Credit eighteen, ...

"Plus," he said, "I know how easy it is to get in to these things.  Damn!"

He waited for a while as Glitter Kitty finally bested me, and I walked away without ever knowing if he got his money.

************

Thank god, the Wife!

The Wife had been repulsed by the casino earlier, "It is ten o'clock," she said, "And they are all smoking and drinking!"

But, now after a long day at work, she was a bit more tolerant and open-minded.  Desperate for a smoke, and hungry, she lit up next to me at a dollar slot, and said, "Show me how you do this."

"You put your dollar bill in here, and then you place your bet.  Push that button."

"You do it, " she said.

I said, "Don't you wanna pull the lever?"

"Right!"

Seven -- Bar -- Blank.

"Game over," I said, "Thanks for playing.  But, you had fun, right?"

"Put another one in, " she said, her cigarette in the corner of her mouth.  She pulled the arm of the machine towards her, and continued, "People get addicted to these things? I don't get it."

This time there were bells.  Ring ring ring! The sound of coins raining down on to a metal counter top. The Wife had won twelve dollars.

"Cash that shit out right now!" she exclaimed.

I pushed the button for her ticket, and when it came out, said, " You have won us a cocktail!"

************

In the end, after I won three dollars on the dollar slots the next morning, we had lost a grand total of five dollars in the bright yet shadowy cacophonous fire-breathing smokey casino pit of Reno Nevada sin.

"No, I'm never gonna do it without the fez on 

Oh no 

Don't make me do it without the fez on 

Oh no 

That's what I am 

Please understand

I wanna be your holy man"

Which was considered "Great success!" by me.  Truth be told, we felt way more ripped off by the restaurants upstairs, with their fumbling service and serviceable fare.  

Next time in Nevada:  Dollar slots only!

All my love, 

xxxoooxxx,

Michel Roulette

"What else is there I can buy you with?"

Mary Astor, 5/3/06 - 9/25/87

Hot damn!

The wife and I will be gamboling downtown Walnut Crick way to see Trance today.

Trance is Danny Boyle's latest film, and it reunites him with his Scottish MD screenwriter, John Hodge, who wrote Boyle's first clutch of films, including the two classics, Shallow Grave, and Trainspotting.

Hmmm, Renee is excited, too! And, that accent!

This is the type of film (like Ginger & Rosa) that I expect to get mixed reviews (Trance currently has a 69 per cent score on Rotten Tomatoes) but that I expect I will like anyway.  In fact, I figure I will prob like it for all the same reasons that those that did not like it had.  I can just tell.

Plus, two of the Wife's faves are in it:  Vincent Cassel, and dreamboat, James McAvoy.

I am excited.  Looks to be a great last few days of my staycation.

xxxoooxxx,
love you all!

PS:  The trailer above is a restricted red band one.  Fun!

We all know what happened

Yesterday.  And, I am not about to waste a significant amount of bit ink from my bit inkwell on yesterday's events, other than to say:  Lest you allow terror to win, it already has.

When the friendface posts started rolling in, I switched off my lovely feature-length interview with Eric Rohmer, and hit the cable news outlets like much of the rest of the country.  But, I could bear it for just so long.

I have no interest in speculation at this point.  Especially the type of crazy dangerous speculation currently ruling the cable news platforms and the interwebs.  This insane type of discussion informs the terrorist that they have won.

When I could take no more, I made an instant decision to watch Eric Rohmer's Six contes moraux in order.  (The way they were intended, not the way they were ultimately released.)

The first is La boulangère de Monceau, a twenty minute black and white short, shot on a 16mm camera without sound.  All the sound, including speech, was added in post-production.  (French cinema does such a great job illustrating the attraction between women and their male butchers, and men and female bakers.) It is one of the most delightful little films I have ever seen, and a perfect antidote to a complex, sometimes hateful world.

My point being, hug your loved ones today.  Curl up with that book you have been putting off for so long.  Go hiking or hit the beach.  Share some drinks with friends and see the game.  Turn everything off and listen to silence for an hour.  Walk the dogs.  Take exercise.  Carry on.  Do some baking.  Make a wonderful dinner.  Work in the garden.  Do anything but let hate win.

(Or, do like me, and throw yourself in to Eric Rohmer's enchanting world of young lovers.)

All my love,
Michael

Well, Nick C,

We are getting closer and closer to May 10th.  That is the day that Bazmania takes on F Scott F in three mind-blowing dimensions!

We will ply you w/ Scotch at Va de Vi before, but you would best bring a flask as well, yourself.

Heck, we should just try and get the whole day off!  Maybe we could read the book right before we walk in to the theater.

No backing out now, kitten! It is going to be a wonderful time for all, old Sport! Does Carey Mulligan have a voice like money? We will find out!

Ciao!

Nick, I know you were worried about finding the perfect pants, too.

mds