miscellaneous extraneous aneous
Ora Pro Nobis
Evening at the chateau. The Dad is in the front room conversing with the Deity. The Mammy passes the door and looks in at him. "Who are you talking to?" quoth she. There is a moment of silence richly overlain with near cosmic exasperation. "I'm praying," manages the Dad finally. The Mammy snorts. "That's rich," sez she, "you spend most of the day cursing."
By The Book
Browsing in Easons book shop this afternoon I came across Call Of The Amateur by Andrew Keen. It's an attack on bloggers and blogging by a Guardian/Evening Standard/Esquire journo trying to pass himself off as a blogger. In fact he claims to be nicknamed The Antichrist Of Silicon Valley, a term obviously dreamed up by his publisher's singularly unimaginative marketing department. Andrew Keen is no rebel. He's the ultimate old media conformist whining about the democratising internet revolution that's left his formerly unassailable uncritisizeable employers high and dry. His book has all the credibility of Goebbels last broadcast from the Reichstag. They're going down alright. And they're getting desperate. On its cover Call Of The Amateur carries the endorsement of sundry old media has beans. "It's a staggering new book," according to something called AN Wilson of The Daily Mail. A pseud radical artist called Ralph Steadman opaquely calls it: "Uncompromising and clear." While the legendarily uninteresting lefty shillbag The New York Times proclaims: "It's a shrewdly argued Jeremiad against the digerati effort to dethrone cultural and political gatekeepers and replace experts with the wisdom of crowds." Well that's honesty in a way. So there were gatekeepers then? That's the closest the New York Times has ever come to admitting it has spent the past fifty years crassly and mendaciously manipulating the discourse in favour of atheistic pro abortion scruff who haven't a clue about anything and who the public obviously doesn't want to read. Gatekeepers indeed. To hell with them. And to hell with the driveling Andrew Keen. Others abide their question. We are free.
Titanic Proportions
Caught the end of the film Titanic on the box last night. For years I refused to watch the film at all. Director Jim Cameron had never made a decent movie. His output consisted of a few porn films starring Arnold Schwarzeneggar, and, er, that's it. By porn films I am referring to The Terminator series. Pornography of violence, we're talking about. So I had no hope that he could evoke the Titanic story with anything but the same dire exploitative turpitude. I stayed away when the cinemas were packed. When Cameron received his Oscar for the film, I watched him crow: "I'm the king of the world." And I thought: You're not my king. Then I discovered Cameron had been financing supposedly documentary programmes designed to cast doubt on the divinity of Jesus. You know the gag. Every Easter some half wit faux academic in Palestine claims to have found the tomb of the Lord with Jesus body still in it. Ergo, no resurrection. This was the angle pushed in the documentaries financed by Cameron. I saw no reason why I would ever watch one of his films again. And then a few years ago I did sit down and watch Titanic. And the thing is a work of art. Inexplicably. Tasteful. Poetic. Grand. A classic Hollywood film like they never make any more and like they never quite managed to make in the past, truth be told. Only the rarest excursion into sexualised bad taste. Let me say, the thing looks to me almost like it was made by a Christian. How very strange. After a life time of dross, Cameron makes this. And last night I saw the end again. The lady dies and goes to heaven where she meets all her loved ones again. At least that's what I thought was going on. It was subtle enough. Blatent enough too. Pure poetry. I can give no greater praise to a film or film maker.
Apologia Pro Neo Classicism Mea
Mark Anthony strode up the steps of the forum and addressed the milling crowd. "Friends, Romans, Countrymen," quoth he. "Lend me your newspapers. The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with the bones. So let it be with the Johnston Press. When the Johnston Press hath bought up 25 Irish newspapers using money they'd borrowed from idiot banks and then run those newspapers into the wall in the space of twelve months, did this in the Johnston Press seem ambitious? And yet Heelers hath told you the Johnston Press are a shower of parvenu free masonic clypes without a clue how to run a business, and sure Heelers is an honourable man. And they are all all honourable men. All the people who got fired, made redundant, or retired hurt from their newspapers after the Johnston Press took em over. When the poor hath cried the Johnston Press hath wept. Did this in the Johnston Press seem ambitious? And yet Heelers hath told you the Johnston Press are low life. And sure he is an honourable man. When the Johnston Press hath alienated whole sections of the community by jettisoning vast tranches of their workforce and hiring semi literate teens, did this in the Johnston Press seem ambitious? Granted, it was a bit f---ing stupid. But ambitious no. Ambitous would have been if they'd tried to run the newspapers properly and recognised the basic humanity of their workforces, and their social responsibilty not to fire anyone. But that's not the sort of ambition you find too often among a certain class of low life business executives. But I digress. And when the Johnston Press shareprice collapsed from £4 to 5 pennies after the firing of Heelers, did this in the Johnston Press seem ambitious? Clearly they hadn't got a clue. In fact at that stage a bit of ambition mightn't have done them any harm. And of course the collapse of the share price wasn't the fault of overpaid management executives whose only response to a recession was to fire more people. What imaginative fellows those management executives were. Positively enlightened. Nothing was their fault. The collapse of the Johnston Press is the fault of the people they fired. Obviously. Or maybe the collapse of the Johnston Press is the fault of underlying economic conditions that no one could have foreseen, not even the plush bottomed executive toe rags who were being paid through the nose to foresee such things. Fire me would you? You low life scum. We're all gonna remember you. You gonna be famous. I'm gonna build you a monument more lasting than bronze. Life is local indeed. And the collapse of the Johnston Press was the fault of a Voodoo curse imposed by a certain Baron Samedi of Jamaica while throwing a dead cat over his shoulder at midnight in the cemetery at Port Au Prince. I kid you not."
Television Listings
RTE One, (The Irish National Broadcaster) Friday.
5.30 The Bill. Antique British police drama that no one has ever watched.
6.00 The Angelus. Rte's sop to the Catholic church.
6.01 Rte News: Six One. Long running crime drama filmed in the style of a news programme. A bunch of anti Catholic left wingers with links to Moscow take over a television station and recreate the world in their own image.
7.00 Capital D. No one cares what this programme is.
7.30 Eastenders. Dreadful British pornography that no one watches.
8.00 Fair City. Dreadful Irish pornography that no one watches.
8.30 Showhouse. No one cares what this programme is.
9.00 Rte News: Nine O'Clock. The lefties are back. And this time they've got coffee mugs.
9.30 Prime Time. Atheist lefty panel discussion show. A group of corrupt pseuds agree with each other about the evils they dishonestly ascribe to the Catholic church. Dreadful, dreadful people.
10.10 The Mentalist. No one cares what this is.
11.05 Brothers And Sisters. Drivel.
12.00 (Midnight.) Where's My Job Gone. Film about Rte employees who suddenly have to compete in the real world when James Healy is elected Prime Minister of Ireland and permits free competition in the broadcasting industry.
Evening at the chateau. The Dad is in the front room conversing with the Deity. The Mammy passes the door and looks in at him. "Who are you talking to?" quoth she. There is a moment of silence richly overlain with near cosmic exasperation. "I'm praying," manages the Dad finally. The Mammy snorts. "That's rich," sez she, "you spend most of the day cursing."
By The Book
Browsing in Easons book shop this afternoon I came across Call Of The Amateur by Andrew Keen. It's an attack on bloggers and blogging by a Guardian/Evening Standard/Esquire journo trying to pass himself off as a blogger. In fact he claims to be nicknamed The Antichrist Of Silicon Valley, a term obviously dreamed up by his publisher's singularly unimaginative marketing department. Andrew Keen is no rebel. He's the ultimate old media conformist whining about the democratising internet revolution that's left his formerly unassailable uncritisizeable employers high and dry. His book has all the credibility of Goebbels last broadcast from the Reichstag. They're going down alright. And they're getting desperate. On its cover Call Of The Amateur carries the endorsement of sundry old media has beans. "It's a staggering new book," according to something called AN Wilson of The Daily Mail. A pseud radical artist called Ralph Steadman opaquely calls it: "Uncompromising and clear." While the legendarily uninteresting lefty shillbag The New York Times proclaims: "It's a shrewdly argued Jeremiad against the digerati effort to dethrone cultural and political gatekeepers and replace experts with the wisdom of crowds." Well that's honesty in a way. So there were gatekeepers then? That's the closest the New York Times has ever come to admitting it has spent the past fifty years crassly and mendaciously manipulating the discourse in favour of atheistic pro abortion scruff who haven't a clue about anything and who the public obviously doesn't want to read. Gatekeepers indeed. To hell with them. And to hell with the driveling Andrew Keen. Others abide their question. We are free.
Titanic Proportions
Caught the end of the film Titanic on the box last night. For years I refused to watch the film at all. Director Jim Cameron had never made a decent movie. His output consisted of a few porn films starring Arnold Schwarzeneggar, and, er, that's it. By porn films I am referring to The Terminator series. Pornography of violence, we're talking about. So I had no hope that he could evoke the Titanic story with anything but the same dire exploitative turpitude. I stayed away when the cinemas were packed. When Cameron received his Oscar for the film, I watched him crow: "I'm the king of the world." And I thought: You're not my king. Then I discovered Cameron had been financing supposedly documentary programmes designed to cast doubt on the divinity of Jesus. You know the gag. Every Easter some half wit faux academic in Palestine claims to have found the tomb of the Lord with Jesus body still in it. Ergo, no resurrection. This was the angle pushed in the documentaries financed by Cameron. I saw no reason why I would ever watch one of his films again. And then a few years ago I did sit down and watch Titanic. And the thing is a work of art. Inexplicably. Tasteful. Poetic. Grand. A classic Hollywood film like they never make any more and like they never quite managed to make in the past, truth be told. Only the rarest excursion into sexualised bad taste. Let me say, the thing looks to me almost like it was made by a Christian. How very strange. After a life time of dross, Cameron makes this. And last night I saw the end again. The lady dies and goes to heaven where she meets all her loved ones again. At least that's what I thought was going on. It was subtle enough. Blatent enough too. Pure poetry. I can give no greater praise to a film or film maker.
Apologia Pro Neo Classicism Mea
Mark Anthony strode up the steps of the forum and addressed the milling crowd. "Friends, Romans, Countrymen," quoth he. "Lend me your newspapers. The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with the bones. So let it be with the Johnston Press. When the Johnston Press hath bought up 25 Irish newspapers using money they'd borrowed from idiot banks and then run those newspapers into the wall in the space of twelve months, did this in the Johnston Press seem ambitious? And yet Heelers hath told you the Johnston Press are a shower of parvenu free masonic clypes without a clue how to run a business, and sure Heelers is an honourable man. And they are all all honourable men. All the people who got fired, made redundant, or retired hurt from their newspapers after the Johnston Press took em over. When the poor hath cried the Johnston Press hath wept. Did this in the Johnston Press seem ambitious? And yet Heelers hath told you the Johnston Press are low life. And sure he is an honourable man. When the Johnston Press hath alienated whole sections of the community by jettisoning vast tranches of their workforce and hiring semi literate teens, did this in the Johnston Press seem ambitious? Granted, it was a bit f---ing stupid. But ambitious no. Ambitous would have been if they'd tried to run the newspapers properly and recognised the basic humanity of their workforces, and their social responsibilty not to fire anyone. But that's not the sort of ambition you find too often among a certain class of low life business executives. But I digress. And when the Johnston Press shareprice collapsed from £4 to 5 pennies after the firing of Heelers, did this in the Johnston Press seem ambitious? Clearly they hadn't got a clue. In fact at that stage a bit of ambition mightn't have done them any harm. And of course the collapse of the share price wasn't the fault of overpaid management executives whose only response to a recession was to fire more people. What imaginative fellows those management executives were. Positively enlightened. Nothing was their fault. The collapse of the Johnston Press is the fault of the people they fired. Obviously. Or maybe the collapse of the Johnston Press is the fault of underlying economic conditions that no one could have foreseen, not even the plush bottomed executive toe rags who were being paid through the nose to foresee such things. Fire me would you? You low life scum. We're all gonna remember you. You gonna be famous. I'm gonna build you a monument more lasting than bronze. Life is local indeed. And the collapse of the Johnston Press was the fault of a Voodoo curse imposed by a certain Baron Samedi of Jamaica while throwing a dead cat over his shoulder at midnight in the cemetery at Port Au Prince. I kid you not."
Television Listings
RTE One, (The Irish National Broadcaster) Friday.
5.30 The Bill. Antique British police drama that no one has ever watched.
6.00 The Angelus. Rte's sop to the Catholic church.
6.01 Rte News: Six One. Long running crime drama filmed in the style of a news programme. A bunch of anti Catholic left wingers with links to Moscow take over a television station and recreate the world in their own image.
7.00 Capital D. No one cares what this programme is.
7.30 Eastenders. Dreadful British pornography that no one watches.
8.00 Fair City. Dreadful Irish pornography that no one watches.
8.30 Showhouse. No one cares what this programme is.
9.00 Rte News: Nine O'Clock. The lefties are back. And this time they've got coffee mugs.
9.30 Prime Time. Atheist lefty panel discussion show. A group of corrupt pseuds agree with each other about the evils they dishonestly ascribe to the Catholic church. Dreadful, dreadful people.
10.10 The Mentalist. No one cares what this is.
11.05 Brothers And Sisters. Drivel.
12.00 (Midnight.) Where's My Job Gone. Film about Rte employees who suddenly have to compete in the real world when James Healy is elected Prime Minister of Ireland and permits free competition in the broadcasting industry.
posted by heelers | 5:15 AM
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