TEST

This is my test post. I am and will for the foreseeable future be posting from my Kindle (if this works), so I will appreciate your looking the other way for the time being, should there be any typos or formatting errors. Woo, test!

I Can't Think of Any Desert Island Puns That I Don't Want to Use in My Lost Posts

Taking a short break from my blistering criticism of Lost, I've returned to bring you my Desert Island Discs. Stealing the idea from the England, I've compiled a list of the 10 songs I plan to have with me when I inevitably wash up on a deserted island. It's a slightly different list than one might expect, because these aren't necessarily the best songs ever written, or indeed, even the best songs by their respective artists. Instead the emphasis (for me) is in different aspects of these choices, several of them are beautiful pieces that I wouldn't want to live without, while others are an embodiment of all the superb elements of their individual artists. I could continue on like this, but instead, in No Particular Order, the list:

1. "Mr. Blue Sky" - Electric Light Orchestra

What sort of trauma would you have to have suffered as a child to not love this song?

2. "Shine On You Crazy Diamond (Parts i-vii)" - Pink Floyd

It's like 25 minutes of sick psychedelia. I love the Floyd, and this is one of their greatest songs, both in terms of length and, uh, awesomeness.

3. "Good Vibrations" - The Beach Boys

This was a tricky one. I didn't want to put it on my list at first, because I figure that being marooned is not the most pleasant of experiences and "Good Vibrations" would just piss me off. But frankly, like "Mr. Blue Sky," one cannot but feel good whilst listening to "Good Vibrations."

4. "Your Ex-Lover is Dead" - Stars

Stars are still my favorite band, and this song is gorgeous. The first song I ever heard from them, and BAM!, instantly hooked.

5. "The Wolves (1 & 2)" - Bon Iver

Wonderful. Pretty sure I couldn't live without this one.

6. "You Can't Always Get What you Want" - The Rolling Stones

I love the Stones. I almost picked "Sympathy for the Devil," but I feel that "You Can't..." will be more appropriate to my new desert island home. Also, it's like 8 minutes long. And awesome.

7. "Love Love Love (Love Love)" - As Tall As Lions

It's just so lush. This song, "The Wolves" and "Your Ex-Lover" will be my escape. Just close your eyes and float away...

8. "Ziggy Stardust" - David Bowie

David Bowie is the man.

9."Oh Comely" - Neutral Milk Hotel

Without employing hyperbole, this is perhaps one of the greatest songs ever written. My esteemed colleague used the title track from this album, which is also excellent, but "Oh Comely" is transcendent. Really, the only thing I can do is echo his desire to take the whole album. But I suppose I can settle for this one song.

10. "Section 12 (Hold Me Now)" - The Polyphonic Spree

I figure The Polyphonic Spree would be another one of those bands that would help to make the isolation somewhat more bearable with their rather unique brand of symphonic choral pop-rock (I love that phrase). A song to stave off despair.


This was hard. I very much wanted to put "Radio Radio" by Elvis Costello, or any of a number of songs by Radiohead or Wilco or any of my post-rock bands. However, these are 10 songs that I could listen to indefinitely, that will always move me, make me smile, keep me company on those hot Havana nights. Or... whatever.


The faderist (aka The Audiophile) has put up a list as well, and it is here: http://thefaderist.wordpress.com/

If You Like Pina Coladas...

Managing to complete the first season of Lost is something of an accomploshment for me. I did it like an (adhesive medical strip), one quick motion. Well, three quick motions. And, to the show's credit, I'm actually looking forward (*hesitantly*) to season 2.

First, I should clarify: "liveblogging" is not exactly the word for what I'm doing, but it's the phrase closest to what I'm looking for. Doing both at the same time would be a bit tricky.

It might just be me, but every time they smash to the Lost theme and title screen, I feel like I'm watching a film noir from 1954.

To be sure, the season drags. This needs to be clear. But it's an acceptible tedium, simply because of the size of the cast. When working with 12-15 main characters and trying to get each one at least one story to themselves per season, the beginning will be necessarily slow going. It's only around episode 17 or 18 (that's "...In Translation" and "Numbers") that the show really starts to find its' legs, beginning to answer one or two questions (who hit Sayid? Locke) and, more importantly, weave the web that draws all the characters together through coincidence or design.

For now, however, the Hatch is breached, the raft has sailed, and child has been took. Onwards and (so we hope) upwards!

Misplaced

Managing to successfully navigate my way through the first nine or ten episodes of Lost, I find myself reflecting. Having seen the first five before (twice!) mining new ground (finally!) is a bit of a relief, although not much of one, based on the utter lack of developments. As I have an (admittedly cursory) understanding of what will unfold over the next 100 episodes, I have to admit: I still don't know why this show survived more than one year on the air.

Funny story: while searching for fresh drinking water, Jack falls over a cliff, to be rescued by Locke. While Locke is saving Jack's bacon, a stream is clearly visible at the bottom of the chasm. Hmmmm...

The name CHRISTian SHEPHERD and his empty coffin (cough*tomb*cough) is not amusing. Or clever. And neither is any of the "John Locke" "Hume" "Rousseau" "Famous Philosopher" crap.

I am willing to endure onwards for some time, waiting to see what comes once they actually get around to telling their damn story. And I recognize the challenging difficulty of getting a story with so many characters off the ground, so I'm feeling very generous despite my generally negative attitude towards their stupidity. I'll take it for its' good points, and I won't forgive its' shortcomings. This show has too much hype, it's too much of a sacred cow to take seriously.

Watching Too Much Television

The Lostathon begins today. The damn show is over now, so I just have to avoid spoilers long enough to watch all 6 seasons on ABC's website. It's very considerate of them to do so. I'm sure it makes them lots of money.

As I've just finished watching four seasons of 24 (Days 4-7), it's a bit like my mind is going to start leaking from my ears. Still, it's my current intention to liveblog at least some of what I think about Lost, particularly since I need to be online to watch it anyway.

More to come certainly, but for now, let's all muse on this: No one in Los Angeles has apparently taken a course on CPR. Ever.

Screaming in an Empty Room

As the blood in my veins turns to alkaline and the viselike grip on the muscle in my chest tightens, I'd like to take a moment to reflect.

The difficulty comes in trying to transcribe what is inherently indescribable. How can I convey the misery through which I suffer? And, more importantly, how can I do it without sounding like a bitch? Or without stealing from better poets than myself? Bukowski or Keats or Ginsburg, or, fuck, Thom Yorke, Jeff Tweedy?

But I wake up every morning and wish that I hadn't. A comment I've made to various of the people I know, once eliciting the response "That sounds like a fairly... um... disappointing existence." And yes, that's exactly what it is. The best word for it. For me. Disappointing. The motions of life are bizarrely alien, despite the fact that I engage in them daily, constantly.

It disturbs me to see the people around me fuck up in the same ways I have. It disturbs me to see things around me happen to my friends the same way they happened to me. It disturbs me to see life play out in the same way it has for me for so many other people. The lack of originality that is unfairly imbued on existence is terrifying. That the very nature of my being is almost exactly the same as others puts me in such a state as to make it almost impossible to feel as though anything ever even could change, notwithstanding what actually will. (And what will? That's right, nothing.)

I just don't get it. Am I supposed to? If the meaning is whatever I decide it is, then why isn't that fulfilling?

The rage that fills my body at the slightest, indeed, imaginary provocations is astounding. The sensation of being alive makes me wish so sincerely that it weren't actually so. The fact that on a good day I wake up and wish I had a gun to put in my mouth just depresses. In fact, it manages to depress others more than it does me, and that says something. The worst part is that this shit makes me feel like I'm the biggest fucking baby on the planet Earth. I apparently share a cursed consciousness like those perky lead characters from Notes from Underground and Ulysses. Hah, yes, really. "History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awaken." Precisely.

I'm sure it's comforting to my friends. After all, of all of their peers, I'm probably doing the worst. "I'm doing terrible, I can barely afford food, but at least I'm doing better than Chuck." Optimism! Woo-ha.

And I don't know what to do. I'm breaking down. I'm losing what's left of the remnants of my mind. I'm going fucking crazy. I don't want anything, I can't do anything, I won't achieve anything.

That'll do.

Desperately Trying To Be Understood

There's something of a human need in being understood by other people. This is one of the main purposes of verbal communication. But the problem here is that all this shit is subjective.

The word "love". I say "I love you" and you return the sentiment, but how do I know that you mean the same thing I do? How do you know what I meant to begin with? Having an idea about these concepts means that you've dealt with them in some capacity, but you are the only one who identifies them for yourself. Does that make sense?

So here we are, trying to find understanding in those around us, filled with the need to reach out and touch these people, and communicate ideas, but so often we talk and our words fall dead to the ground, because words can only have the meanings we give them. The ideas we try to communicate don't express themselves as words in our minds, though there are words we attach to them, to try to make them relatable. And sometimes it works. We have Democracy. We have Law, and Philosophy.

Fuck. This isn't what I meant to say.

The last time I asked someone if she understood me, the last time I needed to know, she said "i do try. i love you, charlie."

But I know she didn't. And I know she doesn't. And I know why.

Fuck me.

How can we be known? How can I express myself? Why do I feel like I'm fucking insane?