Pretty Lady apologizes for the fact that Blogger has gone completely insane this morning. Here, again, she will attempt to post her little movie review, which really is not worth all this trouble.
Recently viewed: "The Lake House," starring Keanu, that cutie, and Sandra, also very cute.
Verdict: Don't bother.
Eviscerating rant: People. The First Rule In High-School Creative Writing: SHOW, DON'T TELL.
How in the world was Pretty Lady supposed to feel interest or affection for these people, cute as they are, if they persist in communicating in such utterly banal ideas and language? The idea of mutual enamoration by correspondence is not a new one; however, in the notable historical cases of such, the inamoratae were gifted writers. They did not convey their grand ambitions and secret troubles in such phrases as "I like to help people" and "I like to build things." These sorts of phrases are only compelling when a shy but charismatically hunky fellow is confessing them face-to-face, in a manner that suggests inarticulable volumes, or a shy but adorable female sighs them out in a way which hints at infinite, repressed passions.
Or perhaps the problem was that they were simply very boring people.
The undertones of Complex Psychological History were not undertones; they were explicitly stated by the Psychologically Complex themselves, in words right out of the textbook. The plot devices were so klunky and labored that Pretty Lady had to grit her teeth when each successive 'klunk' fell heavily and gracelessly into place. The final tense, tearful scene left her utterly unmoved, though the combined cuteness of Keanu and Sandra was aesthetically irresistable.
Pretty Lady feels badly for the actors in this travesty; well she knows the agony of having to infuse the flattest of dialogue with the maximum of feeling. She feels badly for the directors, having become enthralled with a compelling plot device, and being incapable of perceiving or transcending the vast gulf between inspired writing and the mere semiotic indication of such.
Perhaps, indeed, we are all literary victims of the IM and email culture.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Two hours wasted, and two posts toasted
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2 comments:
I was just over at Vox's and noticed all the people commenting on how they think you lifted that picture at the top of your page. I guess that reading comprehension doesn't run as high over there as we all had hoped.
Either that or they don't have the wit to look, your OPSEC and PERSEC on this page are slim to nonexistent from what I can tell, Joe Witkopp notwithstanding.
Which brings me to a professional question. I injured a muscle underneath my left shoulderblade years ago moving an engine block with one of my friends, since then it occasionally burns like someone has inserted a hot needle and yet I cannot get to it with any of the conventional methods. To be precise, if the scapular fossa is the continent of Africa, the pain is centered in the southern Sudan just north of Juba. Is there any way of accessing this short of a Blood Eagle?
Crom
As witty as I am, I have no idea what OPSEC and PERSEC might mean. I will say that I have constructed this site so that persons without wit will never know exactly what I look like, which is just how I like it.
As regards your question; you need a very, very good bodyworker, a very, very good yoga instructor, or both. Failing either one, you can try wrapping your left arm across your chest and leaning against a doorjamb, so that the weight of your body presses into the sore spot. You can also lie on a tennis ball or a golf ball, or get one of those hook things with a knob at the end of it, for boring down into shoulderblade knots.
If you have a wife or a friend who is moderately gifted, massage-wise, have them work on you while your left arm is wrapped around your back, the back of your hand on your sacrum. This lifts the scapula up enough so that persons with strong thumbs or dexterous elbows can get under it.
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