Perhaps the world of politics and selecting leaders, and the world of Hollywood and stars and sports and celebrities is nothing more than "alpha worship."

Brangelina. TomKat. Bennifer. Tiger Woods. David Beckham. This is alpha worship/infatuation at its height. Why are we so interested in these people and their spawn? Do they stand as archetypal human beings or something?

Is this the latest incarnation of some sort of ancient human ritual? Postmodern Adam-and-Eve-ism?

Just as water returns to its level, if there is doubt in our mind, we are knocked into intellectual disequillibrium, and we struggle with it until we find an answer. As soon as we find an answer, we guard it, we protect it. This reduces our anxiety of the world. When someone else tells us we are wrong, we might immediately see the folly of our previously held conclusion. Or maybe the thing doesn't really matter to us (e.g. someone says, "Did you know that star N34534 was named after Mark Twain?" and we say, "Hm, that's nice.")

But other things that we have come to believe we may feel very adamant about. These are usually the things that relate in some way to our survival, to our identity, to our value. If any information seems to challenge that or tear it down, we certainly war against it. It's presence prouces too much anxiety. If the threat is too great, we try to kill it, rather than understand it. Fundamentalism is an absolutist sense of ones conclusions. The smartest people, like Plato, realized that all they knew still didn't amount to much compared to all that there is to know.

I believe that being able to perceive multiple points of view shows intellectual intelligence. I don't beleive that George Bush is endowed with that type of intelligence. Neither is Bin Laden.

This was one of Kant's themes: How do we account for the problem of knowledge that was not obtained through personal experience? If we see something, hear something, taste something, we have a sense of it. But how can we know what information to believe or not believe? Should we believe Hannity, Moore, or neither? Should we believe Darwin? Why or why not? Who says we should believe Darwin, who says we should not? Why are they telling us this? What's their reason for believing? Etc., etc., etc., and so-on with really any type of information. How can we know a movie was good? How can we know a book is worth reading? Who's information can we trust or depend on?

Kant changed our whole concept of reality. Kant, like Toto in The Wizard of Oz, ran over and pulled away the curtain. What we thought was an awful wizard with flames of fire, was actually just a man pulling ropes. Likewise, what we think we know for sure about reality, is really our personal construct of reality. Our brain has its own ropes.

Peirce further simplified Kant. There is: 1) the object, 2) our mental reconstruction of the object, and 3) our analysis of the object and how we feel about it. And sometimes the gap between 1 and 2 is big, therefore, our assessment is often tainted, distorted, or incomplete. You and I could witness the same event, but notice different things, then compare what we saw to the totality of our previous life experiences, then we form conclusions. Your mind sums up that big calculus equation, and so does mine. And the end result is going to be different. Mine, yours, and everyone else's in the world.

Certainty of reality probably isn't possible, because meaning is ultimately person-specific, and my observation and your observation of A is totally dependent on the XYZ of our life experiences.

"An act of pure perception is a feat, and if you don't believe it, try it sometime." -Robert Warren Penn, in his book "All the King's Men."

Governments supress and mismanage information that doesn't support their cause, or that makes them look bad. Bush did this with the Iraq war (Sudan, uranium). "Supression and mismanagement of information" is one of the oldest tricks in the book. My advice to these governments is to stop being so totalitarian about its faults and blemishes, and just be a good government.

It's like the abusive husband who threatens to beat his wife if she tells someone or runs away. My advice to him is, treat your wife right and she won't want to run away. She'll willingly want to stay with you, and she'll love you for treating her kindly. You can either use your energy to be a jerk, or use your energy to be nice. So that's my advice to Bush and those who determine our policies. Do what Jesus would do: treat others as we want to be treated. Don't interfere negatively in the lives of others and, wow, what do you know, they won't want to kill you.

Human beings rarely go above and beyond what they think is necessary. If you're crossing the street, and the car is far away, you'll walk, you won't run, because it's a principle of physics to exert the least amount of energy required to perform a task. Terrorists who go to great lengths to hurt America do not do so because they "hate our way of life," or because they "hate our freedom." These are lies that have been perpetuated time and time again throughout all history. "The enemy cannot be reasoned with. The enemy hates our way of life. The enemy will stop at nothing." These are the dehumanizing cries of war. If we do not understand history, we are condemned to repeat it.

If we were doing more through diplomacy and legitimate investments, we could help build the economies of other nations, particularly those who are hostile to us. After a generation, those people would much rather stand in line and wait their turn for a Big Mac than join an Al Qaeda cell. Their quality of life needs to be raised. They need help. They need options. Right now, war, death, and murder is the only option they know, and they certainly don't need any more of that. I believe that if could be shown another option, they will take it.

There are bad apples like Bin Laden who have influence (and American actions abroad give people like Bin Laden plenty of credibility in the eyes of the victims in residence). But Bin Laden is only the answer for those who have no other options. They get sucked into a fascist, fundamentalist interpretation of Islam, because it's their only way of feeling more powerful (i.e. mandate of heaven) than those who seem to have power over them (i.e. America). But I believe if those people are given more choices, then the masses will choose to live in peace with their families rather than blow themselves up. When the gamble of this heaven or that heaven seems more appealing than the reality of life on earth, that's when people go to extremes and blow themselves up.

Most people believe that they are doing "right" as they perceive right. Given the totality of our life experiences, we all see the world differently. There is the world, and then there is our construct of the world, and we feel that we are right. Some have a positive view of Bush, the war, etc., and others have a negative view of the same things, and nobody's views are identical, so how do we even go about determining who's views are "right"?

Without information, democracy fails. The wisdom of crowds only works when we are informed. Just as communism fails with corrupt leaders, so does democracy, capitalism, or any ideology. No ideology is foolproof or power-proof. It comes down to individual human beings. And until we can all find some way of dealing with each other in a way that doesn't short circuit and descend into thisthatism, I'm afraid we'll make no progress. All we can do is stand on our various sides of the stadium and watch the events unfold, like a sports match, and when our ideology is winning we cheer, and when our ideology is losing, we kick and scream and blame the ref.

Sometimes someone like Kennedy, Clinton, or Obama comes along who seems to be the cure du jour. And we punch our cards and march triumphantly out of the voting box, feeling like we've just saved the world. But then, as the months and years go by, we find that no one man, woman, or administration can change things. Life is still the way it was before the new snake oil salesman rolled into town. We thought we could shirk responsibility for our happiness onto a politician (who's primary purpose is to preserve his own political viability), but we were duped again.

Syncretism. Cool word, and what a noble (imo) pursuit:

Syncretism consists of the attempt to reconcile disparate, even opposing, beliefs and to meld practices of various schools of thought. It is especially associated with the attempt to merge and analogize several originally discrete traditions, especially in the theology and mythology of religion, and thus assert an underlying unity.

The word syncretism is first attested in English in 1618 and is derived from modern Latin syncretismus, drawing on Greek συγκρητισμός (synkretismos), meaning "a union of communities."

I think if one could really be syncretic in their outlook it would be a wonderful step in personal maturity, and one giant leap toward getting along with each other, both personally and globally. (Can it be done? How does one merge Bush's Iraq outlook with the other 70% of the nation?)

The Pursuit of Happyness is good. I delayed watching it because I thought it would be one of those sweet little tales of hope. (It was.) I thought it would be formulaic and predictable. (It was.) I though it would have sappy music and voiceover narration. (It did.) Worst of all, I thought the meaning would be forced, in a "Life's Little Instructions Book" sort of way. (It was.)

I had heard Will Smith was great in the film. (He was.) But I wasn't prepared for how good his performance would be. (It was great.) I thought there would be a lot of trite moments. (There were.) I thought the film would be punctuated with overt moments of Will Smith, as opposed to his character, Chris Gardener. (It wasn't.) By the end of the film, I don't really know what it was, or where it happened, but it sunk into my heart and affected me in a powerful way in which I was not prepared. This film is like an elixir for the cancer of despair that afflicts so many people. I hope the film will travel from screen to screen, and mind to mind. God knows we need it.

The main thing these types of movies have in common are "multiple protagonists" whose lives intersect in coincidental ways (often unbelievingly so), like a series of interspliced short stories. Examples of these types of films are: Kicking and Screaming, Playing by Heart, The Hours, Love Actually, Crash, and Babel.

In general, I don't like these types of films. They have their charm and their newness, but that's about all they have, and I think the genre will fade out altogether rather soon. Whenever we see something new, we are drawn to it (i.e. a naked model on a billboard). The main thing these films have going for them is the gimmick of newness.

If you look at a regular two-hour-length feature, the writer must come up with material that is clever enough to sustain us through the same story arc. But writers of multiple protagonist films only have to write four or five short story arcs, and then just intersplice them, often in a seemlingly arbitrary way. ("Well, we haven't gone back to so-and-so's story. Why don't we put in five minutes of that here!?")

Instead of coming up with clever material for two hours' worth of entertainment, the writers of multiple protagonist films exploit the human reaction to newness: "Ah... it's this person again! Let's see what happens next in this story!" Then, as soon as we cut back to someone else's story: "Ah... it's this person again! I was just thinking about him!"

In the most cliched incarnations of multiple protagonist films, the writer brings all the stories to a head around some event near the end, like in Love Actually, and the audience says, "Wow, now I get it! Now I see how everything comes together! Neat-o!"

Perhaps these writers are inspired by Tarrantino's (or Kaufman's) structural style, but there is a fundamental difference: multiple protagonist films are usually all sequenced chronologically; we just skip around. Tarrantino and Kaufman, however, skip from character to character, time to time, place to place, depending on how they want to reveal information. It's an aesthetic feature of their storytelling, and all relates to the single, central story—not myriad sideline stories.

What writers of multiple protagonist stories have done is taken the fucntion of the sub-story and expanded it. With sub-stories you can create either a supporting arc or a counterpoint to emphasize or contradict your central theme. In group protagonist films, sub-stories are the medium and the message, albeit in a naive, simplistic, we-are-all-one, butterfly-effect sort of way. Since each story is often so thematically similar, the whole thing comes off like lazy didaction.

McKee said, "You can only break convention in order to replace it with something better." In the end, I think these films are replacing convention with gimmick. It's all new and interesting—for now. I just hope other writers don't get sucked in to the trap. Arbitrary sequentiality doth not a Kaufman make.

Best Picture
Babel
The Departed
Letters from Iwo Jima
Little Miss Sunshine
The Queen

From this list, I'd probably choose The Departed. I haven't seen Letters from Iwo Jima, but that will probably win. I'll watch it and see what it's like. I don't think Babel (or Crash) are worthy of Best Picture, nor is Little Miss Sunshine (or Sideways). The Queen has some good acting, yes. But I don't think it's Best Picture worthy.

Best Actor
Leonardo DiCaprio for Blood Diamond
Ryan Gosling for Half Nelson
Peter O'Toole for Venus
Will Smith for The Pursuit of Happyness
Forest Whitaker for The Last King of Scotland

I didn't think Leo D. was good in Blood Diamond. I thought he was better in The Departed. (I don't think either roles are Oscar worthy.) I've heard a lot of good things about the other four, though. I would really like to see those films, but I haven't had the chance to. I suspect it will go to Forest Whitaker.

Best Actress
Penélope Cruz for Volver
Judi Dench for Notes on a Scandal
Helen Mirren for The Queen
Meryl Streep for The Devil Wears Prada
Kate Winslet for Little Children

I think we all knew Penelope and Helen would be nominated. I haven't heard much about Judi's performance. Meryl's performance was good, yes. Haven't seen Kate's new movie. I think this one will go to Helen. (There is a trend in the Oscars recently to give the award to someone playing a character based on a real person.)

Supporting Actor
Alan Arkin for Little Miss Sunshine
Jackie Earle Haley for Little Children
Djimon Hounsou for Blood Diamond
Eddie Murphy for Dreamgirls
Mark Wahlberg for The Departed

Alan Arkin was one of the best things about LMS. Haven't seen LC. Djimon Hounsou was pretty good in Blood Diamond. Haven't seen Dreamgirls. Mark was really good in The Departed. Very intense. He put a lot into that character. I suspect this one will go to Jackie or Eddie.

Supporting Actress
Adriana Barraza for Babel
Cate Blanchett for Notes on a Scandal
Abigail Breslin for Little Miss Sunshine
Jennifer Hudson for Dreamgirls
Rinko Kikuchi for Babel

All I can say is that if this award doesn't go to Rinko Kikuchi, them something is seriously wrong. She was incredible—the one redeeming aspect of Babel.

Best Director
Clint Eastwood for Letters from Iwo Jima
Stephen Frears for The Queen
Paul Greengrass for United 93
Alejandro González Iñárritu for Babel
Martin Scorsese for The Departed

I am really surprised to see Mel Gibson missing from his list. The work he did with the cast of Apocalypto was incredible. Maybe he would have made the top 10. Maybe he can't be taken seriously by the Academy anymore. Based on this list, I can see the award going to Clint, Martin, or Paul, in that order.

Best Original Screenplay
Babel: Guillermo Arriaga
Letters from Iwo Jima: Iris Yamashita, Paul Haggis
Little Miss Sunshine: Michael Arndt
Laberinto del Fauno, El: Guillermo del Toro
The Queen: Peter Morgan

Babel and LMS don't deserve to be on this list, IMO. I think this will go to Guillermo or Iris/Haggis.

Best Adapted Screenplay
Borat: Sacha Baron Cohen, et al
Children of Men: Alfonso Cuarón, et al
The Departed: William Monahan
Little Children: Todd Field, Tom Perrotta
Notes on a Scandal: Patrick Marber

Hm. I don't know. I think it will go to Little Children. Borat definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely does not even deserve to be thought of! The film is retroscripted! (Look at all the names.) This has nothing to do with "script." It was an idea, a conception, not a script. The entire premise is paper-thin. Ridiculous. I'm not sure of the strength of Notes on a Scandal. Children of Men was okay.

Cinematography:
The Black Dahlia (2006): Vilmos Zsigmond
Children of Men (2006): Emmanuel Lubezki
The Illusionist (2006): Dick Pope
Laberinto del Fauno, El (2006): Guillermo Navarro
The Prestige (2006): Wally Pfister

Wow. Great to see The Black Dahlia nominated here! Truly excellent cinematography. No doubt both The Illusionist and The Prestige are on this list. Children of Men was gritty and well shot. But Laberinto del Fauno will and should win this award.

Editing
Babel: Douglas Crise, Stephen Mirrione
Blood Diamond: Steven Rosenblum
Children of Men: Alfonso Cuarón, Alex Rodríguez
The Departed: Thelma Schoonmaker
United 93: Clare Douglas, Richard Pearson, Christopher Rouse

Difficult list. But here's how I arrange it: United, Departed, Babel, Children, Diamond.

Art Direction
Dreamgirls
The Good Shepherd
Laberinto del Fauno
Pirates of the Caribbean
The Prestige

I still can't believe I haven't seen Pirates II. This will probably go to Pan.

Costume Design
Man cheng jin dai huang jin jia
The Devil Wears Prada
Dreamgirls
Marie Antoinette
The Queen

This will probably to to Marie Antoinette.

Original Score
Babel: Gustavo Santaolalla
The Good German: Thomas Newman
Notes on a Scandal: Philip Glass
Laberinto del Fauno: Javier Navarrete
The Queen: Alexandre Desplat

Hm. It certainly helps to be a Newman.

Original Song
An Inconvenient Truth: "I Need To Wake Up"
Dreamgirls (2006): "Listen"
Dreamgirls (2006): "Love You I Do"
Cars (2006): "Our Town"
Dreamgirls (2006): "Patience"

I'd say there's a 60% chance this award will probably go to Dreamgirls. :)

Best Achievement in Makeup
Apocalypto
Click
Laberinto del Fauno, El

My guess: Labertino, Apocalypto. Odd to see Click here. And nothing else. Not even Marie Antoinette.

Animated Feature Film
Cars (2006): John Lasseter
Happy Feet (2006): George Miller
Monster House (2006): Gil Kenan

My guess: Happy Feet, Monster House, Cars.

Foreign Language Film
Efter brylluppet (Denmark)
Indigènes (Algeria)
Laberinto del Fauno, El (Mexico)
Leben der Anderen, Das (Germany)
Water (Canada)

My guess: Labertino.

Documentary
Deliver Us from Evil: Amy Berg, Frank Donner
An Inconvenient Truth: Davis Guggenheim
Iraq in Fragments: James Longley, Yahya Sinno
Jesus Camp: Heidi Ewing, Rachel Grady
My Country My Country: Laura Poitras, Jocelyn Glatzer

What a difficult list! I think: Deliver, Inconvenient, Jesus, Iraq, Country.

The first time I saw Pulp Fiction I was 17 years old. (We snuck into the movie theater.) I don't remember much. I remembered that John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson were hit men. That there was a powerful boss figure named Marsellus Wallace and that Uma Thurman played his wife. Bruce Willis was in it. I remembered that. And Christopher Walken. But I don't remember how it started, how it ended, or what it was really about.

Throughout school in theater and film classes, people kept talking about it—that it was one of the best things they had ever seen, and possibly the best thing ever made. So I decided to see it again, so I bought it, and watched it last night. Here are some of my thoughts.

Very, very creative. I like what he's done with the arrangement and order of events. What he's done is taken the plot points as general concepts—as archetypes—and arranged a story non-linearly, with certain events that feel like what we typically find in the beginning, what we typically find in the middle, what we typically find at the end—even though chronologically, in the world of the story, that's not how the events unfold. When I first saw the movie as a kid, I didn't realize what was going on. I didn't realize that the movie was being shown out of sequence. ("Wait a minute, didn't that guy already die? And what are they talking about anyway? What's going on?") There are two time clocks in stories: 1) our time clock (the actual two-hour process of sitting through the movie), and 2) their time clock (the time and time period we're talking about in the film; whether it takes hours, days, weeks, years; whether we jump around; etc.). At the time, my mind couldn't keep it all straight. I had seen enough films, and I was very much a concrete operational thinker.

Another thing the film is creative with is its dialog and delivery. We see hit men talking about TV shows and Big Macs, and it occurs to us, "Oh, is that what hit men talk about while driving to their job?" On the plot vs. character continuum, most films tend to fall on one side or the other. (Is it a character driven piece, or a plot driven piece?) Pulp Fiction is a character driven piece, which means that the characters are interesting enough that they could be talking about TV shows or Big Macs and the story is still entertaining. We're not relying on the next big explosion to give us a sense of movement and discovery.

However, here's how I feel Pulp Fiction comes off in the end. For story, imagination, creativity, character, dialog, originality, etc.—wow, A+. One of the most creative and artistic things ever conceived.

For acting, directing, and the actual execution/realization of all of those creative ideas, I would give it about a B, B- (which is still in the "yeah" range of my monosyllabic ratings guide).

Why do I give one mark for conception and another mark for execution? Because while it's easy to see what the director had in mind, some of the scenes feel a little mis-paced, mis-punctuated, lazily acted. We get the general idea that Jimmy (Quentin Tarrantino) is supposed to be this really quirky, pissed off guy who buys gourmet coffee. But I don't feel that the volume on the performance was turned up quite loud enough. I'm not sure how many takes Quentin gave himself for his own scenes, but they don't seem to come off to me as maximally achieved. Another example: Mr. Wolf (Harvey Keitel). We get the general idea that he is this ballsy force to be reckoned with, etc., and all the things that Mr. Wolf is supposed to be. That general idea is clear. But in the actual execution, the actual performance, there is just a little left to be desired. Therefore, the difference between what we feel things should or could be, and what they actually are, creates a mild sense of disappointment. A little more character introspection and preparation (on the part of the actor), a little bit better delivery, a little bit more natural responses in the scene, etc.—all tightened up through editing—and the film would have been an A+ smash for me. Vincent Vega (John Travolta) was a very engaging character, with great lines, motivations, etc. But John Travolta's execution of Vincent Vega was just a little too sleepy. And for the most part, I felt this with many of the story's significant characters, which in the end comes back to the director, and perhaps to the budget.

Significant characters who I thought weren't maximally conceived by the actors who portrayed them: Vincent Vega, Mia Wallace, Marsellus Wallace, Jimmy, Mr. Wolf, Christopher Walken's character (were the lines funny? were the concepts good? yes; maximally conceived? not for me).

Characters who I thought were maximally conceived: the couple who robs the restaurant, Jules (Samuel L. Jackson), Butch (Bruce Willis), Fabienne (Butch's wife/girlfriend). Hm...

And now the one clear violation. Actors should never appear to be giving us the writer's personal pet peeves, ramblings, late night insights, philosophical musings, etc. This snaps our suspension of disbelief and makes us run away from the intended theme or meaning, because it feels forced and untrue. At the diner, Mia Wallace says, "What is it about silence that makes us feel uncomfortable?" Now this is indeed an interesting concept: the concept of mutual comfort/discomfort during silence. But the way the lines in this scene were written come off didactically Socratic, as if saying, "Let's all sit back and reflect on my (Quentin's) most profound insight." Rather, you have to put the concept into the scene/dialog in some other way so that the characters discover the concepts as we discover them. Don't have the characters lecture us, or offer these questions like a professor to his class (Socrates). Let us watch the characters discover it for themselves. That's how you share concepts through the story medium. (In other words, "show, don't tell"; seventh grade writing class.)

I think one of the things I liked so much about The Squid and the Whale was that it was also a character driver piece, yet the script was so efficient, so economic. And all the performances maximally achieved.

Wow. The first time I heard Mel Gibson was making a film about Jesus and that he wanted to do it all in Aramaic, I thought, "Wow. That should be interesting." I still haven't seen The Passion of the Christ, but I plan to some day.

The first time I heard Mel Gibson say he wanted to make a movie about the decline of the Mayan civilization with Mayan dialog, I was super impressed. Couldn't wait to see the film. What an adventurous filmmaker! Mel Gibson's films are high quality, high caliber entertainment. Wow.

When I read the reviews of others, they said the movie was too bloody: a bloodfest. I didn't think so. There were scenes of blood and violence, yes. For most of the graphic stuff the camera cuts away. Most of what we see is aftermath, and yes, it might help (if you don't like seeing blood) to remind yourself that you are, after all, only watching a movie. (Is it bloodier than Braveheart? Yes.)

Other film critics said, "Well, another psychotic installment from a Mad Mel," taking advantage of the release of the film to bash him for his recent arrest. (This is lazy, irresponsible, ad hominem criticism.) I can understand why people might give Mel a bad rap for his public image lately. But what the hell does that have to do with the film? Too many people merely chock up a story as all explained through any given writer/director's psychology. "Oh, Mad Mel's got blood on his mind." ("That Sigmund Freud must have thought about sex all day long.") Bringing the personal lives or worldviews of the writer, director, or the cable schlepper is pure bad criticism (not to mention lazy). Indeed, a connection may exist, but Barthes was right: you've got to separate story from storyteller if you're going to give the story an honest review.

Case in point: I recently wrote a review of The Banquet (a Chinese version of Hamlet), which I liked. Just tonight I talked to another Chinese friend about it. "The acting was great," she said. "Most of it was all great. But I thought the director made such a bad decision in casting the man and the woman." She was referring to Zhang Ziyi and You Ge, the man who played the king.

"Oh?" I asked. "What was wrong with the king? I thought his performance was great."

"Yes, his performance was very good," she said. "But did you see it in the movie theater?"

"No," I said. "I saw it on DVD."

"If you saw it in the theater, you'd see that everyone was laughing the moment the king came on screen. That actor is a comedy actor, and everyone thinks of him in that way. Wouldn't you laugh too if Ben Stiller or Jim Carrey tried to play a serious role?"

"Of course not!" I said. "I would be totally curious to see the result of their hard work, and whether I thought it worked in the film or not!"

And what of Zhang Ziyi? What did my friend say about her? "Chinese people don't like her. Sure, she looks beautiful, but she has no class. Can such a person play a queen?"

This is becoming a pet peeve of mine. Jim Carrey's best performances where The Truman Show and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I recently saw a preview for a movie called The Number 23, a psychological thriller starring Jim Carrey. (Can't wait to see it.) A friend and I were discussing It's a Wonderful Life last month, wondering, "If they made that film today, who could play the Jimmy Stewart role? Tom Hanks?" As soon as we thought of Jim Carrey, we could think of no one else. Despite his comedic background, Jim Carrey has heart, and he works hard. He could do it.

Back to Apacalypto: The story line is very simple. One group is trying to enslave another for the purposes of human sacrifice (to appease their gods to end a famine). A husband hides his pregnant wife and young son in a cave and is then captured, but not before promising to return—and we believe that he will. The first act consists of hunter/gatherer life in the jungle, followed by the capture. The second act begins with the march of the captives and some subsequent sacrifices. Mid-way through the second act, we turn our focus for the remainder of the film toward a small band of individuals.

The film has mythical qualities. In the first act, the entire village gathers around the resident storyteller for a sermon. In the second act, a young girl afflicted with disease prophecies (vaguely) the rest of the story for us. In several moments of crisis, a convenient deus ex machina saves the day, yet it does not feel out of place at all. There is also much to be said for archetypes, not only the character archetypes that are present, but some of the imagery: birth, rebirth, masculine/feminine symbols, etc. Good work.

There were a few cliches in some scene set-ups. ("Is there danger? Is there danger? Whew... no danger. Aaagghhh! Danger!") There were some typical "Mos Eisley" moments (the point after the second act journey when we meet our typical "wretched scum and villainy"). There are also some special effects that are, let's say, unconvincing. (I won't tell you what they are because maybe you won't notice and then it won't matter.)

Characterization? Great. Acting? Great. Story? Rather simple, but nonetheless thrilling. What great directing on Mel's part with such an inexperienced, previously untrained cast! See Apacalypto in a theater if you can.

MOODY AIR FORCE BASE, Georgia (AP) -- The military's new weapon is a ray gun that shoots a beam that makes people feel as if they will catch fire.

The technology is supposed to be harmless -- a non-lethal way to get enemies to drop their weapons.

Military officials say it could save the lives of civilians and service members in places like Iraq and Afghanistan.

"The gap" essentially refers to the arbitrariness of the association between sign and signifier. Saussure's semiotic model was dyadic—a 1:1 relationship between sign and signifier. The existentialist movement took this idea and ran it through to the end of it's course: there is no meaning, and life itself is pointless.

Peirce's triadic model, however, is often described as having "filled in the gap," meaning that Peirce's triadic model "includes the mind" as participant between sign and signifier (something Saussure alluded to, even though he only created a dyadic 1:1 model). It is this three-part, triadic dynamic that is the basis and substance of all story.

Imagine an inverted triangle in your mind: label the left corner with a 1, the bottom corner with a 2, the right corner with a 3. The 1:1 relationship of Saussure's sign and signifier is equivalent to Peirce's 1 and 3 position on the triangle. Peirce's 2 position (bottom of the triangle) is where the mind comes in.

Below is a simple, didactic story (gotta love story) that could provide the basis for a discussion on "the gap," its inherent meaninglessness, the reason for disputes, etc., and why the gap is the play area of story:

Susan manages 100 employees. She likes everything to work in a neat, orderly way. Some might call her meticulous, others might call her fussy. Mike, however, thinks she is downright anal.

"If you're walking down the hall," says Mike, "and Susan is walking toward you, she insists that you walk on the right side of the hallway, just as if you were driving a car on the street. If you're walking on the left side of the hall, and Susan is coming toward you, you had just better move over, because she will stand there and wait until you move out of her way."

"What can I say?" says Susan. "I like order. If everyone walked on the right side of the hallway, there would always be order, and things would be more convenient for everyone."

"I understand her position," says Mike. "Really, I do. And it makes sense most of the time. But what if I'm carrying some huge ladder or a filing cabinet with someone else, and we just so happened to be on the left side of the hall? Is it too much to ask Susan to make an exception and step out of our way?"

"My question," says Susan, "is what were they doing on the left side of the hall in the first place? This is exactly my point. If everyone follows the rules, we'll never need to make exceptions, and things will always work in a convenient, orderly way."

"Again, I mostly agree with Susan," says Mike. "All I'm saying is that there are times when it just seems better to take the left side of the hallway, move to the left side of the kitchen, or otherwise break convention for just a moment. There are times when this seems like the logical, orderly thing to do. And besides, what's more important? Order and convenience? Or hanging on to a rule that is designed to preserve order and convenience, even when following that rule—in a certain situation—would actually create disorder and inconvenience?"

This debate goes on between Susan, Mike, and the rest of the employees for some time. Finally, Susan hires two consultants—an existentialist, and a Peircean semiotician—to shed some light on the subject.

"There is nothing inherently 'right' about walking down the right side of the hall, or even driving on the right side of the road," says the existentialist consultant. "For example, in England, they drive on the left side of they road. Should workers in an office in England be forced to walk on the left side of the hall? And what if there's a multinational company in London with people from many different countries, each with their own driving customs? How can you create order and meaning in such a system? Answer: You can't, because there is no inherent meaning, all meaning is completely arbitrary, and that's the sad, true nature of 'the gap.' You can never resolve upon any one thing. A cup is a cup, a dog is a dog—but only in the English language."

"I agree that there is nothing inherently 'right' about walking down the right side of the hallway," says the Peircean semiotician, "but the essence of meaning isn't about being 'right.' These traffic rules only work on the road because society agrees to drive on the right. Society agrees to stop at a red light. Society agrees to be cautious of pedestrians. Yet in some societies, they drive on the left, run red lights, and take no notice of pedestrians. The key concepts here are not the polarities of left and right, red and green, stop and go. The key concept is agreement. And agreement is the arbitrator between the arbitrary sign and the arbitrary signifier. There is no 'right' word for a cup or a dog. Don't think of it as the 'right' way of saying something, but rather as all the various ways in which the people of a certain system agree with each other."

"Exactly," says Susan. "That's why we should force everyone to agree with me and walk on the right side of the hallway. This will always produce order and convenience."

"But that's not the only way to produce order and convenience," says the semiotician. "If I saw Mike carrying a heavy filing cabinet down the left side of the hallway, I could assess the situation in that moment and choose to walk on the other side of the hall. No big deal. In this situation, Mike and I create a spontaneous, unspoken agreement: I see that Mike is walking down the left side of the hallway, and I agree to let him. All I'm saying is that agreement is the key to meaning. We agree to call it a cup. We agree to call it a dog."

"Yes," says Susan, "but I can't just say, 'Would you please bring me a stick of water,' and expect everyone to know what I'm talking about, can I? I can't just change the rules whenever I want."

"Who knows," says the semiotician. "In context, maybe someone will understand you, and maybe the phrase will catch on, and then pretty soon, all the kids will be saying it: 'Hey, would you please bring me a stick of water?' And this isn't too far-fetched, to tell you the truth, because languages and systems change all the time, albeit slowly, of course. Meaning changes all the time. Rules change all the time. Things change, and that's okay, because people re-agree with each other, and life goes on, and the universe maintains balance and harmony."

"I see what you're saying," says Mike. "If I'm walking down the hall and I spot Rebecca, I've noticed that she and I have our own agreement that it doesn't really matter who's on the right or who's on the left. But if I see Susan, I always agree to abide by her rule and stick to the right side of the hall, because that's the most efficient way for me to work through that situation—she being my boss and all."

"This is all pointless anyway," says the existentialist, "because we're all going to die, and neither inherent meaning nor Godot will ever save us."

"You're both fired," says Susan to the existentialist and the semiotician. "Now, back to work—all of you! And don't let me catch any of you walking on the left side of the hall again."

Sunbucks is a coffee shop in Shanghai.

(In no particular order):

1. "The Ground Truth"; "Jarhead"
2. "God Grew Tired of Us"; "Hotel Rwanda"
3. "The Smartest Men in the Room"; "Fun With Dick and Jane"
4. "The Persuaders"; "Thank You For Smoking" or "Chicago"
5. "This Divided State"; "Wag the Dog" or "Guilty by Suspicion""
6. "The Fog of War"; "Thirteen Days"
7. "Bowling for Columbine"; "Elephant" or "Lord of War" or "City of God"
8. "An Inconvenient Truth"; "Mr Smith Goes to Washington" or "On the Waterfront"
9. "Why We Fight"; "American History X"
10. "War Room"; "Bob Roberts"
11. "Control Room"; "All the President's Men" or "Foreign Correspondent"
12. "The Corporation"; "I (heart) Huckabees"

The Black Dahlia, Brian de Palma's new film, started out really well, but was ultimately a disappointment. It's ambitious plot became convoluted in the middle and stayed murked up until the final scene. Great direction, great acting, great art design, great photography, great music. Interesting story. All the pieces of a good film. They just didn't coalesce.

There were times when flashbacks were added to remind us of details we might have missed, and these scenes fit the genre and worked out very well. Perhaps there should have been more of them.

What it ultimately amounted to, then, was bad story TELLING, bad sequencing, the audience got lost. Not sure if was the directing or the writing itself. I'd like to see it again with some friends and see if they were just as confused at certain points as I was.

"There is nothing intelligent to say about a massacre. Everybody is supposed to be dead, to never say anything or want anything ever again. Everything is supposed to be very quiet after a massacre, and it always is, except for the birds.

"I have told my sons that they are not under any cicumstances to take part in massacres, and that the news of massacres of enemies is not to fill them with satisfaction or glee.

"I have also told them not to work for companies which make massacre machinery, and to express contempt for people who think we need machinery like that."

(Spoken by the narrator in Slaughterhouse-Five.)

Slaughterhouse-Five, by Kurt Vonnegut is a deeply poetic work. It's about a war vet who has flashbacks, thinks he's been abducted by aliens, sees things in a skewed sense of time. In part three he sees a war movie in reverse. And the way Vonnegut writes about it is one of the most poetic things I've ever read.

When taken in normal sequence, a scenes from a war movies convey victory, desctruction. But the very same events, if you reverse the order, and show them to someone with no sense for chronology or cause and effect, tell a different story:

"The formation flew backwards over a German city that was in flames. The bombers opened their bomb bay doors, exerted a miraculous magnetism which shrunk the fires, gathered them into cylindrical steel containers, and lifted the containers into the bellies of the planes. The containers were stored neatly in racks....

"When the bombers got back to their base, the steel cylinders were taken from the racks and shipped back to the United States of America, where factories were operating night and day, dismantling the cylinders, separating the dangerous contents into minerals. Touchingly, it was mainly women who did this work. The minerals were then shipped to specialists in remote areas. It was their business to put them into the ground, to hide them cleverly, so they would never hurt anybody ever again."

That's beautiful.

This may seem like a cliche, but so what. I think life is like a puzzle that shouldn't be forced, just understood. When we finally see how the pieces fit together, it's a beautiful thing, not a confusing thing. The pain of a puzzle only comes from not having all the pieces there in front of you when you think you need them. But with patience, it all becomes clear. Forcing it just destroys the beauty of it. You can't cut the edges of a piece that refuses to fit or you'll disprupt an entire section, and create a void somewhere else. Just put the confusing piece down, pick up a new piece and move on.

Silk Street is perhaps Beijing's most well-known market for foreigners, though I'm not sure why. The place attracts weekly foreigners by the thousands, and I guess if the thought of knock-off Northfaces, and plastic Rolexes appeals to you, Silk Street is all the rage. Me, I can't stand the place.

Walking down one of Silk Street's many aisles is like a cruise down Disneyland's Pirates of the Caribbean ride, only in this version, the pirates really do grab you and take your money. Merchants line both sides of the aisle, waiting for you, opening their mouths and reaching out their hands just like those automated pirates in the ride.

"Yes, how much you give me for Rolex watch?"

"Excuse me, sir, you buy a nice jacket for your wife?"

"Yes, pearls. How much you want to buy?"

Ducking your head and hurrying through is no help at all. Most of them assume that if you don't stop at their table to touch something, you must not have seen what they're offering, and so they will grab you, try to stop you, and pull you in. I've found it a good idea to scan both sides of the aisle, looking at products, and pretend to be disappointed as though I simply can't find what I'm looking for. Satisfied that I've seen their wares and don't want any of what they're selling, they seem to leave me alone.

If I have to buy something, I much prefer the non-market stores where bargaining isn't part of the transaction. I like the familiar comfort of pushing a cart around the store, and loading it with the mop, deodorant, and rice maker of my choice. Then I push it to that row of cash registers where each item is scanned one by one, and then they tell me how much I have to give them. Something tells me I'm getting a better deal this way.

When bargaining, a good rule of thumb if you're a foreigner is to consider that the first price your given is usually about four to eight times too much. I've gotten a thousand yuan coat down to 200. My friend talked an 800 yuan chess set down to less than 100. If they try to tell you that the yellow plastic monkey you're holding is special because it was handmade by peasants in a faraway land, say, "I don't care. I'm not looking for something handmade."

Another rule of thumb is to remember that these merchants can smell desire like garlic on breath. If you're interested in item X, you can rest assured that item X is the real deal, name brand, 100% genuine cashmere. Sure it's expensive, but it will last forever, she might say. Item Y, on the other hand, will probably break or wear out tomorrow. You can use this little trick to your advantage. If you want item X, pretend at first to be interested in item Y. Let the merchant talk up item Y and talk down item X. Then, at the end of the transaction, switch your attention to item X.

One thing I don't like to see is the hard core foreigners who bargain and hassle an item down to nothing, say, 20 yuan, and then pull out their wallet for all to see, with their hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of yuan, leafing through each bill, one by one, saying, "I'm sure there was a twenty in here somewhere. Let's see, where could it be."

Sometimes I watch foreigners moving from shop to shop and try to deduce an algorithm for determining their next move. I've concluded that they are as random as hurricanes and tornadoes which touch down upon one house, destroying it to ruins, meanwhile leaving the cat next door unscathed—chaotic patterns of fortune and misfortune.

Oh, and one last bit of advice: "Don't try to fool me. I'm not some tourist. I've lived in Beijing for two years and believe me, I know that this coat shouldn't cost me any more than 1,500 yuan!" Don't say things like that. It just makes them laugh. And when you finally walk away with your paper dragon or Mao Zedong watch, it makes the merchant's victory all the more sweet, and makes it harder and harder for the rest of us to get a good price. You can only use that line under the following conditions: 1) you actually have lived in Beijing for the length of time you're claiming, 2) you really do know how much the thing is supposed to cost. (Trying to bluff and not naming a price, the exact price, has the opposite effect, because then they know you're lyiing.)

For a really festive experience, visit Silk Street on national Talk Like a Pirate Day. The Beijing accent is the only one I've ever heard that sometimes throws in the phantom R in place of an N, and it sounds like a pirate. "Arr!"

For the most part, I'm a fan of big budget Chinese films. The Chinese, however, don't seem to want anything to do with them. I'm still trying to figure out why. Many Westerners appreciate Zhang Ziyi, the leaping, dancing, sword-wielding heroine of such films as Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Hero, House of Flying Daggers, and Memoirs of a Geisha, and I am certainly one of them. Sure, the wire work is a little obvious sometimes, and yes, a Chinese actress in a Japanese film is a little odd, but I try not to let these minor matters poison my opinion of an entire film, which as you know (if you stay through the ending credits like I do) is a combination of the best efforts of hundreds of people.

I had seen posters and billboards for this new movie called The Banquet, starring Zhang Ziyi and that other guy. I tried to talk to one of my Chinese friends about it, but she laughed at me. "Oh, you mean 'Wanfan'?" she said. (In Chinese, "wanfan," means "dinner." It's the name the Chinese have given the film.) "Me, I won't see it," she said.

I found this sentiment repeated among myriad other Chinese people. The big budget Chinese art film was not only something they didn't want to see, but didn't want to be seen liking, praising, or discussing. One of the problems, it seems, is the presence of Zhang Ziyi herself, whom most Chinese people, apparently, don't like, though that's the topic for another blog.

I asked a Chinese film student about the film, and she had nothing good to say about it. "Have you seen it?" I asked. "I've seen enough," she said. "I guessed the ending before it happened. All I can say is it's a copy of Hamlet."

Now that really got me interested. A Chinese version of Hamlet? This, I had to see.

So last night was the night. The DVD had sat on my desk for weeks, but I just hadn't found the time to view it. After seeing the film, I'm happy to say that I was impressed. The story of Hamlet seems to fit so well into Chinese history that you'd think the story originated from China. There were some minor story changes that I felt were actually improvements. (The mother figure in the Chinese version isn't the prince's biological mother, but someone the prince had his eye on, meanwhile, the prince is betrothed to the Ophelia character, avoiding the incest overtones in favor of a straight up love triangle.) The ending is a metaphor. Most people won't get it, even though all the pieces are there for you to know what's going on. ("What's more venomous than poison? People's hearts.")

Was it overdone? I think so. Was the wire work obvious? Obviously (this is a big budget Chinese film, what would you expect?). Was it worth seeing? Of course. Good acting? Good production? Good execution? Yes, yes, yes. Mostly I thought they did well with the story, the motivations of the characters, etc.—all the things that count in my book. They wrapped everything up in a good deal of irony and contradiction. In the end many characters are worthy of admiration, but not emulation, but such is the point of a tragedy. "Pity these losers, but don't be like them." Plenty of unexpected twists and reversals as well.

Could the same film have been made on a smaller scale? Less of a budget? Sure. I suppose they wanted to remind us all that this story does, after all, take place in the emperor's palace. So of course everyone is going to be dressed elegantly. Personally, I don't mind the trappings. Much of art is in the re-telling, the re-creation, the accoutrements. Shakespeare himself was guilty of this.

"Good artists borrow. Great artists steal." -Pablo Picasso

This year, I'm trying to reduce each of my resolutions into a specific, daily activity that will serve as a mnemonic reminder of my overall goal. I, like many others, have made resolutions before that fall on stony ground and never take hold. By February we're all eating chocolate again, and by March, we've all forgot about Mr. Atkins and his carbs. So this year, instead of viewing my resolutions as little measuring sticks to slap my hands with, I'll convert them into something I can do daily.

For example, I have a general goal to have more self-control. But if I write down in a notebook: "2007, have more self-control," that'll do little to help me. Likewise, if I throw out all the chocolate, I'll just go buy some more during a moment of weakness, and then I've paid twice for the same habit. So for this one, what I've decided to do is lay off my fingernails. I've done it before and I can do it again. What I mean is that I'll stop biting them and ripping them out at the root. I'm obsessive compulsive enough to be bothered by long fingernails. (We're all just a little bit crazy.) My fingernails have been spared the bulk of my wrath; it's my toenails that haven't gotten away. Some of the toenails now grow in a little warped. They catch on to my socks in the morning, and this bothers me, so I rip them out. Is there blood? Yes. Lots of it. Some of my friends who have seen me doing this remark, "You must have high threshold for pain." As for pain thresholds, I don't know. I just want the damn nail off my foot, and I don't care if I take a few millimeters of skin with it.

In 2001, I read a 12 Step book and stopped destroying my nails. In a matter of months I had managed to grow ten pairs of healthy, happy little nails. It wasn't as hard as I thought. I just needed to distract myself when the urge to bite them came along. Looking forward to the day when I'll have nice nails again, and am able to walk down the street without cringing, is pretty good motivation. I've also decided to stop picking this little scab on my arm. I've been picking at for about eight months now, and it won't seem to go away. I avoid it for days, and then just before it's about to heal, I think I can get away with a little tug, a little rip. Then the whole thing spills open, usually on a date, and a waiter brings me a rag to mop up the blood, because this scab is on a major artery.

I also want to be more positive and optimistic this year, and so I've decided to take a daily supplement of fish oil tablets, good for what ails your brain and heart. I've taken them before and found them to be quite effective. A daily total of EPA and DHA goes a long way in keeping one's mind free of negativity, and one's heart free of medium rare steaks.

I've got some weight to lose, and so I've decided to walk at least once a day. This shouldn't be hard because I like walking. I just put my headphones in and set out. I pretend like I'm performing in a band again, and it helps me feel like I'm not really exercising. The more I walk, the faster I want to go, the more healthy I feel, and the more motivation I have to clean up other areas of my life, such as what I put in my mouth for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I know this works because, well, like the fingernails and the fish oil, I've done it before and it wasn't as hard as I thought. It's just a matter of getting out of bed and doing it.

Speaking of getting out of bed, I also want to add a little more structure to my life. To do this, I know I need to wake up earlier than my usual time of whenever, which usually occurs between nine and noon. To do this, I've decided to drink no coffee after 10:00 p.m.

I want to keep my apartment a little cleaner, so I've resolved that when I come home at night, I'll hang my clothes up in the closet, rather than dump them on the floor or the couch. I did this when I was seven, so I'm pretty sure that now, 21 years later, I can do it again.

My other resolutions are simple enough: practice my guitar, write everyday, send out my material, read. These habits are pretty much stuck in my life. I resolutioned them in a long time ago. To those who think resolutions are a waste of time should read and consider. (How BIZARRE that that article was written January 8, 2003, and this blog entry was written January 8, 2007.)

Some people lose their hair. Others lose their glasses or their car keys. Me, I lose my teeth. I first realized this on November 28, 1994.

I remember the date because it was my friend Daniel's 16th birthday party. Before my memory stared going bad (oh yeah, I'm also losing my memory—forgot to tell you), I used to be able to remember all kinds of things such as names, dates, or any other bits of embarrassing trivia that I would sometimes use on people years after most normal people had forgotten about them. ("Hey, Dustin," I sometimes remind my friend, "remember when you threw up those mashed potatoes and that chicken fried turkey steak all over your textbook in Mr. Beyer's fourth grade geography class?" And then Dustin would cry and beg me not to tell his wife.)

On November 28, 1994, I was watching "The Burbs" on Daniel's TV with a dozen other kids, David M., Matt D., Rob H., Ben N., Talmage B. We were eating pepperoni pizza from Domino's when I suddenly discovered something in between my teeth that felt larger and harder than an oregano flake. I spat it into my hand and recognized it as a piece of tooth. My tongue quickly scoured the surface of my teeth and, sure enough, I disovered a hole in the bottom left molar which was in reality about the size of a peppercorn, but which felt more like the opening of a can of that glow-in-the dark monster energy drink—the kind with the wide mouth opening. I remembered all these details because I thought that I might have a case against Domino's, and if I decided to pursue it, I had better remember all the facts.

A few days later at my mother's request, the dentist provided me with a new porcelain filling, destroying all the evidence. My molar had been salvaged, but my problems were far from over.

When I was 18 I had my wisdom teeth removed. All the kids in school were doing it and it seemed like something I should too if I wanted to be counted among them or get their signatures in my yearbook at the end of the semester. I was lucky enough to have a great doctor, Dr. Nyles Herrod. He sat me down in a chair, sprayed my hand with a numbing agent, and then administered some intravenous anesthesia. I felt nothing. When I awoke an hour or so later, everything had already been done, sans consciousness. Most of the kids who got their wisdom teeth out were traumatized by the wide-awake experience, and looked like chipmunks for three to five days after surgery. But not me. As I said, I was lucky.

Some five years later, I lost another section of tooth, this time on the bottom right molar. I was in New York City when it happened. Greenpoint Brooklyn to be precise. The table by the drink machine in Nico's Pizza parlor on Manhattan Avenue next to the barber shop featured in "Donnie Brasco" if you want to get picky. I remember this because I found it odd that I should lose another section of tooth while eating pizza. By now I was 24 and living away from home. I didn't have money for things like dentists, so, this tooth would not be fixed in a few days. Not by Dr. Nyles Herrod. Not by anyone.

The hole, which shriveled and decayed over time, would remain untreated for over a year. Bits of food and candy often became enlodged in the void, producing sharp cranial pains like moments of penetrating inspiration. To compensate for the inconvenience, I learned to chew all my food on one side. This is when I learned Newton's Third Law by heart: "For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction." After several months of chewing breakfast cereal, granola bars, and ever increasing amounts of pizza solely on the left side of my mouth, my bottom left molar surprised me when it suddenly split in two. The pain was so severe I had to keep it on constant ice. I remember this because, well, it was the third time my teeth had misbehaved in this manner, had bitten back so to speak, and it was high time that I acknowledged that something was not rotten in Denmark, but right here in my deteriorating and neglected mouth.

I buckled down and went to the dentist. He said the left molar needed a root canal or needed to come out altogether. The right molar, he said, ugly as it was, wasn't yet root canal worthy, but if I didn't do something about it soon, I'd have to kiss it goodbye, too. I weighed the pain of $600-dollar's-worth of surgery against the ease of a $100-dollar yank, and opted for the yank. While loosing my teeth before the age of 75 was somewhat disconcerting, at least there would be one less of the little buggers to worry about. Some day, I thought, when I was a famous published author, I'd pay a million dollars for a new set—one that would never trouble me ever again.

So I yanked the left tooth and filled the right tooth. But with one tooth now missing on the bottom left of my mouth, undue stress was now being placed on the middle left molar, and it cracked one day at Chili's over chips and salsa. I remember this because my professor was there, and she had asked me if she could see the shattered tooth, which I spat out and handed over. Having had two tequilas and four margaritas, she thought it would be a good idea to pop the tooth in her mouth and swallow it, which she did, destroying my case against Chili's should I ever have decided to press charges. But being the good professor she was, she decided to pay to have the tooth filled before, god forbid, it should erode to another yankable stump.

Recovering from this procedure, my second right molar snapped in half, and, as of this writing remains untreated. This crack was deeper and wider than any of the others, but for some reason, I feel no pain. Perhaps I'm evolving.

Last month I sat with a documentary film crew over lunch in Beijing's Ritan Park, when the subject of eating chicken bones came up. I had lived in Africa for two years and had learned to eat them, lock, stock, barrel. The others didn't believe me, and so I decided to prove it. I tore the flesh off the drumbone, and then proceeded to eat the drumbone itself. Suddenly I felt something a little bit harder than the hollow porous material that is chicken bone, and I realized that I had munched off another half molar.

So here I sit in a cafe in Beijing, fondling these cracked molars with my tongue, wondering what to do about them, trying to guess which of my other teeth might go next, and thinking that the next time I go back to the states, I should probably have them checked.

My name is Ben, for those of you who regularly read this blog. My friend Peter blogs here and he invited me to do the same.

Hi.

Today, I am depressed. Maybe it's because I'm reading Camus. Maybe it's because Kirkegaard insists I choose between a life of faith and a life of secular self-indulgence. Maybe it's because Nietzsche insists that I exist as a tiny, pitiful cog in a machine built to produce the occasional Michaelangelo or Shakespeare. Maybe it's because I just watched Braveheart for the umpteenth time and feel morally dwarfed by the singularity of William Wallace's vision. Maybe it's because I have absolutely no ambition, and even worse, a relentless pessimism that undercuts every viable ambition that comes around. Maybe I'm a post-modernist that hasn't learned to lighten up and join the party (which probably makes me a modernist).

Or maybe I just need some good old-fashioned weed.

Meh.

In my family, the average male lives to be 76 years old. This means that the 3.8 years I have spent working dead-end jobs constitues 5% of my life. Oh yeah-- and I hate math. It took me a long time to figure this out. Is it particularly sad that I spent a large chunk of time figuring out what percentage of my life I've wasted?

I just need some concrete ideals to better shape my actions. At what point do you tell your boss to screw himself? At which moment do you evolve into a vertebrate and ask for precisely what you want? At what point do you truly embrace life? What does it even mean to embrace life? Is there fixed morality? Is there a North Star? Should I vote Republican just because they act like God prays to them?

Is Camus right? Is the most genuine philosophical question about suicide because it's the only idea that isn't afraid of the darkest question: whether or not life is worth it?

Do the Mormons have it right? Is God really so obtuse that he would tell his beloved children not to watch movies with an "R" rating-- as though the MPAA was even consistent, let alone inspired? Would he really make something as uncomfortable and inaccessible as the LDS temple ceremony an essential step toward salvation? Is everything really that stupid? Is faith so narrow?

Am I a spiteful, ungrateful person? Do I love questions more than answers? Is Freud somewhere, wagging his head at me in dismay? Is God?

Anyway, this is a random, downer of a first post. Sorry.

Or, this is a random downer of a first post. What the hell did you expect?

There it is. Messy.

You asked for it, Pete.

"Girl," Beck
"Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk" (beatbox version), Rufus Wainright
"The Piano Has Been Drinking," Tom Waits
"I Hope That I Don't Fall in Love with You," Tom Waits
"High and Dry," Radiohead
"E-Pro," Beck
"Stayin' Alive," The Bee Gees
"Some Mongolian Song," Some Mongolian Band
"Press Play," STP
"Seven Caged Tigers," STP
"Bi Tuuniig Harsnaash Hoish" (Mongolian song), Bold (Mongolian band)

The army has been mailing letters to the families of soldiers who have died in Iraq, asking them to go back out.

AP - The Army said Friday it would apologize to the families of about 275 officers killed or wounded in action who were mistakenly sent letters urging them to return to active duty.

The letters were sent a few days after Christmas to more than 5,100 Army officers who had recently left the service. Included were letters to about 75 officers killed in action and about 200 wounded in action.

Not only is it about time we see the government dealing with things like this, it is absolutely refreshing that this measure passed the house with a vote of 430-1! (Indicating that both the Dem~s and the Rep~s are united in efforts to clean up congress.)

BLOOMBERG - The U.S. House of Representatives, after installing its new Democratic leadership, voted to ban lawmakers from flying on corporate jets and accepting gifts and meals from lobbyists.

The House passed, 430-1, a package of rules aimed at demonstrating Democrats' commitment to cleaning up Congress. Tomorrow, the House will vote on rules designed to end the anonymous sponsorship of pet projects, or earmarks, that have been quietly tucked into spending measures.

I went into the bank today to get the switch code for a money transfer, thinking, "This should be easy. I've gotten the switch code from this bank before. All they have to do is give me that little card that explains everything related to money transfers and I'm all set. I'll just push the button that gives me a number for that woman who sits at the foreign money service window. She speaks English. She's helped me before. I'll be in and out in five minutes."

I went in and pushed the button, and my number was 507. I looked at the foreign money window and saw the number 505 on the screen. This was already looking simpler than I imagined.

The man and woman who were 505 turned out to take longer than expected, though I'm not sure why. They themselves didn't do much other than just sit there, bored. They traded seats with each other every ten minutes as the woman behind the window variably typed, leafed through documents, and scratched her temples. After 40 minutes, they were done, and they left.

I looked around the room, wondering who 506 might be, but the woman behind the window never pushed the button to call the next number. I waited there for another five minutes, wondering, "What's going on? Is she taking a break? Filing her taxes? Does she think we're going to stand up and call out our own numbers? '506 anyone? 506?' Somebody please say something."

Somebody did say something. A woman approached the window who I assumed must have been 506. She scathed the woman behind the window for sitting on her ass, and held up her number, waving it in the air, pointing to her watch. Next thing I knew, number 506 was being called, but no one stood up. 506? Going once? Going twice? Gone. Then 507 was called. I approached the window.

I was a little worried by the fact that the woman who usually sits behind the foreign money window wasn't there today. The woman today was at least ten years younger. She smelled like a newbie, and I didn't like it. But I put my worries aside and decided to make the best of it. This was the foreign money window, after all, and the person on the other side of this glass by all means should be trained in all foreign money-related matters. I sat down and handed her a note that I had written while waiting:

"I only need the switch code for foreign money transfers, thanks." :)

That's when things took a turn for the worse. Not only did I make the mistake of thinking the woman at the foreign money window could speak English, I also made the mistake of thinking she might know what a switch code was, or money transfer, or money for that matter. She took my note and scrutinized it, turning it over and upside down, trying to make sense of it. I thought she might pull out a magnifying glass or a microscope, and try to determine whether the paper was descended from pine or ash.

She handed the note back to me and attacked me with heavily accented Mandarin. I tried to figure out what the hell she was saying, but it was no use. I asked for my note back and wrote in Chinese characters:

"Do you speak English?"

She examined the note, grabbed a pen and wrote in English:

"You can't speak English."

I wasn't sure what she meant by that. Had she taken a look at my blond hair and assumed I was Swedish or German? Was she trying to tell me that speaking English wasn't allowed in these parts? Did she in fact mean to say the she couldn't speak English"? How was one to know? I wrote her another note, again in Chinese:

"Is there someone here who can speak English?"

She took my note, laughed at it, and scrawled:

"Meiyou"

...which in China means different things depending on who's saying it, and to whom, and whether or not they think you're important enough for anything more than a pair of syllables. At it's simplest, "meiyou" means, "haven't," or "don't have." In its more nuanced forms it could mean, "We might have it, and then again we might not. That all depends on how much I like you"; or "We had some this morning, but now we appear to be all out. Check back tomorrow?"; or "The answer to your question takes ten minutes, and my lunch break is in five minutes: meiyou."

By now, the woman who I thought was 506 was raising a fuss. If they weren't going to be able to help me, she wanted me gone. She had things to do, places to be, and she wanted her crack at the foreign money window sometime before the olympics. The obligatory Chinese-bank-security-boy-dressed-in-a-uniform-two-sizes-too-big walked over and stood next to us, reminding us all with his menacing presence to behave ourselves or he might have to taser us, and then call his mother. I had to act fast. I couldn't give up the window yet. I needed that code. I called my friend Jessica, who apparently, hadn't yet woken up, even though the day was fast approaching 1:00 p.m.

"Uh—" she said, and I heard her fall off her bed and hit the floor. "What's happened?"

I explained the situation to her, and handed the phone to the woman behind the window. Here again, my expectations of how this simple language transaction might unfold were completely off the radar. The woman behind the window spat out her heavily accented Mandarin as though she were casting a spell on satan himself. This went on for several minutes. Meanwhile, all I could think was, "The switch code, damnit. All we need is the goddamn switch code!"

The woman behind the window handed me my phone. "What's going on?" I asked, and Jessica proceeded to tell me what the woman had told her, that they had no such transfer services at this branch, that if I wanted to have money transfered from the United States to my Chinese account I would have to go to another branch where they could serve my needs better, and who did I think I was anyway for living in China and not knowing Chinese (point well-taken).

"Listen," I told Jessica, "that's bullshit. I sat at this window two months ago and discussed the ins and outs of Chinese money transfers. The woman who usually sits here gave me a nice, printed card with all the instructions necessary and the switch code printed right on it. If this woman doesn't know what that is, why doesn't she hand the phone to someone who does?"

I handed the phone back to the woman and crossed my fingers, but after another round of curses and insults, it was clear to me we weren't going to get anywhere with her. I turned then and found a small party of curious bystanders. If some foreigner in their neighborhood was having a hard time getting his money, then by damn they wanted to know all about it. The woman behind the window handed me the phone.

"Now what?" I asked Jessica.

"I can't believe this woman!" she said. "She won't even give the phone to someone else. She doesn't know the answer, so she thinks the bank can't do it. It's bullshit!"

"Excuse me," another bank worker tapped me on the shoulder from behind. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Can you speak English?" I asked.

"Yes."

I gave her the phone and stepped away from the window. If 508 wanted her turn, she could be my guest.

Within thirty seconds the new woman knew exactly what I needed. "Please wait a moment," she said, handed back my phone, and retreated into the steel bowels of the bank.

"Thanks god!" said Jessica. "She knows what that code is. Give her the phone when she comes back. I want to thank her."

After another minute, the woman returned, not only with a simple card, but an elaborate chart with all the various switch codes I could ever need for transferring money from any part of the world, or from any currency. "After the transfer," she said, "the money will be available in 3-5 days." Not good news, but at least she seemed to know what she was talking about, so, being only the messenger, I decided not to shoot her.

I just wish that if people didn't know the answer, they would say, "You know what, I don't know the answer. But let me see if I can find someone who does."

Now is that asking too much?

The Talmud Effect is the term I use to describe the emergence and complexity of cross networks of information among sprawling, multi-generational canons. (The Talmud is an explanation of the Torah. In fact, the Talmud is also an explanation of itself.) Particularly, the term describes the network of inter-related complexity found in religious canons, legal lexicons, etc.

1. "I think Y is X."
2. "Ah, but have you considered Y in light of Z?"
3. "But if you consider Z in light of K, it negates Y entirely. Therefore X could be Y."
   

Etc., etc., ad nauseum.

People do this with bible verses. John, Malachi, Genesis, Romans, Revelations, blah blah blah de dah, trying to figure out how God really feels about something. Lawyers do it to tell judges and juries how they are supposed to think and feel.

The Adam Effect is my new term which connotes the human tendency to name things—an extension of Ferdinand de Saussure's observation that "we think in terms of signs." In short, it is a name for the concept of naming concepts.

Since language, by nature, defines and confines thinking, it is impossible to think about or articulate concepts that have no sign-basis in a given langauge, presenting problems not only (for example) to translators and interpreters, but to any group of professionals seeking to communicate with each other, or lay the foundations for theoretical frameworks.

Examples:

1. "Put the [small white round things] in the [large white square thing]" is more efficiently expressed as "Put the [eggs] in the [frig]."
2. "The early [small feathered flying animal] catches the [small fleshy wiggling creature]" is more efficiently expressed as "The early bird catches the worm."
3. "Could a finite human brain generate the idea of infinity? Yes it could and does, because the idea of infinity does not have to be an infinite idea." -Nicholas Humphrey
   

Naming things allows for greater clarity, particularly in areas of abstraction. A name (sign) serves as a placeholder of information in the mind. The logical fallacies, for example, exist in both name and concept. By invoking the name of a fallacy, one conveys the concept of the fallacy without having to explain it.

Anthropologists use the word culture to describe the Adam Effect, defining culture as "the universal human capacity to classify, codify and communicate experiences symbolically," though this symbol-centric view of culture is limited.

While the Adam Effect enables communicators of a shared system to effectively interact, it simultaneously excludes non-systemic participants. The inability to communicate concepts inter-systematically (due to a lack of shared signs) results in a Babel Effect, or superficial (sign level) incomprehension. (Note: the Babel Effect is not to be confused with the fictional novel of the same name, by author Daniel Hecht.)

The terms are literary references to Genesis 2:19: "And out of the ground the Lord God formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and brought them unto Adam to see what he would call them: and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof"; and Genesis 11: 7: "Let us go down, and confound their language, that they may not understand one another’s speech."

The Ergo Effect is my new term for the tendency to form hasty conclusions based on limited experience or information, as illustrated in the following story:

One day, Confucius met two little boys, arguing.

One said, "When the sun rises it is closer to the earth than at midday. I know this because it looks bigger when in the morning and smaller at midday, and distance makes objects appear smaller."

But the other boy disagreed, saying, "No, no. When the sun rises it is cool, but at midday it is hot. It must therefore be nearer at midday because near things are warmer than distant things."

The two boys appealed to Confucius. "Which one is correct?" they demanded.

Confucius said, "I don't know."

"Then why do they call you wise?" asked one of the boys.

"Because," said Confucius, "I know that it is impossible to prove anything with clever arguments."

Like Hume pointed out, though the sun shown 999,999,999 million times before, we cannot assume with absolute certainty that it will do the same on the 1,000,000,000th time, and that is as far as we can trust deduction.

Of all contemporary nonfiction and short story writers, David Sedaris resonates most strongly with me. I like his style. Intelligent but not snobby, humorous but not Dave Barry, touching but not Mitch Albom (gag) or Nicholas Sparks (gag).

So far I've read I've read "Barrel Fever," a collection of short stories, and "Naked," a collection of memoires. I'll go look for "Me Talk Pretty One Day" at the bookstore at Wangfujing.

I went there a few months ago looking to see if that had anything. We punched it into the computer. Nothing. "没有." I went back a few weeks later, though, and there were two titles: "Barrel Fever," and "Naked."

Strange.

Sedaris is another author who I associated with my days in New York City, along with Jon Krakauer, Stephen King, and Orson Scott Card.

For Christmas, my friend gave me (among other things) "One Hundred Years of Solitude," by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I read the first chapter and it's great. Great story, style, characters. The writing flows so eloquently, and yet this is a translation.

If all goes well, I'll find out next week whether or not I get to co-author a college textbook on narrative semiotics (a semiotic foundation for script analysis). It's just a matter of getting all the money and support we need. I'd say we're 70% there.

This textbook represents approximately 20 years of research from the primary author, and 4 years of understudy from me, the co-author. It would be my first work that includes royalties as part of the deal.

My job is to re-write everything—translate it, essentially—from semiotic language into, well, English. We have been planning this for two years. It needs to be done. Writers and critics need this material.

Get my guitar, soon. January 18th. I've really missed it.

Another action factory flick. Nothing I'd want to see twice. Plenty of cliche. I was glad to see the woman figure remain powerful throughout the film and not cripple into the man's arms at the end of the film. (Before I die, I'd like to write a book on this phenomenon: powerful female characters who lose their strength toward the end of the film and are rescued by the alpha male.)

The biggest cliches were the thoughtful moments of silence and reflection immediately punctuated by an explosion or a spray of bullets, as though life always gives us time to apologize to our friends and family members for our character flaws before taking on the next wave of faceless, identity-less, AK47-weilding bad guys.

Throws out some politics there at the end, too, and I was glad to see that: diamond politics, African social problems, child soldiers, etc.

Leo still seems too young and pretty for roles like these. But I think he's making the right film choices: Gangs of New York, Aviator, The Departed, Blood Diamond. Great choices.

I didn't like it. Ultimately didactic. An exercise in Nietzschean beta morality (those who can do; those who can't, criticize, moralize, or demonize). It's moral/theme is paper-thin. Relies on shock and normbreaking to make us think it's interesting, unique, ballsy.

CHARACTERS
Dad is a one-track asshat. His third-act change is unbeleivable.

Mom loves her daughter, sure. She worries that her son doesn't like her. But does she really love anyone else in this family?

Uncle recently attempted suicide. Nothing new in the world of suicide attempts here. When we meet the old flame that inspired the suicide, an interesting sub-story fizzles out.

Grandpa's "wisdom" is supposed to be odd, yet sentimentally applicable to life at the end of the show, but this is forced.

Angsty teen has the most depth.

Olive, the 7-ish-year-old girl is cute. Has some good screen moments.

While the film has its funny character-driven moments, the story itself doesn't really deserve to be told, leaving only a point to prove. We could have summed up this little thesis with a Reader's Digest "Quotable Quote." We didn't need a movie to reflect on these ideas. We didn't need a story. And as stories go, it's just not a good one.

Funny moment example:
________________________________________

INT. VAN - DAY

The family sits inside the van, driving through the hot Arizona desert. Dad's driving, mom's up front. Uncle Frank sits in the middle with Olive who listens to her headphones. Grandpa and angsty teen sit in back.

                              GRANDPA
                    (to angsty teen)
          All's I can say is fuck as many
          people as possible. Don't fuck
          one person. Fuck a lot.

                              DAD
          You stop that dad! Or so help
          me I'll pull over!

                              GRANDPA
          And what? Kick me out of the van
          and leave me on the side of the
          road to die! Fuck you! I can do
          whatever I want!

Olive takes her headphones off.

                              OLIVE
                    (to grandpa)
          What are you guys talking about?

Grandpa calms down. Stares at Olive.

                              GRANDPA
          Politics.

Olive stares back at Grandpa.

                              OLIVE
          Oh.

Olive puts her headphones back on, tunes out.

________________________________________

I thought the conversational conflict was written and performed in the cheapest way... people mad at each other, blaming each other, etc. It all feels first draft.

The set-up was also paper-thin. The decision to take the huge trip to California was made in about two minutes, and all the hesitations resolved in a few sentences. It just wasn't the type of catalyst we need to propel us logically through a story and suspend disbelief.

Olive is no beauty, and she has enrolled in a talent show. The film is ultimately anti-talent show, but then it reflects on itself and beats the audience with its theme during a discussion between angsty teen and uncle.
________________________________________

EXT. DOCK OVER THE OCEAN - DAY

                              ANGSTY TEEN
          Life is just one big talent show after
          another. High school. College. Getting
          a job.

                              UNCLE
          There, there, Angsty Teen. Suffering
          gives us character.
________________________________________

As far as acting, when husband and wife fight, it never exceeds expectation. When husband hears bad news over the phone, never exceeds expectation. When grandpa takes a turn for the worse, it never exceeds expectation. (Again, angsty teen had the most depth, and probably acted with the most depth as well.)

There's another cliche (IMO) toward the end which critics will eventually come to describe as "pulling a Napolean." Again, yes, there are laughs and moments. But I've already forgotten most of them.

This is one moment where I am at odds with Rotten Tomatoes, which gave this film 92% approval rating (which essentially means, 92% of professional critics who reviewed the film thought it fell on the 51% side, rather than the 49% side). Me? I'd say it's about 40%.

Here's a positive Rotten Tomatoes comment that I agree with: "It's good for some laughs, though I don't see it holding up to multiple viewings."

Another one I agree with: "Little Miss Sunshine is a modestly amusing movie with good performances and several promisingly absurd situations." Sure. Why not.

Another comment suggested the characters might transfer well to the TV screen. I agree. A sit-com is a better medium for these people and their quirkiness. Full-length film? Doesn't do it for me.

This comment sums up the whole cliche (ready for that Reader's Digest "Quotable Quote"? well, here it is): "Little Miss Sunshine proves that family is a heck of a lot like the film's VW bus: It may be clunky, it may not always run right, but everyone will be OK so long as we all get together and push." (Aw, how cute.)

Of course much of the events in the ending are symbolic: the family participating on the stage, the family pushing their own van and jumping inside anytime they need to go anywhere, the fact that their own little dysfunctional system is so at-odds with society at large—but again, it's just paper thin, unbelievable, a naked emperor.

My friend bought me (among other things) Tom Waits for Christmas. How did I ever not know about Mr. Waits? Cool stuff. Very unique. Creative. I really appreciate what he does with music, both in terms of theory, musicianship, philosophy of lyrics, defamiliarization of archetypes, etc. He's often humorous and deconstructive. I like it

The Piano Has Been Drinking (Not Me)
The piano has been drinking, my necktie is asleep
And the combo went back to New York, the jukebox has to take a leak
And the carpet needs a haircut, and the spotlight looks like a prison break
And the telephone's out of cigarettes, and the balcony is on the make
And the piano has been drinking, the piano has been drinking
And the menus are all freezing, and the light man's blind in one eye
And he can't see out of the other
And the piano-tuner's got a hearing aid, and he showed up with his mother
And the piano has been drinking, the piano has been drinking
As the bouncer is a Sumo wrestler cream-puff casper milktoast
And the owner is a mental midget with the I.Q. of a fence post
Cause the piano has been drinking, the piano has been drinking
And you can't find your waitress with a Geiger counter
And she hates you and your friends and you just can't get served without her
And the box-office is drooling, and the bar stools are on fire
And the newspapers were fooling, and the ash-trays have retired
Cause the piano has been drinking, the piano has been drinking
The piano has been drinking
Not me, not me
Not me, not me
Not me

Hrmmm....

Not what I was expecting. I'd seen episodes of Da Ali G show and liked them a lot. I was looking forward to Borat. I think shorter segments are how this character and this type of humor is best expressed: snippets and soundbytes. I don't think the character is empathetic enough to support a full-length film.

I appreciate the comedian and his brand of humor, but this film doesn't do it for me. My favorite film critic, however, put it in his top ten of 2006.

What a cool song!

(Try right-clicking it and saving it.)

(What a postmodern verb!)

Met these guys at Capone's in Beijing. Great sound. I introduced myself (since they didn't have a guitar player) and we will have some shows starting around mid-January. Awesome. They play at Capone's, n.h.u, and Ikea (strange).

My friend Chris went back to Chicago for Christmas and agreed to pick up my guitar in Utah for me and bring it back.

Such an interesting blog. This one made me laugh.

Sometimes I feel like sadness is a better friend than happiness, because at least sadness is dependable. Sadness is always right around the corner, waiting for you, like a public trash can in Amsterdam. But happiness is a bad friend. Happiness is always playing tricks and letting you down, so who can tell whether it's the product of choice, consequence, or coincidence?