I frequent the monthly dues of Netflix, realizing that this is one way the house can't win...or at least the house wins with less capital on top of their overhead. Paying $14 a month is about 1 1/2 tickets to a movie theatre, and I average about 4 delivered movies to my mailbox. With their feature of Watch Instantly, I easily pay only about a crunchy taco per movie...as long as I can keep up my cinematic habit.
The curious case of Netflix is actually quite sensitive. It wants to know you. It pays attention. It listens without all the inquisitive inquiry. It knows what you like, or at least thinks of you while at the video store, calls home with recommendations, and will pick it up for you if you want. And it knows you've been working out, so it will conveniently forget to bring home the Swedish Fish and Reese's Pieces. So thoughtful, one could call it love.
However, an interesting milestone just passed in our relationship. Netflix, with its recent recommendations, thinks I'm gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
I recently watched the theatrical brilliant play-turned-film Bent. Clive Owen gives a magnificent performance, and shows the silver screen such honesty, while Sir Ian McKellen forces truth, integrity, and forbids stereotype. Mick Jagger portrays a decent drag performer...not that I can compare him to many other performances that I've witnessed, but we'll get to that. It was a very powerful, touching, and depressing movie that I highly recommend, with a caveat: you will cry, you will leave the film (or your room) feeling unsettled, and you will be angry...but you have a small sense of victory against the Nazis.
I re-watched Higher Learning, which deals with college life and its effects on several diverse characters. It's about as good as I remember, attempting to hit the usual issues that teens deal with while away from home. As expected, it followed one girl and her struggle with her bi-sexuality. This is only one of the many storylines it spotlighted.
Watching these two movies back to back, apparently gave my Netflix the idea that I was gay. Forget about me renting Sarah Marshall, Wanted, Team America, Harold and Kumar and Transformers... It doesn't seem to care. Sure, there are many subcategories of movies that it will so kindly recommend, but for some reason, on the top, front and center, Netflix apparently thinks it is coaxing me out of the closet...not that there's anything wrong with that. I just think my girlfriend might start thinking about things a little.
So what did Netflix recommend for me to watch that makes me think I'm gay?
A Showtime documentary mini-series entitled Transgeneration. This documentary followed the lives of 4 young people on their journey to gender re-assignment. The opening episode introduced you to all of them and their stories, all of whom are also in college. It was hypnotizing. It was truly interesting to see how they had to deal with what they called a physical disability, rather than a mental problem. One female to male actually attended an all girls college and received a lot of flack from the institution itself. She saw herself as a male, but wanted to complete her degree at an all girl college.
Do I recommend this? Well, yes. I finished the 8 episode series in a couple afternoons. The only reservation to have, is that you're Netflix will send you tickets to a Kathy Griffin stand-up special.
I continue to watch and rent Shakespeareans and various independent films, and the belief of Netflix only grows stronger. And for every man film with explosions and guns, there will be a To Wong Foo snuck in there somewhere. I've come to think that this is one friend that just has horrible gay-dar.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
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Showing posts with label journalism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label journalism. Show all posts
6.21.2009
The Kennedy Affliction: Part I
I used to work in, where else, but a friendly neighborhood bar/ restaurant. This is of course a prerequisite for any work-seeking artist in today's world of desperation, degradation, and whoredom. After punching in my time for a couple years, management met with me to explore the 2nd-tier in the hierarchy of restaurant-eering: Bar tending.
After multiple sessions of splashing bourbon around in a low-ball, and subjecting myself to the Sex in the City de jour, my semester majoring in Mixology was abruptly cut short when my tuition ran out. When I say tuition, I mean the old, obnoxious owner who decided to tell me that I was no longer in the running for Mix-Gun Slinger.
"I'm sorry, Dave, but you don't have the personality to pour drinks, listen to others share their day, and provide conversation for the lonely."
I hadn't done anything wrong, my record was a whistle, and the staff looked to me for a quick laugh...please insert any over-used Piano Man lyric here. And to have my personality in question was a Kimbo punch to the jaw. I was, after all, not necessarily popular with ladies before the age of 21, and without the on-set of alcohol, had to become quite the bard in order to get close to them. After some deep contemplation, only one intellectual and reasonable explanation came to mind:
Tits vs. Wits.
I had the realization that it was nothing against me personally *cough* *cough* or professionally (if one wants to call themselves a Professional Server - sans benefits, stock options, and first class seating) - It was 100%, purely and strictly anatomical.
It was in the weeks to follow that the place where everybody knows your name could give a shit. We were becoming, unofficially, known as the Neighborhood's Best Breastaurant. More and more of the turnover solidified our glory, and our guests only reinforced it.
Tits vs. Wits.
More and more, individual shallowness, low self-esteem, glamour mags, reality TV, and of course, old school pheromones and attraction, have shelved chivalry, intelligence, and experience for pure, unadulterated...wait...that wasn't the best word...gratuitous...sex.
This brings me to my theory of The Kennedy Affliction: Part I.
Scientifically speaking, in theory, humans will rely solely on their physical nature to attain anything of benefit for selfish and personal gain. These may include, but are not limited to, financial, fashionable, drivable, or a corporate ladder which is in fact climbable.
I know some people would prefer to read a book rather than work out. Often due to genetics, it is in fact harder to attain a body for the athletics or for stripper stature, than to complete a novel cover to cover. So why do people put so much effort into not having to work hard for something...by in fact working harder?
I feel as if the exchange rate for Tits over Wits these days seems to have crashed harder than, and I apologize for the sophomoric double pun, General Motors.
One man alone cannot fight the Battle of the Bulges, especially when said man appreciates aforementioned bulges. I feel that my hamartia will in fact be the inability to fight a war I start...after all, any man can make a war, but it takes a real man to know how to solve it.
Perhaps my theory can be just that - all theory and no practice.
I'm not asking for beauty to curb itself, but perhaps a compromise can be made to make minds a centerfold just as often as beauty. While we're flipping the pages, strictly for the articles, we can put self-esteem, confidence, humor, and academia right on in there for an orgy of virtue.
We are PR sluts in America, and we can throw anything in reverse that we put into motion.
The only problem is, that if you are in fact reading this, the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting bigger tits.
After multiple sessions of splashing bourbon around in a low-ball, and subjecting myself to the Sex in the City de jour, my semester majoring in Mixology was abruptly cut short when my tuition ran out. When I say tuition, I mean the old, obnoxious owner who decided to tell me that I was no longer in the running for Mix-Gun Slinger.
"I'm sorry, Dave, but you don't have the personality to pour drinks, listen to others share their day, and provide conversation for the lonely."
I hadn't done anything wrong, my record was a whistle, and the staff looked to me for a quick laugh...please insert any over-used Piano Man lyric here. And to have my personality in question was a Kimbo punch to the jaw. I was, after all, not necessarily popular with ladies before the age of 21, and without the on-set of alcohol, had to become quite the bard in order to get close to them. After some deep contemplation, only one intellectual and reasonable explanation came to mind:
Tits vs. Wits.
I had the realization that it was nothing against me personally *cough* *cough* or professionally (if one wants to call themselves a Professional Server - sans benefits, stock options, and first class seating) - It was 100%, purely and strictly anatomical.
It was in the weeks to follow that the place where everybody knows your name could give a shit. We were becoming, unofficially, known as the Neighborhood's Best Breastaurant. More and more of the turnover solidified our glory, and our guests only reinforced it.
Tits vs. Wits.
More and more, individual shallowness, low self-esteem, glamour mags, reality TV, and of course, old school pheromones and attraction, have shelved chivalry, intelligence, and experience for pure, unadulterated...wait...that wasn't the best word...gratuitous...sex.
This brings me to my theory of The Kennedy Affliction: Part I.
Scientifically speaking, in theory, humans will rely solely on their physical nature to attain anything of benefit for selfish and personal gain. These may include, but are not limited to, financial, fashionable, drivable, or a corporate ladder which is in fact climbable.
I know some people would prefer to read a book rather than work out. Often due to genetics, it is in fact harder to attain a body for the athletics or for stripper stature, than to complete a novel cover to cover. So why do people put so much effort into not having to work hard for something...by in fact working harder?
I feel as if the exchange rate for Tits over Wits these days seems to have crashed harder than, and I apologize for the sophomoric double pun, General Motors.
One man alone cannot fight the Battle of the Bulges, especially when said man appreciates aforementioned bulges. I feel that my hamartia will in fact be the inability to fight a war I start...after all, any man can make a war, but it takes a real man to know how to solve it.
Perhaps my theory can be just that - all theory and no practice.
I'm not asking for beauty to curb itself, but perhaps a compromise can be made to make minds a centerfold just as often as beauty. While we're flipping the pages, strictly for the articles, we can put self-esteem, confidence, humor, and academia right on in there for an orgy of virtue.
We are PR sluts in America, and we can throw anything in reverse that we put into motion.
The only problem is, that if you are in fact reading this, the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting bigger tits.
6.20.2009
Changes in Platitudes
I recently chatted (it should be known that by "chat", I do mean physically sat next to an actual human being and conversed) with a friend who has 437 friends on myfacebook, or another one of those glorified e-yearbooks displaying nothing more than photos, signatures, and nostalgia of the present. When asked how many of those "friends" she actually knew, it was well into the low 60's.
So why keep so many acquaintances of friends' co-workers in your addressbook.net if you don't even know what kind of drink they rely on to let go of the day? If we can take all of our friends into Heaven, lord knows I'd save and save. Or I'd just count those who actually show up to my Big Wheel in the Sky Red Carpet Party and consider them my close friends. That'll be my eu-google-gy.
Maybe it's just me, but I actually don't care how many people a fancy Helvetican street sign tells me I have as BFFs. I mean if you haven't worn it for a year, get rid of it.
Just how far will we e-everything to each other? How much longer until our intimate relationships depend on how many hits our profile gets? It's not that far from a current euphemism anyway. I think the comfort level of a roll in the hay of Cyberland would lack the lumbar support needed to make for an enjoyable experience, but that's just me. But they are making laptops thinner and lighter as I'm typing.
How far will we go to avoid the human experience? How soon until I will be blahgging my job from the comfort of my own pizza stained couch? Why do I have this holier-than-thou tone to my "print", when I am in fact giving into advertising billboards of the super highway? How about the Death of the Newspaper; the Constant Butchering of the English Language; My Ever- Growning Love of the Written Medicine by Dr. Gonzo; and the fact that I am battling more than a 7 Nation Army for the resurgence of the written and spoken word. And if I have to hear LOL instead of a real, honest laugh one more time, I'm going to *SMFSFUAAIWFI.
And, I'm just not popular enough yet to have my own Late Night TV show. I'll even compete with Maury; I'm not picky.
Here lies the first of my blogs, for which I AM the father, and if I can get myself over it, I'll conceive more of my own shame to share.
*Shove my foot so far up an ass, I will feel it.
So why keep so many acquaintances of friends' co-workers in your addressbook.net if you don't even know what kind of drink they rely on to let go of the day? If we can take all of our friends into Heaven, lord knows I'd save and save. Or I'd just count those who actually show up to my Big Wheel in the Sky Red Carpet Party and consider them my close friends. That'll be my eu-google-gy.
Maybe it's just me, but I actually don't care how many people a fancy Helvetican street sign tells me I have as BFFs. I mean if you haven't worn it for a year, get rid of it.
Just how far will we e-everything to each other? How much longer until our intimate relationships depend on how many hits our profile gets? It's not that far from a current euphemism anyway. I think the comfort level of a roll in the hay of Cyberland would lack the lumbar support needed to make for an enjoyable experience, but that's just me. But they are making laptops thinner and lighter as I'm typing.
How far will we go to avoid the human experience? How soon until I will be blahgging my job from the comfort of my own pizza stained couch? Why do I have this holier-than-thou tone to my "print", when I am in fact giving into advertising billboards of the super highway? How about the Death of the Newspaper; the Constant Butchering of the English Language; My Ever- Growning Love of the Written Medicine by Dr. Gonzo; and the fact that I am battling more than a 7 Nation Army for the resurgence of the written and spoken word. And if I have to hear LOL instead of a real, honest laugh one more time, I'm going to *SMFSFUAAIWFI.
And, I'm just not popular enough yet to have my own Late Night TV show. I'll even compete with Maury; I'm not picky.
Here lies the first of my blogs, for which I AM the father, and if I can get myself over it, I'll conceive more of my own shame to share.
*Shove my foot so far up an ass, I will feel it.
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