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2001.04.08 : 2001.04.14
Saturday, April 14, 2001
Blab. A radical Islamic terrorist writes:
Hey, let's go to Paradise
together!
Hey, you first.
Or maybe that wasn't a radical Islamic terrorist, in which case
I'm a happily married man, so thank you very much for your kind offer,
but I must decline.
Blab. Plurp welcomes a brand new picker of nits, and just
in time for Mispelling Day!
Hiya!
'First time at your site, and I already
want to be one of those obsessive copy editors.
You wrote:
> Yow. We're being gloriously lazy
today (sloth + gluttony + lust), laying in bed and watching another episode
of... < ,
My question: Were you lying?
Cheers
That old lay vs. lie thing. We never
could keep that straight. And that's the truth!
Yo. Some folks at Princeton think that our universe may have
begun in a cataclysmic game of primordial
bumper cars. The idea is that our universe and another universe, both
relatively quiet places at the time, were drawn together in some larger
dimensional space until they collided, forming matter and stuff like that.
They call this the Ekpyrotic Universe model, Ekpyrosis being Greek for
"conflagration" or "cataclysmic fire."
Those naughty universes!
Plurp. The guy who invented Zip Codes died this week. His number
was up.
So did the guy who invented the smiling yellow happy face.
Have a nice day.
Yak. Somebody on TV, on the racial divide in Los Angeles.
There's a real us vs.
we attitude around here.
 Plurp.
The blue dog
offered to go to
Paradise together.
Friday, April 13, 2001
Blab. Reacting, maybe, to our statement:
At least we think so. And that's all that
really matters, isn't it?
(though it's always hard to tell!) a reader plagiarizes thusly:
Main Entry: so·lip·sism
Pronunciation: 'sO-l&p-"si-z&m,
'sä-
Function: noun
Etymology: Latin solus alone + ipse
self
Date: 1874
: a theory holding that the self
can know nothing but its own modifications and that the self is the only
existent thing
- so·lip·sist /'sO-l&p-sist,
'sä-l&p-, s&-'lip-/ noun
- so·lip·sis·tic
/"sO-l&p-'sis-tik, "sä-/ adjective
- so·lip·sis·ti·cal·ly
/-ti-k(&-)lE/ adverb
Or maybe we just imagined it?
Blab. Apropos of the upcoming vernal holiday, a reader writes:
I only caught the last few
minutes of Jesus Christ Superstar last night, and was disappointed
that I hadn't seen it all--from what I saw and the "making of" segment
which followed, it looked quite good, and definitely much better than the
1973
movie version which is paced much too slow for my tastes, and the hairstyles
and fashions looking quite dated. Of course, I can't say that the
new version won't look just as dated in another 28 years.
Yeah, actually, it was pretty good, and we were kicking ourselves for not
going to see it on stage when it was in New York.
Blab. The owner of the rainbow dog suggests:
The teal dog apologized,
allowing the blue dog to retain most favored icon status.
For which we are infernally grateful.
Blab. A reader masquerading as a member of the P'tang Tribal
Council says:
ptang sez: Check out
http://confluence.org/
So, uncharacteristically, we did.
The goal of the project is
to visit each of the latitude and longitude integer degree intersections
in the world, and to take pictures at each location. The pictures and stories
will then be posted here.
Can you say too much time on their hands? We knew you could.
Blab. Our Greatest Fan offers wisdom today.
Timing has an awful lot to
do with the outcome of a rain dance.
That's much better than my usual formulation:
Always take credit for the
positive outcome of random events.
Blab. In reversus linkus, a fan spelunking this
old issue of Plurp writes:
itsy bitsy spider
Indeed. Not incy wincy.
 Plop.
There's a nice, sexy, new IBM
ThinkPad T21 sitting on a chair in my office, complete with a dock
and a sky-blue ethernet cable, all still sealed in their Official Boxes.
I won't be able to get to them for some time yet; too much other stuff
to do!
It's like being a kid on Christmas morning who's told he has to shovel
all the snow out of the neighborhood before he can open his presents.
Aaaarrrgh!!!
 Yow.
You know Clippy, that annoying little paperclip in Microsoft Word
- the one that pops up intrusively with useless observations and suggestions?
You know how you've hated it, cursed it, lo these many years?
Amazingly enough, Microsoft finally figured out that it sucked, and
in their next version of Word (in Office XP - I think it stands for eXtra
Pricey), they're removing it, claiming that their new product is so great
that you don't need Clippy any more. As if you ever did. Don't you love
the spin?
Anyhow, Microsoft announced a new
Web site to help ridicule Clippy. In typical Microsoft fashion, they
announced it before it was working, and much of it still
isn't. But by the time you click
on it, it will be perfect. Honest. Would Billy lie to you?
Yo. Our new answering
machine message at home, as if you care.
We want you
to imagine
what it would be like
to hear this message.
And, by the way, this is working now. We know. We're outside the
mainstream.
Yow. Now that's
a lot of Silly Putty! (rebecca)
Yow. A new game to waste your time: Atomica.
Pretty good IMHO.
Plurp.
The whole answering
machine
thing was a figment of
the blue dog's imagination.
Thursday, April 12, 2001
Blab. Concerned, as always, about our gullibility, a
kindly reader writes:
You did read all the way
down to the bottom of the Udo article, didn't
you? Check the date.
Yes; hence our use of the term belated.
Blab. A reader who is, no doubt, employed in the Marketing Arts
suggests a new tag line for an erstwhile corporate
giant.
Microsoft. Taste the
fetid carcass.
We have already fed. But thanks for the serving suggestion.
Blab. Speaking of which, a reader points us to:
Interesting story on Bayes(as
in AI-ish things)
Perhaps contrary to the good reverend's expectations, Bayesian learning
has become a staple of modern AI.
But enough of that! The article also states a perfectly wonderful brain
teaser.
A game show host tells you
that a million dollars are behind one of three doors, A, B or C. If you
choose correctly, you get the money.
You choose A, and the quiz master
responds only by opening door C to reveal an empty space, and asks you
to choose again.
Should you stick faithfully to your
original choice, or shift your allegiance to B?
Aside from those being silly names for doors (which would more properly
be called Fred, Ethel and Hominy Grits), which do you think you should
do? And why? (We will admit to asserting the wrong answer to this question
with no little vehemence when it came up around the lab a few years ago.)
Blab. A reader graces us with Truth.
The Plan
In the Beginning was the plan.
And then came the assumptions.
And the assumptions were without
form.
And the plan was completely without
substance.
And the darkness was upon the face
of the workers. And they spoke among themselves saying: "It is a
crock of shit, and it stinketh."
And the workers went unto their supervisors,
and sayeth:
"It is a pail of dung, and none can
abide the odor thereof."
And the supervisors went unto their
managers and sayeth unto them, "It is a container of excrement, and it
is very strong, such that none can abide it."
And the managers went unto the directors
and sayeth, "It is a vessel of fertilizer, and none can abide its strength,"
And the directors spoke amongst themselves, saying one to another: "It
contains that which aids plant growth, and is very strong."
And the directors went unto the vice
presidents and sayeth to them, "It promotes growth, and is very powerful."
And the vice presidents went unto
the president, and sayeth unto him, "This new plan will actively promote
growth and efficiency of this company, and certain areas in particular."
And the president looked upon the
plan, and saw that it was good.
And the plan became policy.
And this is how shit happens.
Yea, verily.
 Plurp.
We do appreciate the governments of China and the U.S. complying
so precisely with our order to end this spy plane nonsense. As you
may recall, we instructed them to do the
following:
-
China will declare that it "Accepts the contrition of the United States
over the incident in the South China Sea".
-
The U.S. will not issue a formal apology but, when questioned, will not
deny China's apparent interpretation that it has. Rather, it will say "We
stand on our public record and we just want to move on."
-
The U.S. surveillance crew will be returned to the U.S. but their plane
will be kept in China for several weeks where it will be meticulously disassembled
and examined by learned Chinese technicians. At the end of that time it
will be returned to the U.S.
-
No sanctions will be issued against China, and China will retain "favored
nation" status.
Those few of you who doubted our power over the Trilateral Commission may
now tremble in terror.
We would further appreciate it if Dubya could keep his big, fat mouth
shut during the next international incident, to avoid a repeat of this
astonishingly dangerous confrontation with a nuclear superpower. I mean,
really!
We have more important stuff to do than rescue you from your own stupidity.
Plop. Flash is evil. Flash is bad. Very bad. Flash should be
banned, its practitioners drawn and quartered, then left out for zillions
of little bugs to pinch and pick them into isolated cells smeared in a
thin ooze across the landscape.
Don't believe us? Take a look at this!
Mercifully, we are told that this abomination will only be available
for another day or so. Would that we could say the same thing about the
underlying technology that made it possible.
Plurp. I came home yesterday evening to A Woman In Distress,
she having anticipated that Survivor would be on TV (it was not),
and having to watch Jesus Christ, Superstar instead. Domestic bliss
was reestablished when I suggested that JC Superstar was just Survivor
in which Barabbas wins the jackpot and Jesus gets voted off the Earth.
The tribe has spoken.
Plurp. In college, my Randian roomies and I penned two verses
of a song entitled Antichrist, Superstar, modeled more after Nietzche's
Übermensch or Rand's supremely competent heroes than Rosemary's
Baby. Sung to the tune of ... the obvious song:
Antichrist, antichrist,
Who are you, you who won't sacrifice?
Antichrist, superman,
How can you do all you say you can?
It's probably a good thing none of us went into song writing.
Plurp. What wonderful terms we still have in our language, associated
with our analog past. Penned. Inked. Eraser. Cross out. Scratch out. Dial.
Ring. Book.
Readers are invited to submit others.
Yo. Looks like some entrepreneurial criminal mastermind has made
off with a few billion dollars worth of Other People's Money by selling
fraudulent bank guarantees.
We're clearly in the wrong business. Could all of our readers please
send us checks for large amounts of money, for which we will do nothing
at all in return? Why? Um, because we appear to be a trusted financial
institution and you're too dumb to check?
Thank you.
Plurp.
Despite popular
outcry, the blue dog
retained "favored icon"
status.
Wednesday, April 11, 2001
Blab. In a more reassuring tone, a reader writes:
In a reassuring reality,
the yellow dog once thought he was some kind of like opening book or something.
But a small one, no doubt.
Blab. Whether attempting vainly to spread a self-declared
but fading meme, or merely singing aloud in Iberian self-realization,
a reader writes:
SOY! SOY! SOY!
To which we can only echo the late President Kennedy, who said, Yo
soy un taco.
 Blab.
Whether from a culinary or a mental affliction, a reader with unquestionably
bad taste writes:
mmmm Mexican
tacos
We often say that our conceptual lapses are due to brain worms, but that's
really quite disgusting!
Blab. A horrified reader writes:
(from ptang)
Horrors! I was counting on
your wise editorial policy of protecting the identity of broken joke propigators,
but now I am unmasked. Once word gets out, it will surely lead to
my personal ruination. I suppose I have only myself to blame.
Perhaps I'll just chuck it all in
right now and become a disciple of Gene Ray (www.timecube.com)
TimeCube! What a wonderful site.
Brain worm victim Gene Ray has also reserved TheGreatestThinker.com
for his wise and insightful gibberings. And why not? It's the Web, after
all.
Now as to this wise editorial policy. We do not, in fact, hardly ever
reveal the names of our contributors here at Plurp. That's because,
well, we hardly ever know them; the Blab boxes don't pass
us any useful identifying information whatsoever. Unless our contributors
tell us, of course. And even then we don't usually pass on the information.
It's funnier that way. At least we think so. And that's all that really
matters, isn't it?
Who or what a ptang is, we just don't know. Our previous
comment on this topic was the result of a trivial
Google search whose output had some suspiciously inbred buzzwords.
But what do we know? Maybe it's a giant
newt. Or something a knight
would say. Or a lemur.
As we said, it's so hard to know.
Plurp.
Once upon a time a small
boy named Billy climbed inside of a concrete pipe in the side of a hill
near the new housing development that was being built at the edge of town.
He crawled in so far that it became dark and Billy became scared. In trying
to turn around, so as to avoid the evil creatures he felt sure lurked further
inside the pipe, Billy became lodged sideways in the pipe.
No matter how much he struggled, no
matter which way he tried to twist or contort his tiny, fragile frame,
it was no use. He was stuck.
"Help," he cried out. "Help! I am
stuck in this pipe and the monsters will come and get me!"
Some months later, the people who
moved into the new housing development wondered why their water still tasted
funny.
Plop. Speaking of tasting funny, Microsoft has just announced
a "war
on hostile code", primarily their own.
Microsoft hopes to focus
its programmers on delivering bug-free and reliable code.
Yow! Just like real programmers, huh? That's a pretty big step up
for Redmond, accustomed as they are to adding features and new bugs in
equal number while producing the world's most perfect platforms for both
viruses and hackers.
The idea is, if you are a
normal home user, to be able to turn on your PC, not do anything else,
and you will be safe and secure.
Much like, oh, a TV or a fridge, eh? That's revolutionary!
For all of you folks out there who aren't old fogies yet, that's the
way all computers used to be, and exactly the way that serious enterprise
computers are still. All this fun stuff about computers that crash several
times a day, are vulnerable to new hacker attacks several times a week
and are taken down globally by viruses every few months? That's Billy's
fetid carcass, rotting away inside your very own PC.
Yum.
Plurp. You know, that Billy story wasn't initially intended to
be about, well, Billy. It was supposed to be a quaint little fairy
tale. OK, a dark but quaint little fairy tale.
But it lent itself so nicely that it couldn't resist. It is sorry.
Rant. It is my humble observation that people who drive SUVs
are awful drivers. They wander between lanes without realizing it. They
straddle the lane markers. They swerve into your path without any awareness
whatsoever that there are other cars on the road.
I think this is due to two separate but related causes:
-
Some SUVs are bought by people attracted by marketing messages about "Pathfinder",
"Rodeo" and "Wrangler". These are mostly young, male, testosterone-soaked
kids who figure that they can drive like freaking maniacs on the highway
without consequence, swerving through several lanes at once without regard
for the presence of other, less manly vehicles. For them, an SUV is an
attack vehicle.
-
The rest of the SUVs are bought by people who are terrified of driving,
and need the security of lots of metal, a god-like view, and huge amounts
of apparent space between them and other cars in order to feel safe. These
are young parents who think their slobbering little infants will be protected
by names like "Land Cruiser" and "Suburban". They know they are terrible
drivers, talking tennis on their cell phones and paying more attention
to little Billy in the back than the fact that the rest of are driving
in their vicinity, but they think that driving a tank will make up for
their inabilities. For them, an SUV is a mighty fortress which has the
unfortunate side-effect of moving.
Popular Science emphasizes
this:
Most sport-utility vehicles
don't stray far from pavement. So why do so many of us buy sport-utilities?
Master-of-the universe driving position, a sense of invulnerability, ...
This is not to say that I dislike all of you wonderful SUV owners out there.
I don't! In fact, I think about you all the time, and I recommend the following
exercises to relieve your obvious stress:
-
For those of you oozing with testosterone, I recommend playing Russian
Roulette with a nail gun. Unless you're not man enough.
-
For those of you oozing with, well, whatever little Billy ate this morning,
I recommend standing in front of the mirror and screaming, "Oh my god!
Oh my god! I nearly killed him yesterday! I am evil, evil, evil!"
Then immediately go and redo your bedroom with a nail gun while talking
on your cell phone. Hey - you could end up with a lovely John-Carpenter-style
bedroom.
And wouldn't that be lovely?
Plurp.
In a fit of altruistic
fervor, the blue dog
volunteered to provide the
nails.
Tuesday, April 10, 2001
Blab. An unholy obsession with broken
jokes leads a reader to this unforgivable transgression.
(from ptang)
Speaking of broken jokes, there is
a series of jokes that kind of plays around with their own semi-broken-ness:
Q: How do you get an elephant in a
refrigerator?
A: Open the door, put the elephant
in, close the door.
Q: How do you get a giraffe in a refrigerator?
A: Open the door, TAKE THE ELEPHANT
OUT, put the giraffe in, close the door.
Q: The lion, king of the jungle, decreed
that all his subjects must come to his palace for a most important ceremony.
Which animal didn't attend?
A: The giraffe. It's in the
refrigerator.
Q: You come to a river which is known
to be home to many agressive crocodiles. How do you get across safely?
A: Go ahead and swim over.
All the crocodiles are at the lion's palace.
Hmm. Would that be Mark
Nau? It's so hard to know!
Blab. Our Greatest Fan expresses a latent fetish with government
secrets.
Here's a fun
site.
Ah! FBI files of famous people, mostly declassified through the Freedom
of Information Act. Among them are noted Communist sympathizers Albert
Einstein and Lucille Ball.
Oh, you didn't know that? Well, then it's a good thing we've got the FBI
looking over your their shoulders, isn't it?
Also fun is the list of resident aliens and U.S. citizens that were
"detained" (I think that
means "arrested without cause") for being from the Wrong Country around
the time of WWII. We were unaware that the U.S. extended such friendly
treatment beyond the Japanese-Americans.
Such fun stuff.
Blab. An elephant fetishist writes:
http://dailynews.yahoo.com/h/p/ap/20010409/wl/india_clinton_xab101.html
We only note, without comment, the caption to this photo.
Former President Clinton
rides an elephant during his visit to the 18th century City Palace in Jaipur,
western India, Monday April 9, 2001.
Blab. An AI fetishist offers the following explanation of Klaus.
Klaus is a sophisticated
AI program.
Oh we rather doubt it! At least, not unless we expect "sophisticated AI
programs" to indulge in this kind of drivel:
Plurp: Good morning,
Klaus; it is so nice to talk to you.
Klaus: Because I could not
stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away
My labor, and my touch caused it to you.
Plurp: Well, you're in a bit
of a mood, aren't you?
Klaus: Do you have learned
quite a bit morbid? You okay, Klaus?
Plurp: Yes, well, let's examine
the nature of reality and the depth of the human soul, shall we?
Klaus: A flag is for displaying
in public the political group of the human soul, shall we?
Plurp: Let's not and say we
did.
Klaus: Let's not and say "My
god, I'm all alone... All alone..."
Plurp: How many cars are in
the parking lot of life?
Klaus: Sadly, you don't have
a whole lot of hoes?
Plurp: Nay, sir, or those
selfsame cars would have been buried long ago in the furrow of my brow.
Klaus: Nay, sir, or those
selfsame cars would have been caused by the sword
Plurp: You are the weakest
link; goodbye!
Klaus: You are Eliza.
Nay, sir, it takes a really dumb program and a really dumb human to indulge
in this kind of drivel.
Blab. A muskrat fetishist writes:
This muskrat's for you:
http://detnews.com/1996/menu/stories/70387.htm
Again, without comment:
Johnny Kolakowski, 49, shown
with stuffed muskrat, says the to-go orders will make eating the rodent
more convenient than ever. A mere $7.50 will get you a complete muskrat
dinner with mashed potatoes and sauerkraut when the restaurant opens next
month.
Blab. From the Museum of Depressionist Art, a canine fetishist
writes:
http://www.dearauntnettie.com/museum/museum-blueboy.htm
Being, of course, the famous portrait of Blue Boy With Blue Dog.
Yo. For you map fetishists out there, an
exhibit at the New York Public Library.
Yo. Ever wanted to drop
your own balls off the Leaning Tower of Pisa? Later this year, they're
letting deranged people just like you back
in. The rest of us will stand discreetly away, thank you very much.
Plurp. It's a miracle!
Citizens of Cesano [Italy]
have reported hearing Vatican Radio's renditions of Ave Maria and other
favorites - on their intercoms, telephones, and hearing aids. The songs
have even been heard resonating from refrigerators and doorbells.
Well, actually, it turns out that Vatican Radio is broadcasting at such
enormous power as to vibrate everything in the general area. Tremble at
the power of the Lord. Or not, if you're the Italian government, which
is threatening to cut
off electricity to the Vatican if they don't turn it down.
Isn't it nice to know that life in international politics is just like
it was in the Freshman dorms?
Yow. Maybe we should give simple
math quizzes to potential political candidates, eh? Why? Oh, we dunno.
Just to watch 'em squirm, we says.
 Yo.
In other, belated, news, it looks like we'll have to call it the Udo
Set now, rather than the Mandelbrot Set, as the 13th century monk Udo
of Aachen seems to have discovered it a bit before Mandelbrot.
Poor Benoit!
Yo. More for you math fetishists. What's the probability of N
people, having earlier checked their hats in, all being returned the wrong
hat from the hat-check counter if hats are redistributed at random?
If N=2, it's obviously 1/2. If N=3, it's 1/3.
Now, what is it as N goes to infinity? Why, 1/e,
of course.
Plurp.
At the bottom of the tub
of
eels and brightly colored
machine tools, Claude
Fischer-Price, Forensic Accountant,
found traces of
the blue dog.
Monday, April 9, 2001
Blab. A reader takes issue with this week's Plurp
motto.
Digestible you say? Heck,
those niblets have more cellulose than the Sunda times, and less secrets
than a US DOE installation. Phuuii.
Hey! The Sunda Times
is one of our favorite newspapers! Anyhow, we're happy to believe that
Plurp
adds fiber to your intellectual diet, if nothing else.
Blab. A reader challenges us to parse this sentence.
You should, write for like
ePinions or something. (Some kind of feather?)
Ah yes, ePinions - A Penny For Your Thoughts. Yeah, maybe. But then
what gilded words would I have left to publish here, for the millions upon
millions of eager Plurp fetishists who slather each day for the
next salacious entry?
Yo. What is Klaus,
anyhow? Someone please explain, even if falsely.
Yak.
Not
Found
The requested object does not exist
on this server. The link you followed is either outdated, inaccurate, or
the server has been instructed not to let you have it.
In our experience, it is far more common that the server has been
instructed to let us have it. Good and hard.
Plurp. This appeared somehow on Dave's
log today
as part of his reader input on the subject of seriously considering.
... standing on one toe beneath
an icy waterfall, considering the plight of thousands upon thousands of
hen's eggs as they make their way, by truck, by car, by satchel, into the
ravenous maws of suburban husbands on Saturday morning, displaced creatures
all, not having the thought, nay, the chance at the thought, of life, of
pecking at the grain, of playing, and winning, at tic-tac-toe, of having,
perhaps, or aspiring to have, a small opening book, perhaps only knowing
the Ruy Lopez, but knowing it well enough to call it R. Lo, no, not even
that, and the stock broker (former stock broker) who cracks their delicate
protective layer and drops them, uncaring, into the killing fat, thinks
(does he think?) "I should have sold".
The weird thing is: I think I might have written it. But I'm not sure;
my best indication is that I really like it, and I have this well known
character flaw of liking just about every piece of drivel I write.
Anyhow, could someone please check? Thank you.
Yow. It was one of those softly warm, azure days today that,
letting eyelid rest gently upon eyelid, convinces you utterly that it is
summer in San Diego or Santa Barbara, the kind of day during which neither
school nor work could possibly enter your head, the gods having decreed
that, today, body surfing is a sacred ritual.
Plurp.
In a terrifying dream
the blue dog once thought
he was some kind of like
feather or something.
Sunday, April 8, 2001
Yow. Here's a wild idea: Life on Earth may have originated
from the impact of comets containing amino acids. Not that life existed
on the comets beforehand, but rather that the
impact itself may have created compounds that resulted in life. Cool.
Yo. Painted on the side of an apartment building on Broadway,
each pointing to a window on a different floor:
THIS MAN CAN'T SLEEP AT NIGHT
------------->
THIS MAN LIVES WITH CIRCUS ANIMALS
----->
THIS WOMAN YELPS IN HER SLEEP ------------>
Plurp.
Play: Design
for Living
Demographic: New Yorkers nostalgic
for a time when love in any condition other than monogamous marriage was
scandalous.
Plot Summary: Noel Coward's
1932 comedy portrays a ménage á trois, an equilateral love
triangle in which a woman and two men find themselves in love with one,
the other, and finally each other as they move from London to Paris to
New York over several years. In its time, it must have seemed wildly immoral
and shockingly scandalous, just as characterized by the outraged London
art dealer who knits them together. Today, one wonders what took them so
long to figure it out, and their ultimate realization that it is the three
of them who belong together is quietly satisfying.
Distinguishing Features: Alan
Cummings is a marvelously impish Otto, bringing perfect timing and subtle
physical comedy to even the most innocuous lines. Contrapunctually, Jennifer
Ehle as Gilda rushes her lines, and might benefit from ordering her cappuccinos
decaf from now on.
Tony Award For: Artistic design.
The spaces delineated by the sets are rich, lofty, dramatic, gritty, beautiful.
Verdict: Recommended.
Plurp.
Movie: Blow
Demographic: Anyone who survived
the 80s.
Plot Summary: Kid from a poor
Irish-Catholic Massachusetts family in the 50s decides that Southern California
is cool and the drug trade even cooler. Johnny Depp (the ambitious kid)
works up to hundreds of pounds of grass, is busted and, in jail, decides
that cocaine is The Next Big Thing. He introduces the U.S. to cocaine in
a big way, learning Colombian culture, making tens of millions of dollars,
getting shot and marrying shrill coke head Penelope Cruz. And the rest,
including his life as a free man, is history.
Distinguishing Features: Longest
lines in recent memory, more resembling Space Mountain in summer than a
movie about drugs. But can someone tell me what the big deal is about Cruz?
I just don't get it. Oh - and this great scene in which Depp tries, and
fails, to find a place in his apartment for yet another box full of cash.
It seems that every available space in the apartment is already occupied
by boxes full of cash.
Academy Award For: Depp, who
is fast becoming a National Treasure.
Verdict: Recommended.
Plurp.
Exhibit: The Photography
(and Digital Editing) of Andreas
Gursky at MoMA
Demographic: Fans of spectacular
imagery.
Summary: A person with an
amazing eye for symmetries directs his talents at the modern world. Atrium
hotels become visual archetypes. A nearly vacant airport becomes a Japanese
garden. The Tokyo stock exchange becomes a madcap throng frozen in time.
Cars and shipping containers and buildings in Salerno become a study in
perfect and broken symmetries. In stripes of landscape, the grey Rhine
seems to move, disturbingly, before our eyes. And all of them become photographs
of astonishing size and detail - monumental photography.
Distinguishing Features: Most
insipid and basically dumb written introduction by some pretentious art
curator. Is it just me, or should we actually ban visual artists from writing
about visual art?
Award For: Best Eye for Symmetry
in Daily Life
Verdict: Highly recommended.
Plurp.
Exhibit: Vermeer
and the Delft School at the Met.
Demographic: Kids on Spring
Break.
Summary: Bait and Switch comes
to a major New York art institution. While advertised as Vermeerand
the Delft School, it would be more accurately
advertised as The Delft Schooland
There Might Be One or Two Vermeers in There Somewhere.
There are some wonderful Vermeers here, but they are nearly lost amidst
the less distinguished artists of his time and place. And that's a pity;
Vermeer is the ideal to which his lessers might have aspired, the great
master of capturing light - the way it played on metals and fabric, bridging,
incongruously, the overly detailed composition of primitivism and the luminous
intensity of pointillism. His lessers are mere dilution. The exhibition
would have been so much more powerful as a single room with just Vermeers.
Distinguishing Features: A
hive of tourists teeming around the few Vermeers, primarily kids on Spring
Break (it was for our eternal damnation that god chose to send them to
New York). So many people had "audio tour" headphones that in the swarm
around every Vermeer was a sound so much like the buzzing of insects that
we wanted to swat distractedly around our heads.
Award For: Worst Setting for
Great Art.
Verdict: Not recommended unless
you can see it without the insects, and unless you can spend time only
with the Vermeers. Otherwise do as we did - flee to the nearly vacant Modern
Wing, aglow with Monet and Modigliani, then spend a quiet half hour at
the Temple of Dendur.
Plurp.
The blue dog snorted
symmetric images of
Delft with two
ambiguous best friends.
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