Wednesday, September 15, 2010
May Day Eve 2010 Trailer
ViARE Presents
May Day Eve 2010
Directed by Juan Ekis
Trailer
Director: J. R. Guillermo
Cinematographer: Joachim Antonio and T.J. Aguirre
Editor: J. R. Guillermo and Joachim Antonio
Score: Joao Atienza and Ian Amane
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Sexual Revolution Will Die with a Wig On
Camille Paglia, one of the most articulate cultural defenders of the Sexual Revolution that began with the concept of reproductive freedom, is seeing the the gruesome end of her labors. And the end is personified in that un-erotic mannequin this last generation has elevated to the status of "icon", Lady Gaga.
Gaga has borrowed so heavily from Madonna (as in her latest video-Alejandro) that it must be asked, at what point does homage become theft? However, the main point is that the young Madonna was on fire. She was indeed the imperious Marlene Dietrich’s true heir. For Gaga, sex is mainly decor and surface; she’s like a laminated piece of ersatz rococo furniture. Alarmingly, Generation Gaga can’t tell the difference. Is it the death of sex? Perhaps the symbolic status that sex had for a century has gone kaput; that blazing trajectory is over…
While I do not share her admiration for the fake Madonna (I have infinitely greater love and admiration for the real one), I bemusedly share her fascination with the total collapse of what the Sexual Revolution categorizes as "erotic". After years of being told that sexual freedom is...well... sexy, it is funny how plain, boring and plastic the resulting erotica is. There is only so much capital sex can put out, stored up in century upon century of mystique and mystery. Like with the financial system, the well of that capital is not inexhaustible. We've dried up in forty years what took millenia to build up.
We have learned, to our great detriment, that sex divorced from the transcendent which gave it power becomes just another routine animal activity. Dump after you pump.
At the end of this crap-colored rainbow stands Lady Gaga, possibly the ugliest, cheesiest, creepiest living thing to be ever named a sex symbol. She is the epitome of "poseur" - a rebel bankrolled by a marketing committee; a hack promoted as an artist. One thing that Ms. Paglia seems to overlook is that borrowing from fake Madonna is not like borrowing from Mozart. It is simply because fake Madonna's brilliance, borne at the vanguard of the Sexual Revolution, cannot be sustained for it contains nothing timeless. It is a thing of the moment; a stupid thing meant to die with its moment. Among Lady Gaga's litany of mediocrities is her inability to find a better source to borrow from.
Those couples with large numbers of children which horrify the champions of the Sexual Revolution likely have a greater store of the erotic than the sterile culture-makers for whom sex is but a hobby. After all, these large-brooded couples keep having sex. Those children have to come from somewhere.
I remember a scene from the first "Godfather" movie, where Al Pacino's Michael Corleone meets Simonetta Stefanelli's Apollonia Vitelli while walking in a wheat field in Sicily. Apollonia was wearing simple purple dress, long and chaste, nothing fancy. But she radiates such a glow that Michael Corleone is dumbstruck. Their courtship occurs under the watch of Apollonia's conservative relatives, but because of this, every gesture becomes loaded with sexual tension, from her hand on a necklace to the two of them walking together. The couple are wed in church, and the movie has their first kiss come before the priest and the village. The resulting "first night" scene, where Apollonia shyly takes off her simple white nightgown in front of her husband for the first time, has more eroticism packed into it than a three-hour porno.
Unfortunately for Generation Sex, all they've been served (and are serving) for the past forty-odd years are nothing more than three-hour pornos. Long, boring, and ultimately tiring. When sex becomes this rote and pointless, I wonder if Generation Sex will even manage to get off its ass long enough to beget another.
So, this is the party at the end of the Revolution: a bunch of asexual blow-up goth dolls gyrating listlessly to "Alejandro".
Gaga has borrowed so heavily from Madonna (as in her latest video-Alejandro) that it must be asked, at what point does homage become theft? However, the main point is that the young Madonna was on fire. She was indeed the imperious Marlene Dietrich’s true heir. For Gaga, sex is mainly decor and surface; she’s like a laminated piece of ersatz rococo furniture. Alarmingly, Generation Gaga can’t tell the difference. Is it the death of sex? Perhaps the symbolic status that sex had for a century has gone kaput; that blazing trajectory is over…
While I do not share her admiration for the fake Madonna (I have infinitely greater love and admiration for the real one), I bemusedly share her fascination with the total collapse of what the Sexual Revolution categorizes as "erotic". After years of being told that sexual freedom is...well... sexy, it is funny how plain, boring and plastic the resulting erotica is. There is only so much capital sex can put out, stored up in century upon century of mystique and mystery. Like with the financial system, the well of that capital is not inexhaustible. We've dried up in forty years what took millenia to build up.
We have learned, to our great detriment, that sex divorced from the transcendent which gave it power becomes just another routine animal activity. Dump after you pump.
At the end of this crap-colored rainbow stands Lady Gaga, possibly the ugliest, cheesiest, creepiest living thing to be ever named a sex symbol. She is the epitome of "poseur" - a rebel bankrolled by a marketing committee; a hack promoted as an artist. One thing that Ms. Paglia seems to overlook is that borrowing from fake Madonna is not like borrowing from Mozart. It is simply because fake Madonna's brilliance, borne at the vanguard of the Sexual Revolution, cannot be sustained for it contains nothing timeless. It is a thing of the moment; a stupid thing meant to die with its moment. Among Lady Gaga's litany of mediocrities is her inability to find a better source to borrow from.
Those couples with large numbers of children which horrify the champions of the Sexual Revolution likely have a greater store of the erotic than the sterile culture-makers for whom sex is but a hobby. After all, these large-brooded couples keep having sex. Those children have to come from somewhere.
I remember a scene from the first "Godfather" movie, where Al Pacino's Michael Corleone meets Simonetta Stefanelli's Apollonia Vitelli while walking in a wheat field in Sicily. Apollonia was wearing simple purple dress, long and chaste, nothing fancy. But she radiates such a glow that Michael Corleone is dumbstruck. Their courtship occurs under the watch of Apollonia's conservative relatives, but because of this, every gesture becomes loaded with sexual tension, from her hand on a necklace to the two of them walking together. The couple are wed in church, and the movie has their first kiss come before the priest and the village. The resulting "first night" scene, where Apollonia shyly takes off her simple white nightgown in front of her husband for the first time, has more eroticism packed into it than a three-hour porno.
Unfortunately for Generation Sex, all they've been served (and are serving) for the past forty-odd years are nothing more than three-hour pornos. Long, boring, and ultimately tiring. When sex becomes this rote and pointless, I wonder if Generation Sex will even manage to get off its ass long enough to beget another.
So, this is the party at the end of the Revolution: a bunch of asexual blow-up goth dolls gyrating listlessly to "Alejandro".
Sunday, August 29, 2010
What England Was...
Theodore Dalrymple writes in an article called "The End of Virtuous Albion":
The husband of another of my patients, a man in his late seventies, described how his wife's compulsions--constant checking that the gas was turned off, for example, and repeated scrubbing of surfaces that were obviously already spotlessly clean--had sometimes made his life very difficult. His wife's compulsions had lasted fifty years, and since she never completed her checking she was often unable to leave the house.
"Why did you stay with her?" I asked, my question demonstrating that I was myself a creature of the modern age.
"I made a promise in church fifty years ago," he said. "And I meant it."
There are more such examples as Dalrymple tried to put into words his feelings about the decline of the British character. These old Englishmen, polite, unflinching, stoic, and still possessed of a remarkable sense of honor, stands in stark contrast to all those morons who make up my "UK Run by the Stupids" files.
It was for men such as the above, who would not leave a most annoying woman due to a promise given in church, or the one who did not wish to disturb his doctor except for the now-unbearable pain, these guys were the stuff England was once made of. It was for this aged generation that "There Will Always Be an England" was sung, and you could believe it with the stern strength of character possessed by many common men of that time.
Today? The UK is just waiting to be euthanized into an Islamic fiefdom. Its current generation of arrogant, Pop-glugging hooligans are ultimately spineless in the most important things. And now, Albion's time is almost up. There won't always be an England.
The husband of another of my patients, a man in his late seventies, described how his wife's compulsions--constant checking that the gas was turned off, for example, and repeated scrubbing of surfaces that were obviously already spotlessly clean--had sometimes made his life very difficult. His wife's compulsions had lasted fifty years, and since she never completed her checking she was often unable to leave the house.
"Why did you stay with her?" I asked, my question demonstrating that I was myself a creature of the modern age.
"I made a promise in church fifty years ago," he said. "And I meant it."
There are more such examples as Dalrymple tried to put into words his feelings about the decline of the British character. These old Englishmen, polite, unflinching, stoic, and still possessed of a remarkable sense of honor, stands in stark contrast to all those morons who make up my "UK Run by the Stupids" files.
It was for men such as the above, who would not leave a most annoying woman due to a promise given in church, or the one who did not wish to disturb his doctor except for the now-unbearable pain, these guys were the stuff England was once made of. It was for this aged generation that "There Will Always Be an England" was sung, and you could believe it with the stern strength of character possessed by many common men of that time.
Today? The UK is just waiting to be euthanized into an Islamic fiefdom. Its current generation of arrogant, Pop-glugging hooligans are ultimately spineless in the most important things. And now, Albion's time is almost up. There won't always be an England.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Sports I Find Unwatchable
Sports are one of the greatest entertainment events in the world. They provide a lot of action, some built-in drama and conflict, as well as a feeling of gritty reality that so-called reality shows can only dream of. Plus, they make excellent analogues for a human past-time one can no longer indulge at will: war.
However, I find some of them a chore to watch, for several reasons. Sometimes it's the nature of the sport. Sometimes, its the participants. After all, not all sports are bone-crunchingly, high-flyingly equal.
(Note: These are just sports I've encountered personally, whether live or on TV, and are considered actual sports. Sorry, chess, poker, billiards and cheerleading.)
Men's Tennis
I used to love tennis, back before I discovered videogames and fun. I quickly realized that tennis, while fast-paced and occasionally frenetic, is essentially human Pong with a needlessly confusing scoring system. Of course, I should have said "Tennis" instead of "Men's Tennis", but I still find some juvenile delight in hearing girls in short skirts grunt loudly. That's the only reason I'd watch women's tennis. That and the prospect of seeing a future supermodel.
Oh, and to keep up with the latest in super soldier steroids....
Also applies to: Badminton, Table Tennis
Golf
I don't know why golf gets so much coverage. I can understand golf as a hobby for old men whose athleticism had deserted them around the same time their prostates did. But, as a spectator sport, I cannot imagine being excited by a bunch of middle-aged guys (or dykes) strolling around grassy knolls with their manservants carrying all the stuff. (This is, like, 85% of the sport.) Even when Tiger Woods, the most athletic, exciting golfer in the history of ever, played, I always believed that he should be playing basketball or football instead. It seemed like he got more of a workout with a stripper on his lap than with a club in his hands.
Pictured: Athlete?
Also applies to: Any sport where you spend more time cutting business deals than playing.
Women's Basketball
Basketball is a great game. People speak of soccer as "the beautiful game" when played a certain way (Brazil, Barcelona and 70's Holland), but basketball has its savage beauty already so inherent that it need not be described as "the beautiful game" simply because it already is. The muscling in the paint, bone-crunching picks, the rising form of the jumpshot, the elegant fastbreak and the swift, graceful savagery of the slam dunk all combine to make basketball one of the most amazing athletic endeavours to behold. But all that is in the men's game.
The women's game is slow, ponderous and played way, way below the rim. There is just a fraction of the athleticism and excitement. Slam dunks are so glaringly absent that the politically-correct media celebrates the prospect of a girl "dunking" like its the Second Coming of Christ, never mind the fact that the "girl dunk" is just a glorified lay up where your fingers graze the rim. Ostensibly, the excuse is that the women's game is about basketball "fundamentals", but the women's game even does "fundamentals" badly. Even Mr. Fundamentals (aka Tim Duncan) can make the game look coherent, intelligible and exciting. Sheryl Swoopes, the so-called "female Jordan" (if Jordan couldn't dunk, shoot the fade-away or play defense), looks that way because she's guarded by Susie, the "blonde who once took up Child Welfare studies in college before experimenting".
The only reason the WNBA exists is because the NBA needs a charitable cause to its politically-correct name. That, and the world needs a place to see lesbians making out in public. Unfortunately for the WNBA, most of its lesbians are the "grizzly bears with mullets" kind.
Girl-on-girl action...???
Also applies to: most women's versions of men's team sports, with notable exceptions being women's volleyball and women's soccer.
Equestrian Jumping
So your horse can jump. Yay. Sign my souvenir program, horse.
Now, if you give the rider a lance and some armor, then we're in business....
All sports should be like this....
Also applies to: All non-racing equestrian events...until they legitimize jousting.
Men's Figure Skating
Women's figure skating can be a joy to watch. A slender woman in some pretty tights twirls to classical Western music, and the world applauds this celebration of femininity. It's like the culmination of feminine grace on stage for everyone to admire.
Then some dude similarly dressed comes along and ruins it all.
Look, if I wanted to see some faggy drag queen gyrating to music, (and I never, ever want to see this) I'd be in a gay club, not watching TV.
Someone do the world a favor and kick all men's figure skaters in the nuts. Of course, that won't hurt much as they're probably already neutered.
Men, men, men, men, manly men....
Also applies to: the Gay Olympics
Women's Power-Lifting
Take everything that was sublime about women's figure skating and find the direct opposite. This is women's power-lifting.
The only time I'd be watching this sport is after I have pledged to never sleep with a woman, ever again.
Her milkshake caused the formation of a new fault line...
Also applies to: Women's body-building
However, I find some of them a chore to watch, for several reasons. Sometimes it's the nature of the sport. Sometimes, its the participants. After all, not all sports are bone-crunchingly, high-flyingly equal.
(Note: These are just sports I've encountered personally, whether live or on TV, and are considered actual sports. Sorry, chess, poker, billiards and cheerleading.)
Men's Tennis
I used to love tennis, back before I discovered videogames and fun. I quickly realized that tennis, while fast-paced and occasionally frenetic, is essentially human Pong with a needlessly confusing scoring system. Of course, I should have said "Tennis" instead of "Men's Tennis", but I still find some juvenile delight in hearing girls in short skirts grunt loudly. That's the only reason I'd watch women's tennis. That and the prospect of seeing a future supermodel.
Oh, and to keep up with the latest in super soldier steroids....Also applies to: Badminton, Table Tennis
Golf
I don't know why golf gets so much coverage. I can understand golf as a hobby for old men whose athleticism had deserted them around the same time their prostates did. But, as a spectator sport, I cannot imagine being excited by a bunch of middle-aged guys (or dykes) strolling around grassy knolls with their manservants carrying all the stuff. (This is, like, 85% of the sport.) Even when Tiger Woods, the most athletic, exciting golfer in the history of ever, played, I always believed that he should be playing basketball or football instead. It seemed like he got more of a workout with a stripper on his lap than with a club in his hands.
Pictured: Athlete?Also applies to: Any sport where you spend more time cutting business deals than playing.
Women's Basketball
Basketball is a great game. People speak of soccer as "the beautiful game" when played a certain way (Brazil, Barcelona and 70's Holland), but basketball has its savage beauty already so inherent that it need not be described as "the beautiful game" simply because it already is. The muscling in the paint, bone-crunching picks, the rising form of the jumpshot, the elegant fastbreak and the swift, graceful savagery of the slam dunk all combine to make basketball one of the most amazing athletic endeavours to behold. But all that is in the men's game.
The women's game is slow, ponderous and played way, way below the rim. There is just a fraction of the athleticism and excitement. Slam dunks are so glaringly absent that the politically-correct media celebrates the prospect of a girl "dunking" like its the Second Coming of Christ, never mind the fact that the "girl dunk" is just a glorified lay up where your fingers graze the rim. Ostensibly, the excuse is that the women's game is about basketball "fundamentals", but the women's game even does "fundamentals" badly. Even Mr. Fundamentals (aka Tim Duncan) can make the game look coherent, intelligible and exciting. Sheryl Swoopes, the so-called "female Jordan" (if Jordan couldn't dunk, shoot the fade-away or play defense), looks that way because she's guarded by Susie, the "blonde who once took up Child Welfare studies in college before experimenting".
The only reason the WNBA exists is because the NBA needs a charitable cause to its politically-correct name. That, and the world needs a place to see lesbians making out in public. Unfortunately for the WNBA, most of its lesbians are the "grizzly bears with mullets" kind.
Girl-on-girl action...???Also applies to: most women's versions of men's team sports, with notable exceptions being women's volleyball and women's soccer.
Equestrian Jumping
So your horse can jump. Yay. Sign my souvenir program, horse.
Now, if you give the rider a lance and some armor, then we're in business....
All sports should be like this....Also applies to: All non-racing equestrian events...until they legitimize jousting.
Men's Figure Skating
Women's figure skating can be a joy to watch. A slender woman in some pretty tights twirls to classical Western music, and the world applauds this celebration of femininity. It's like the culmination of feminine grace on stage for everyone to admire.
Then some dude similarly dressed comes along and ruins it all.
Look, if I wanted to see some faggy drag queen gyrating to music, (and I never, ever want to see this) I'd be in a gay club, not watching TV.
Someone do the world a favor and kick all men's figure skaters in the nuts. Of course, that won't hurt much as they're probably already neutered.
Men, men, men, men, manly men.... Also applies to: the Gay Olympics
Women's Power-Lifting
Take everything that was sublime about women's figure skating and find the direct opposite. This is women's power-lifting.
The only time I'd be watching this sport is after I have pledged to never sleep with a woman, ever again.
Her milkshake caused the formation of a new fault line...Also applies to: Women's body-building
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Flirting is Now a College Course
Potsdam University wants its IT geek swamp to reproduce, after all.
Of course, only grad students need apply.
I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
Of course, only grad students need apply.
I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Speaking of the Sons of the French Revolution
It looks like the country that no longer exists is having another one of those fits of multicultural love as expressed by its most multicultural activity: rioting.
You have the French Chinese rioting against the French Moslems.
And then you have the French Moslems rioting against...everybody else.
More fun in the land of Robbespierre.
Whereas France used to be this:
Bayard, one of France's greatest knightsIt is now this:
Some Moslems celebrating multiculturalismSunday, July 18, 2010
Last Week Was Bastille Day
And to give this wretched day and the rest of the French Revolution a big middle finger, here is a look at the last letter written by the person most caricatured and villified by the murderous French revolutionaries: Marie Antionette.
The letter was written to her sister, and the letter was held and never delivered by the monster Robbespierre. Some excerpts:
Let my daughter feel that at her age she ought always to aid her brother by the advice which her greater experience and her affection may inspire her to give him. And let my son in his turn render to his sister all the care and all the services which affection can inspire. Let them, in short, both feel that, in whatever positions they may be placed, they will never be truly happy but through their union. Let them follow our example. In our own misfortunes how much comfort has our affection for one another afforded us! And, in times of happiness, we have enjoyed that doubly from being able to share it with a friend; and where can one find friends more tender and more united than in one's own family? Let my son never forget the last words of his father, which I repeat emphatically; let him never seek to avenge our deaths.
...
I die in the Catholic Apostolic and Roman religion, that of my fathers, that in which I was brought up, and which I have always professed. Having no spiritual consolation to look for, not even knowing whether there are still in this place any priests of that religion (and indeed the place where I am would expose them to too much danger if they were to enter it but once), I sincerely implore pardon of God for all the faults which I may have committed during my life. I trust that, in His goodness, He will mercifully accept my last prayers, as well as those which I have for a long time addressed to Him, to receive my soul into His mercy. I beg pardon of all whom I know, and especially of you, my sister, for all the vexations which, without intending it, I may have caused you. I pardon all my enemies the evils that they have done me.
Far from being the cartoon villain of "let them eat cake" infamy (a quote falsely atrributed to her), she was an intelligent and spiritual woman whose strength and willfulness both made her an important partner for her kingly husband and an easy target for her husband's enemies. (Being Austrian, and therefore foreign, made things even easier.)
In the end, she conducted herself with such grace during her trial that her prosecutors came off looking like the vultures they were. Months after her own execution, the beasts started eating each other.
The letter was written to her sister, and the letter was held and never delivered by the monster Robbespierre. Some excerpts:
Let my daughter feel that at her age she ought always to aid her brother by the advice which her greater experience and her affection may inspire her to give him. And let my son in his turn render to his sister all the care and all the services which affection can inspire. Let them, in short, both feel that, in whatever positions they may be placed, they will never be truly happy but through their union. Let them follow our example. In our own misfortunes how much comfort has our affection for one another afforded us! And, in times of happiness, we have enjoyed that doubly from being able to share it with a friend; and where can one find friends more tender and more united than in one's own family? Let my son never forget the last words of his father, which I repeat emphatically; let him never seek to avenge our deaths.
...
I die in the Catholic Apostolic and Roman religion, that of my fathers, that in which I was brought up, and which I have always professed. Having no spiritual consolation to look for, not even knowing whether there are still in this place any priests of that religion (and indeed the place where I am would expose them to too much danger if they were to enter it but once), I sincerely implore pardon of God for all the faults which I may have committed during my life. I trust that, in His goodness, He will mercifully accept my last prayers, as well as those which I have for a long time addressed to Him, to receive my soul into His mercy. I beg pardon of all whom I know, and especially of you, my sister, for all the vexations which, without intending it, I may have caused you. I pardon all my enemies the evils that they have done me.
Far from being the cartoon villain of "let them eat cake" infamy (a quote falsely atrributed to her), she was an intelligent and spiritual woman whose strength and willfulness both made her an important partner for her kingly husband and an easy target for her husband's enemies. (Being Austrian, and therefore foreign, made things even easier.)
In the end, she conducted herself with such grace during her trial that her prosecutors came off looking like the vultures they were. Months after her own execution, the beasts started eating each other.
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