I started watching “The Expanse” a few months ago because I’d enjoyed the book. Didn’t like the show as much and quit watching after 4 episodes. Gave it another go after many recommendations and binge watched the first 2 seasons. Guess it got better :).
While reading a book I have issues with, I try to think, “What can I learn from this?” rather than just looking for things to criticize.
I was wearing my Mystery Science Theater 3000 shirt when the carpet installers arrived. We spent the first 20 minutes talking about the new season.
But in listening to it front to back several times, and not giving myself the option to skip whenever I got a little bored, I discovered depth and meaning in the songs I didn’t feel when I first listened to it. You see, songs take time. They take time to write, they take time to arrange, they take time to produce and record and mix and master. And when we treat those songs with the respect they deserve, something weird happens. We start to understand them. And like them. And make them part of us.
Easy, immediate access to any song ever recorded using just a tap or a voice command is pretty great, but I’m with Rian in that we’ve lost something because of it. One of the reasons I like vinyl is that I’m forced to live with new music for a while. I’m usually too lazy to put a different record on so I just listen to the same one over and over. I spend more time with a record, and thus feel like I become more connected with the music somehow.
I watched 2 “heist” films yesterday: “Ocean’s Eight” and “American Animals”. The first was fine but I enjoyed the second much more.
The first real book I ever read was “Trixie Belden and the Red Trailer Mystery”. I read it, I think in one sitting, while camped out under my grandmother’s kitchen table. My original copy is, sadly, long gone. I’m feeling nostalgic this week, so I picked up a replacement copy of the book from eBay. I can’t wait to read it again.
I have a box of Saturday Evening Post magazines from the late 1950s and I just can’t bring myself to throw them away.
I probably shouldn’t read Jaron Lanier’s “Ten Arguments for Deleting Your Social Media Accounts Right Now” but I’m about to. Who knows, you may never hear from me again.
Today I bought my first digital album from Bandcamp. Buying and downloading lossless (FLAC) music may not be fashionable these days, but I’m old and I still prefer owning music.
The album is “High Visceral (Part 1) and (Part 2)” by the unfortunately-named “Psychedelic Porn Crumpets”
I love finding new music that I enjoy. “High Visceral” is sort of a combination of psychedelic and hard rock. Right up my alley.
I’ve given it a few days but I’ve decided that
I hated I’m angry with Westworld Season 2.
Bernard’s constant bewilderment aligned nicely with mine. I should have known better, given its dumb-ass messed up timeline and “Lost”-like “Rules, what rules?” behavior.
“You just don’t ‘get’ it!” you say. You’re right, and that’s another reason I hated it. It’s not a mystery, it’s sprawling nonsense. Go ahead, pretend it means something if you want. Pretend the “What does it really mean to be human?” question is deep. I’m past that.
This is what I got out of it:
- Bernard is confused
- Dolores is mean to everyone
- The Man in Black falls for the too-quiet-empty town like 12 times and somehow survives
- No one can die. Or can they?
- Ford has a plan, but no one knows what it is and they wouldn’t tell us if they did.
Anyway, can’t wait for Season 3.
That was wonderfully uncomfortable.
Christopher Nolan is an exquisite craftsman. Dunkirk had moments of tension, grief, and glory. As visually terrific as it was, I never connected with any of the people in the film, so although expertly made, it felt empty somehow.
A frenetic, lurid, feverish joy ride and I’m exhausted.
Star Wars movies have almost always made me happy. This one sure did.
I thought it was really going to suck but I laughed so I didn’t mind.
Missing from a larger discussion is the radical idea that maybe it is the consumers who are being done the greatest disservice, and that this access-bonanza may be cheapening the listening experience by transforming fans into file clerks and experts into dilettantes. I don’t want my musical discoveries dictated by a series of intuitive algorithms any more than I want to experience Jamaica via an all-inclusive trip to Sandals.
Fine, call it nostalgia but I am firmly in the access-to-music-is-too-easy-to-appriciate-properly camp, even though Toth discovers something a bit different here. I suspect his experiment was flawed.
Absolutely wonderful. When Stanton started to sing at the fiesta I almost cried. Hell, I did cry.
This was probably really good but I was too busy cringing to death.
Safety Not Guaranteed is my kind of movie. Quirky people talking and underdogs winning. And I’ve still not had enough Aubrey Plaza.