So...

What a rancid, runtish, queasy, gormless, stillborn hash of a year that was.

Time to do practically everything differently.

Top 5 reasons High Fidelity is the best. Ever.

John Cusack. Rob. Talks to the camera with the most candour and insight of any first person narrative comedy ever. Beating Woody Allen at his own game. I think its something to do with the dramatic irony of his voiceover self having so much more insight than his in-character self. Whatever. Rob is warm and funny and frustrating and stubborn and vulnerable and just plain brilliant.

Soundtrack and pop-culture references. The love of music oozes out of every frame.

Quotability. I have a theory – not fully formed – that the immediacy/success of comedies is directly proportional to the durability of its most salient quotes. “I’ve been thinking with my guts since I was fourteen years old, and I’ve come to the conclusion that my guts have shit for brains”, “Get your petioli stink outta my store”, “Kathleen Turner Overdrive” and “WHAT. FUCKING. IAN GUY?!?” are genius.

Jack Black as Barry. The man has always been parody of himself, but every performance for him since this once is a pale mimicry of the nerdy verve he brings to the store-clerk-come-crooner.
It is honest. Love is hard. It is shit. It is a grind. It sure as shit isn’t glamorous. We do dumb stuff in pursuit of it or flight from it all the time. But it is the thing that is at the end of what we strive for in every other way, every day. High Fidelity is a celebration of that whole maddening mess.

Finding Neverhappenedland

So I was working on a Saturday. Quiet day, no one much around. Two guys walk in - early thirties, weekend trainers, one guy thinning, the other all vanilla.

I could tell they were from Landmark. Their coming as a pair. Their uncertainty in the gallery. Their printed name tags where the first name is twenty points larger than the surname.

They order some coffees. What with it being a slow day and all, I had to set the grinder on. Between the crunch of the beans and the shrill of the video work in the foyer I coudn't hear the conversation the two guys resumed.

I poured out the coffees, unappreciated rosetta and all. Then remembered to click off the grinder. It just so happened to coincide with a break in the artwork noise. I caught the tail - or what would be the tail end when they clocked I could hear them. What I heard was this:

"And I had always thought I had a good relationship with my mum, but..."

But?

BUT?!!!

But because of the mental manipulation of an ostensibly empowering 'education' program you're now going to foist the blame for a catalogue of regrets and frustrations for decisions you've made as man of free will onto the woman who until now has overall seemed to do a fine turn of raising you?

Well how d' yeh like them apples?

Way to save the planet y'all

Someone I know drove the 3 km or so to go to the Walk Against Warming rally, before going boutique shopping and driving home. Seriously.

Searching for answers in the library of life...

Does anyone know where the demarcation of literature into 'Fiction' and 'Non-Fiction' came from? Why implicitly give 'Fiction' more legitimacy in that it's counterpoint is it's negation? Why not 'Fiction' and 'Factual', or 'Fiction' and 'Actual', or 'Fiction' and 'Assented Supposition'? It just seems odd, particularly since if any primacy would be implied - given the investment of our society in 'truth' - it would be to the fact-ish side of writing.

And don't come at me with the 'we can never really get a handle on the truth so it's best to leave it unspecific' argument. We peddle dubious facts routinely in everyday life, let alone academia. I don't buy it.

But damnnit if it ain't buggin' the goddamn shit outta me.

Anyone? Bueller? Bueller? Bue...

Monkeys with balls.

Basketball is not a non-contact sport. Putting it in anywhere near the same category as bowling or darts or even tennis given the volume of directly transferred sweat is laughable. Still, reclassifying it as a contact sport would lead to bedlam. There needs to be a middle ground - something like a pushy-shovey-but-no-grabby-hitty sport category.

Anyway, my point is there are always players on teams who will test the limits of the sweat-transference to see how much they can get away with. If they swing an elbow and don't get called, swing some more. Then try an out and out shove. Or a kidney tap. And so on. That team's general aim is to steamroll to victory putting brawn before finesse.

There are good ways and bad ways to play this game of limits. An oversize team can play to its strengths by being physical, but respect the limit the ref imposes, playing hard and tough but essentially fair and in good sportsmanship. If the other team can't take what is being dished out it isn't personal, it's just a tactic. I love a game like that. I revel in it. I'm competitive, I love playing physical and scrappy defense and fighting for position on offense. If the ball is on the floor, I'm diving on it. And in against these kind of teams, regardless of who wins, I'm proud that I played hard and will commend the opposition for doing the same. Nothing personal - just a healthy channeling of aggression.

Then there is the bad way to play tough. It involves a lot of scowling, even more complaining, and lashings of snide comments to the opposition and ref. This team wants to break you - to bully or intimidate the opposition to submission or distraction. Every non-call on their end is a national travesty and every call on your end is the grossest perversion of justice ever known. They drop the shoulder a few times to start, just to let you know they're the boss, pushing and shoving off the ball where it's less likely to get called. They try to dictate the tone, and the tone is U.G.L.Y.

After not too long - on my team at least - this shit just will not stand. It becomes not about just basketball, but about having a little pride in yourself to not get pushed around. So you sign their offer sheet of shoving and niggle, finding your own ways to grab and wrestle and push a bit back. The problem with these kind of jackass, self-inflated teams is that they can dish it, but they sure can't take it. Soon the whingeing and crying over calls turns into direct threats on you and your loved ones. The elbows are thrown with that much more intent to harm. They hate you, literally, not just for this game but for their girlfriend holding out on them, their car accident last week, the unfairness of the world on a guy trying to fight his way through.

It all seems ridiculous, but it is amazingly common. Sport as violent catharsis.

So, we played one of these teams in my bottom grade social league last night. They thought they should beat us. They weren't beating us. They tried to impose their physical dominance. We imposed right back. One guy - a good four inches and 20 kilograms bigger than I - decided to make an example of me. I kept shutting him down or pushing him out. He got shittier and shittier, no doubt compounded by my weapon of choice in these situations - being patronising. He tried to throw me to the ground for a rebound and ended up falling over himself. I patted him on the back and said "Don't worry mate, next time" with a cheap grin. That put him over the top. He ran at me full pelt, dropped his shoulder and caught me in the chest, sending me flying. I sank the free throws and he was shamed into uselessness for the rest of the game. We beat them 35-17.

It wasn't a satisfying game in the usual way, but I just get so furious when people start things they don't want to finish. I don't like hostility on the court. Hard play, but not hostility. And the idea of someone making me an arbitrary target for their aggression - makes me want to prove a point. Makes me not want to back down. Maybe I should, but damn, it just doesn't seem right.

Monkeys with basketballs, man. Monkeys with balls...

Yes We Can (muthafuckas)

Has anyone else noticed that the snappy kitch way to herald the coming of the 44th Prez of the US - "Obamarama" - fits semlessly into the tune of Shaggy's 1993 chartbuster Oh Carolina. Although it doesn't shed any light on any of the rest of the lyrics of this abysmal worm-ditty, it does nicely reference the way Barack has a knack for rhythmic lilt and finding the seam of popular culture.

Dear got I hope Obi Wan has more longevity than Shaggy.