Why The Academy Awards Depress Me

Posted on by

It’s not like I had expectations of anything worthwhile, but I still was depressed at the pathetic nature of this year’s Academy Awards. Worst of all is the bald-faced lie of inclusion.

Sinners, a predominantly black production, was hailed for receiving the most nominations in Oscar history (16), winning four, including Michael B. Jordan for Best Actor. Great, right? Or as Jordan said, “God is good.” Uh, no. Sinners is not a very good film, meandering through vampires and gore to nowhere, paling in comparison to Fruitvale Station (2013), Ryan Coogler’s first film with Michael B Jordan which received zero nominations.

Autumn Durald Arkapaw, the cinematographer for Sinners, became the first woman to win in this category. Great, right? Uh, no. There have only been three previous female nominees ever in this category – Rachel Morrison, Ari Wegner & Many Walker – a profession known historically for being for men-only. Why? Yeah, good question.

Where’s Agnes Varda’s Oscar?

Paul Thomas Anderson’s One Battle After Another won six awards, including Best Picture and Director, and featuring a black female lead, Chase Infiniti. Great, right? Uh, no. Anderson’s previous films, including There Will Be Blood, Punch Drunk Love & Magnolia, were not acknowledged – despite being far superior in substance, style and meaning.

It was just the best film of the decade.

Worst of all this year was the exclusion of Jafar Panahi’s It Was Just An Accident, not only the best picture of the year but perhaps the decade. Also excluded, not even nominated (!), was Alex Babenko’s 2000 Meters to Andriivka, documenting the futility of war in Ukraine. Ukraine? Iran? Whatever. But…”God is good.” Okay.

Conan O’Brien, the host for the evening, spent much of the night performing gags related to the increasing irrelevance of the Academy Awards, due to the present generation’s inability to focus and empathize. Wow, okay. As my mother used to say, “Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”

Ticket Help Center

Posted on by

Help Center: Good morning.
McPhedran: We haven’t received the tickets for a game that starts in two hours.
Help Center: Oh no! I’m really sorry to hear that. Let me see what the delay is. 
McPhedran: Thanks.
Help Center: Quick question. Did you make the purchase with Stubhub.com?
McPhedran: Yes.
Help Center: You see, that seems to be a TicketBis order. 
McPhedran: We completed our purchase through your site.
Help Center: The last purchase you made with us was for an event yesterday.
McPhedran: Please give us the number we should call.
Help Center: They do not have a direct line 
McPhedran: We bought these tickets five hours ago on your site for $500. We need to leave for this game in 60 minutes.
Help Center: Within 24-48 hours, can I have the name of the event your name and best contact number 
McPhedran: Inter vs Milan, which starts at 1900.
Help Center: I will pass that information along.

McPhedran: Here is a screenshot of my order.
The file attachment upload was canceled or there was an error. 
Help Center: Seeing it has failed 
McPhedran: There are some issues with your attach file button.

The file Screenshot (37).png (115.83KB) was received.
Help Center: Thanks for that. But this is a TicketBis order 
McPhedran: We searched TicketBis on-line which states that this company is now StubHub.
Help Center: I can send an email to that team as I cannot see your order.
McPhedran: OK, refund now then. I will send you the PayPal confirmation.
Help Center: Even with the PayPal information, I cannot find the purchase.  McPhedran: Here is the PayPal receipt from StubHub. As confirmed by the previous screenshot, StubHub has confirmed receipt of the $500.
Help Center: Thank you so much for this information. I will not be able to help you out to get the tickets or provide a refund. Can I have your best contact number?

McPhedran: This is a help center, correct? Please help us with this problem.
Help Center: You purchased with TicketBis. 
McPhedran: Which is owned and operated by StubHub.
Help Center: Seeing that I have done all I can and there is not anything else I can help you with today, then have a great day. Thanks for using StubHub.
McPhedran: I assume that this last message is meant as a joke. “Thanks for using StubHub”? After not helping us?
Help Center: The thing is, McPhedran, I am not able to get the tickets from my end as I have no access to your order.
McPhedran: The thing is, we ordered and paid for tickets from StubHub and have not received them. And that event starts in one hour.
Help Center: I have to sign off now.

A Little More Epic Fury, Valued Customer?

Posted on by

‘Kind’ regards. ‘Best’ as well. But what are regards if not kind and best? Are vitriolic regards a thing? ‘Most’ is needed too, as sincerely isn’t enough, respectfully neither. This sycophant language – or is it language sycophancy? – spouts from all corners. We’re all ‘valued’ customers, appreciated too. Until the card is declined. Then we have a epic problem.

Which brings us to Trump’s need to work on his messaging for world domination. Here’s a draft for the next bombing: Most Valued Citizens, Our mission to make the world like I want it has a weensy bit to go. Stay safe and stay good. Your patience is kindly appreciated.

That Millenia-Old Myth

Posted on by

My girlfriend saw her ex across the room and was insistent about talking to him alone. I could hear everything they were saying, and then I couldn’t. She was gone when I looked over again.

“She had to sort something out with him.” That was the waitress, a once lovely woman with too much mascara. “I hope you have a healthy relationship.”

“The lies of love and how this millennia-old myth has kept civilization barely afloat.” I finished both drinks and ordered again.

There was a graffitied phone booth in between the bathrooms, and the phone actually worked. She didn’t answer. But my mother did. She was disappointed in me and wanted to know where I was. Things just got worse from there.

How Does Mike Czirfusz Handle This Rage?

Posted on by

Bullying is the avatar of these ill-tempered days. Whatever the argument – beliefs, politics or sport – the road to take is straight to hell. And while I know that this rage-baiting is all drivel, that people taunt because they’re scared and stupid, they remain an exhausting pain.

I was taunted throughout my high school days. Craig Nettie, Adam Moreland and Andrew McAlpine took turns mocking me for my bad skin, ill-fitting clothes and nerdy music, all of it just to make me feel bad. And it really pissed me off. Mike Czurfisz was a different sort, hair slanted perfectly over his forehead, laid back, incredibly so, posture so easy going, it didn’t seem practiced. He never got mad and got along with everyone.

Mike Czurfisz, St. Andrew’s College, 1977

Mike spoke to me a couple of times, once when there was an outbreak of swine flu at school – he taught us to press the thermometer against the radiator before giving it back to the nurse and get classes cancelled for a week – and then at the spring concert when I managed to dance with a girl until Stairway to Heaven got too fast. “You played that cool, man. She likes you.”

I’ve been thinking about what Mike Czirfusz is doing to handle this age of hate. Does he let it slide and wait for the next cool thing? Or does he bristle now because his daughters are out there and none of this is any good? Whatever it might be, it’s something better than I’m doing, because I’m ready to snap at the next yap. Come on, Mike, give me a hint. I need it.

My Bondi Brain

Posted on by

Things that appear important one moment mean nothing the next. I flit wherever, getting hit, somehow surviving, capitalism outraging and comforting me all at once, not To strive and not to yield but How is the Dow right now?

Pam Bondi asks, “Why are you laughing?”

Is it all doom scrolling or just more fallout from this administration from hell? Am I stupider than I already was? All I know is that I’ll keep on betting, whether I’m on a streak or just trying to get some of it back. I’ve got Ice Age at +4200, and I feel good about that.

Hoping There’s Nothing Behind the Curtain

Posted on by

How noble in reason, How infinite in faculty…In apprehension, how like a god, The paragon of animals. As much as Hamlet’s self reflection glows at the outset, it slumps in the end. What is this quintessence of dust? No, man delights me not; no, nor woman neither.

Everyone, each and every one of us, disappoints in the end, not just our government lying and hoarding, but our family and friends not there, our nearest and dearest terribly sorry that they forgot, or worst of all, me and you, looking back at each other cow-eyed.

This isn’t so much the big things – the state-sponsored murders and collapse of world order – but more the moments that we hold tight, that made us realize the essential sham, for me, the Mad Hatter themed birthday party I went to when I was ten, the promise of food-fighting madness turning out to be being yelled at as our Redi-Whip sodden plates flopped to the ground, or visiting the CHUM radio station for my contest prize and being directed to pick out an LP from a discard box in the corner. This was victory.

Disappointments continue unabated not because I am a failing writer nor my failures in relationships nor even my success at getting fired but because of what this is, a demanding vortex that surrenders nothing but more days to witness everything go to hell. The good news is that, like the song says, The first cut is the deepest. More of the same is on the way. I would only say that it’s best to keep the curtain closed; if there’s anything back there, it’s a pestilent old man, and he wants to rape you.

Top Ten Excellent and Angry Albums (Needed These Days)

Posted on by

10. The Times They Are A’Changing (Bob Dylan) He spoke through his cloak, most deep and distinguished/ And handed out strongly for penalty and repentance/ William Zanzinger with a six-month sentence

9. Animals (Pink Floyd) Have you heard the news?/ The dogs are dead/ You better stay home/ And do as you’re told/ Get out of the road if you want to grow old

8. Never Mind the Bollocks (Sex Pistols) Blind acceptance is a sign/ Of stupid fools who stand in line

7. Fear of a Black Planet (Public Enemy) Elvis was a hero to most/ But he never meant shit to me/ That sucker was/ Simple and plain/ Motherfuck him and John Wayne

6. Live Through This (Hole) Make me real, fuck you/ Make me sick, fuck you

5. Battle for Los Angeles (Rage Against the Machine) An army of pigs try to silence my style/ Off ’em all out that box/ It’s my radio dial

4. The Lonesome Crowded West (Modest Mouse) Drunk on the Amtrak/ Please shut up!/ Another rider/ He was a talker/ Talking about TV/ Please shut up!

3. The Fragile (NIN) Like you said, you and me make it through/ Didn’t quite, fell apart, where the fuck were you?

2. Let England Shake (PJ Harvey) I have seen and done things I want to forget/Soldiers fell like lumps of meat/ Blown and shot out beyond belief/ Arms and legs were in the trees

1. Rid of Me (PJ Harvey) I might as well be dead/ But I could kill you instead

The Bloated Orange Monster In All Of Us

Posted on by

Let’s be honest. The problem isn’t just in the bots making crazy posts, the tailgating Camaro, the halfwit half-brother or the dipshit daughter-in-law. It’s in all of us. As nice as it is to blame an unhinged president, or fentanyl and oil or lockdowns and raids, that’s missing the point. Why did we let it happen? What did we do? What about me and you?

I went to a Ratdog concert (with Bob Weir) at The Beacon Theater in 2006, introduced by none other than Donald Trump. It was a joke for most, many yelling out “You’re fired!” But how did he get there? Why did we let him on the stage? I mean, really, why did we do that?

Those bloody hats

That orange bloated monster is all of us, that fear and anger, that vainglorious stupidity that we’re better than we are, that we deserve more than we have. As much as we might hate to admit that we’re in a fat suit and our skin just isn’t right, we are that fucking guy.

The Tininess in My Head

Posted on by

The island where I was born has untold manifestations in my head. It is tiny and vast, empty and overbuilt, extensions from every building, every building gone, the path across hills and prairies, leading to a barren rocky point that never was.

I’ve circumnavigated the island many times, down from a steep ridge, the water choked with ice, a canoe at the ready. I need to go back for a paddle and watch everyone leave. There’s a menagerie of animals in the water, fish and seal, cats and birds, and a miniature sheep that fits in my pocket. Half asleep, I do the breast stroke to the bottom.

A message from my realtor comes through; someone wants to buy the island. I’ve already left. That’s what I text. I don’t intend to return. I get a question mark back and reply with a meme of the sheep in my pocket.