There's little to report at the moment, not that I have any readership that actually cares. For some odd reason I got the notion of completing an MBA stuck into my head. Of course getting accepted into a program requires sitting the GMAT, a test that I can only recommend if you're really hell-bent on this whole "business" thing.
The GMAT—and getting into business school—has become all consuming of late, and that's probably not a healthy frame of mind in which to exist. Having tried a practice test on the weekend I realized that when it comes to the maths component I'm kind of underdone right now, despite what I might have thought a week ago. I lack sufficient familiarity with the problems which in turn gets me bogged down. In short I'm slow when it comes to the number crunching, although with a lot more practice I ought to be able to turn that around. Just like any sport or skill, it all comes down to practice in the end.
Beyond that just how much time should I really be dedicating to this pursuit? To what extent is it really worth the bother? My career is doing well—so long as you discount the fact that I haven't worked professionally for more than one company—and in most respects my life is chugging along just fine. At the end of the day what's it really going to accomplish? Will I suddenly attain a heretofore out-of-reach degree of career mobility? Will I be catapulted into the upper echelons of high-tech corporate structures? Nah, I seriously doubt it. Perhaps I'm better off not worrying about it—pull back, chill out, take a break.
Whatever the case I've hit the point where some perspective is needed. Tonight I'm home early with the books and study materials stashed safely at my desk at work. Tonight it's all about skipping the gym, sliding off the shoes and relaxing for a while. It feels good, doesn't it?
Monday, April 30, 2007
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Grindhouse: Thoughts
Julia and I caught Grindhouse last night and I feel compelled to offer a few comments. Firstly, Robert Rodriguez turned out a great effort with his guns-and-gore fest, Planet Terror. Robert's got a sound understanding of what makes trash cinema so enjoyable. Planet Terror dishes up the perfect measure of violence so over the top you have to laugh, comical, pustule-squirting gore and troubled, buxom women. I'd swear the cinema management was pumping the scent of tasty barbecue ribs into the theater in order to heighten the experience. I'm serious, the smell of barbecue. See the movie and you'll understand why it makes sense.
Then there's Tarantino's entrant, Death Proof. There's no question that Tarantino can make good films—Pulp Fiction; Reservoir Dogs; even Kill Bill; they're classics—but this time Quentin has let himself go to seed. The output of toils in this instance reflects the character he self-consciously plays in the film: sleazy, lecherous and altogether too self-impressed. Death Proof runs about 45 minutes too long—it's a 90 minute movie—due to forced attempts on Tarantino's behalf to jam in protracted scenes of his now-famous dialog and a general incoherence of the plot—what are the drivers motivations? Why should we care about Jungle Julia and her slutty cohorts? Ultimately Death Proof plays like a mildly amusing, and admittedly viscerally enjoyable, female revenge masturbation fantasy of a tired, old man. I expected more.
Then there's Tarantino's entrant, Death Proof. There's no question that Tarantino can make good films—Pulp Fiction; Reservoir Dogs; even Kill Bill; they're classics—but this time Quentin has let himself go to seed. The output of toils in this instance reflects the character he self-consciously plays in the film: sleazy, lecherous and altogether too self-impressed. Death Proof runs about 45 minutes too long—it's a 90 minute movie—due to forced attempts on Tarantino's behalf to jam in protracted scenes of his now-famous dialog and a general incoherence of the plot—what are the drivers motivations? Why should we care about Jungle Julia and her slutty cohorts? Ultimately Death Proof plays like a mildly amusing, and admittedly viscerally enjoyable, female revenge masturbation fantasy of a tired, old man. I expected more.
Friday, April 20, 2007
New Tunes
Add the following new tunes to the collection...
Guns & Drums — Low
Noumena — The Drift
Loney, Noir — Loney, Dear
Mosaic — Love of Diagrams
Here are the early impressions.
Guns & Drums - Low
Everyone's favourite Mormon snorecore band step away from their The Great Destroyer signature-sound departure and return—sorta—to whence they came: expansive, wankst-ridden, introspective songs peppered with Alan and Mimi's distinctive harmonizing croon. But this time it comes with bleep. I guess Low got the indietronic memo and have now added a layer of circa-1994 ambient synth sound to their product. This one's going to take some listening, as Low usually does.
Noumena - The Drift
They're a local act who were brought to my attention by one of Julia's colleagues at the LAB gallery. Their brand of post-rock/freeform-jazz crossover is wafting out of the speakers as I type. Unlike most of the post-rock ilk—throw the likes of Mogwai and their stable-mates, Explosions in the Sky, into this category—they're given over to heavy use of brass, especially trumpet, which has the effect of distinguishing them from the rest of the pack. Still, they've evidently spent long enough swapping song writing tips with their more guitar-crazed peers; tracks clocking in over a healthy ten minutes are more the norm than the exception. That's fine with me, there's a lot of layered complexity in their music—more than enough to keep me engaged for the next week.
Loney, Noir - Loney, Dear
This one's the crowd-pleaser. The first few bars of the disc reveal Loney, Dear to be ear-candy: a kind of aural confection that is so easy to enjoy so quickly that you're left feeling slightly cheap for being persuaded by its charms without so much as a fight. I'm waiting for an internal backlash to start but so far there's no sign. Despite near-constant rotation in the car CD player, the shelf life of Loney, Noir seems to be getting extended with each listen. That's what I suppose anyone should expect from an act that sounds like a helium-huffing Simon & Garfunkel.
Mosaic - Love of Diagrams
I caught them the other night at Slim's and they put on a good show. Perfect it wasn't, but in the context of the environment and where they were listed on the bill I thought they performed more than admirably. Mosaic picks up where their debut Matador EP left off, even promoting two of the EP's tracks to fully-fledged album status. Love of Diagrams wear their influences on their sleeves and I'm cautiously waiting for it to become a tiresome shtick; so far they're holding on. Early listens of the album haven't hit me square in the face with raw energy the way the EP did. For whatever reason the album seems more restrained, and that acts as a detriment. A few more spins are required here before final judgment falls, but at this stage my position remains neutral.
Guns & Drums — Low
Noumena — The Drift
Loney, Noir — Loney, Dear
Mosaic — Love of Diagrams
Here are the early impressions.
Guns & Drums - Low
Everyone's favourite Mormon snorecore band step away from their The Great Destroyer signature-sound departure and return—sorta—to whence they came: expansive, wankst-ridden, introspective songs peppered with Alan and Mimi's distinctive harmonizing croon. But this time it comes with bleep. I guess Low got the indietronic memo and have now added a layer of circa-1994 ambient synth sound to their product. This one's going to take some listening, as Low usually does.
Noumena - The Drift
They're a local act who were brought to my attention by one of Julia's colleagues at the LAB gallery. Their brand of post-rock/freeform-jazz crossover is wafting out of the speakers as I type. Unlike most of the post-rock ilk—throw the likes of Mogwai and their stable-mates, Explosions in the Sky, into this category—they're given over to heavy use of brass, especially trumpet, which has the effect of distinguishing them from the rest of the pack. Still, they've evidently spent long enough swapping song writing tips with their more guitar-crazed peers; tracks clocking in over a healthy ten minutes are more the norm than the exception. That's fine with me, there's a lot of layered complexity in their music—more than enough to keep me engaged for the next week.
Loney, Noir - Loney, Dear
This one's the crowd-pleaser. The first few bars of the disc reveal Loney, Dear to be ear-candy: a kind of aural confection that is so easy to enjoy so quickly that you're left feeling slightly cheap for being persuaded by its charms without so much as a fight. I'm waiting for an internal backlash to start but so far there's no sign. Despite near-constant rotation in the car CD player, the shelf life of Loney, Noir seems to be getting extended with each listen. That's what I suppose anyone should expect from an act that sounds like a helium-huffing Simon & Garfunkel.
Mosaic - Love of Diagrams
I caught them the other night at Slim's and they put on a good show. Perfect it wasn't, but in the context of the environment and where they were listed on the bill I thought they performed more than admirably. Mosaic picks up where their debut Matador EP left off, even promoting two of the EP's tracks to fully-fledged album status. Love of Diagrams wear their influences on their sleeves and I'm cautiously waiting for it to become a tiresome shtick; so far they're holding on. Early listens of the album haven't hit me square in the face with raw energy the way the EP did. For whatever reason the album seems more restrained, and that acts as a detriment. A few more spins are required here before final judgment falls, but at this stage my position remains neutral.
Monday, April 16, 2007
The Sleep Debt Payoff Cycle
There's a thing in my life known as the sleep debt payoff cycle. The way it works is during the week I run myself into a sleep-deprived state courtesy of a schedule that has me arising at 6am to leave for work. If we lived in an ideal world I'd get to bet at no later than 10pm each night, affording myself a comfortable and doctor-prescribed eight hours of rest. In reality that never happens. Invariably there's something else I find myself doing that keeps the clock ticking way past the witching hour, whether it be updating my iPod or ensuring Julia gets a bit of my attention (she deserves it). So come the weekend I want my rest and a I want a lot of it. Sunday morning swings around and bed seems like the best place in the world. I'll let myself drift in and out of sleep for hours on end, allowing myself to be just plain lazy. It's great and I know it's going to come back and bite me the arse eventually. That "eventually" is Sunday night. I couldn't get to sleep—not for hours. I spent most of the night barely dipping deeper than a light slumber, awakened by any slight movement of the cats who routinely park themselves at the end of the bed. The alarm goes off at 6 but I'm already awake. The new week has begun and the cycle starts anew. It's a cruel joke.
The hours I keep are largely a function of my job and for that I can really only blame myself. Nobody forces me to get up at 6am and nobody forces me to drive 50+ miles to work each day. There's a huge element of personal responsibility immersed in this problem and it's incumbent upon me to fix it. I'll just stop going to work.
The hours I keep are largely a function of my job and for that I can really only blame myself. Nobody forces me to get up at 6am and nobody forces me to drive 50+ miles to work each day. There's a huge element of personal responsibility immersed in this problem and it's incumbent upon me to fix it. I'll just stop going to work.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Love of Diagrams at Slim's
Smile a smug grin of self-satisfaction if you're hip enough to be at the venue for the warm-up band. Last night Ted Leo and the Pharmacists played at Slim's, but I was there for the backup act, Love of Diagrams. Any of my cooler-than-thou hipster credentials weren't really all that well earned since I've never heard any song by Ted Leo and Pharmacists in my life; I wasn't snubbing them; I just don't know about them.
Our arrival was timed perfectly. Not more than twenty minutes after we had our tickets checked and hands stamped in verification of our age did Love of Diagrams take the stage. "We're from Melbourne," the lone male member of the group, Luke, called to the crowd eliciting a small chorus of acknowledging cheers. Those were probably the other Aussies.
Scruffy hipsters, scruffy hipsters—the group looked typically ramshackle, sporting the kind of urban-trendy look you'd find anywhere on Brunswick Street: unkempt, greasy hair and recycled boutique clothes. They fit the mold. But when they opened with the first few bars things fell into place. You could accuse them of being too aware of their image and you'd probably be right, but they've even got a woman beating the skins and that wins big extra points. Rarely do you see a woman behind the kit belting out the rhythm. There are too many male drummers in this world and it's time that changed.
So what about the music? Love of Diagrams do a great knockoff of early eighties post-punk—all heavy bass riffs, discordant guitars and half-screeched vocals. It's clearly a conscious effort on their behalf to resurrect one the superior musical eras of the past and for the better part it works. On stage the approximation to their recorded material more or less hits the mark, they're more raw and more energetic. Notes get missed, the balance on the vocals is off kilter—probably more a function of the cruddy acoustics at Slim's than anything else—and they fumble a couple of songs. None of it really mattered all that much and the now-full venue seemed to side more with acceptance rather than rejection. The set was short at around forty minutes, leaving barely enough time to rip through a catalog that really could use a longer airing on stage. Perhaps their best song, No Way Out, remained inexplicably absent from the playlist and that's a loss. It would have made the perfect closer.
There was no point sticking around for the headlining act; I'd got what I came for and besides, the Great Organiser was about to fall over from tiredness. Getting older will make you do things that your twenty year old self would hate you for: stand at the back of the venue and admire the band from afar; have only one beer; leave early. If that's what being a 30+ attendee at a rock gig is all about then I can live with myself.
Our arrival was timed perfectly. Not more than twenty minutes after we had our tickets checked and hands stamped in verification of our age did Love of Diagrams take the stage. "We're from Melbourne," the lone male member of the group, Luke, called to the crowd eliciting a small chorus of acknowledging cheers. Those were probably the other Aussies.
Scruffy hipsters, scruffy hipsters—the group looked typically ramshackle, sporting the kind of urban-trendy look you'd find anywhere on Brunswick Street: unkempt, greasy hair and recycled boutique clothes. They fit the mold. But when they opened with the first few bars things fell into place. You could accuse them of being too aware of their image and you'd probably be right, but they've even got a woman beating the skins and that wins big extra points. Rarely do you see a woman behind the kit belting out the rhythm. There are too many male drummers in this world and it's time that changed.
So what about the music? Love of Diagrams do a great knockoff of early eighties post-punk—all heavy bass riffs, discordant guitars and half-screeched vocals. It's clearly a conscious effort on their behalf to resurrect one the superior musical eras of the past and for the better part it works. On stage the approximation to their recorded material more or less hits the mark, they're more raw and more energetic. Notes get missed, the balance on the vocals is off kilter—probably more a function of the cruddy acoustics at Slim's than anything else—and they fumble a couple of songs. None of it really mattered all that much and the now-full venue seemed to side more with acceptance rather than rejection. The set was short at around forty minutes, leaving barely enough time to rip through a catalog that really could use a longer airing on stage. Perhaps their best song, No Way Out, remained inexplicably absent from the playlist and that's a loss. It would have made the perfect closer.
There was no point sticking around for the headlining act; I'd got what I came for and besides, the Great Organiser was about to fall over from tiredness. Getting older will make you do things that your twenty year old self would hate you for: stand at the back of the venue and admire the band from afar; have only one beer; leave early. If that's what being a 30+ attendee at a rock gig is all about then I can live with myself.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
SF - Highway 101 - Southbound - 2am
The Great Organiser's got a position on whether or not you should take any of the freeways feeding into or out of San Francisco after midnight: don't do it.
We were both about ready to fall asleep. I'd had almost no rest the night before and the plane flight from New York was delayed, causing the Great Organiser to drive laps around Oakland airport for 45 minutes before I eventually emerged from the terminal. All we wanted was to get home and get to bed.
Being able to drive up to the toll booth on the east side of the Bay Bridge is a rare treat, so we thought we'd dart over both spans in record time. And we did. But approaching the Potrero Hill crest of southbound 101 our decent clip was arrested by a swerving cop car acting to bring us all to a near-halt. The Great Organiser immediately began remonstrating about the drunks that tend to take to the road around this time of night, and how had she had her wits about her she'd have exited the freeway at the first opportunity. She was right. We should have ditched the 101 as soon as the chance presented itself.
We slogged our way through the congestion until the Cesar Chavez exit came around. Not far before it lay the scattered bodies of two cars: one a large white SUV and the other a silver Camry, their front ends nicely mangled. The cops had cordoned off the area with their usual pink flares and every passing motorist gave it all a good stare, us included. The scene smacked of a DUI.
When we finally made it home I poured myself a glass of wine and went to sleep.
We were both about ready to fall asleep. I'd had almost no rest the night before and the plane flight from New York was delayed, causing the Great Organiser to drive laps around Oakland airport for 45 minutes before I eventually emerged from the terminal. All we wanted was to get home and get to bed.
Being able to drive up to the toll booth on the east side of the Bay Bridge is a rare treat, so we thought we'd dart over both spans in record time. And we did. But approaching the Potrero Hill crest of southbound 101 our decent clip was arrested by a swerving cop car acting to bring us all to a near-halt. The Great Organiser immediately began remonstrating about the drunks that tend to take to the road around this time of night, and how had she had her wits about her she'd have exited the freeway at the first opportunity. She was right. We should have ditched the 101 as soon as the chance presented itself.
We slogged our way through the congestion until the Cesar Chavez exit came around. Not far before it lay the scattered bodies of two cars: one a large white SUV and the other a silver Camry, their front ends nicely mangled. The cops had cordoned off the area with their usual pink flares and every passing motorist gave it all a good stare, us included. The scene smacked of a DUI.
When we finally made it home I poured myself a glass of wine and went to sleep.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Airport = teh sux0rz Part 3
At least on JetBlue they give you actual snacks. Weird, isn't it, how the so-called "full service" airlines now offer a lower grade of service than the budget airlines? Riddle me that one, Batman.
Airport = teh sux0rz Part 2
So now I'm back in the departure lounge, this time I'm parked along a worn-carpet pathway, heavily trafficked by the kind of floe of humanity that makes up most of the people you find in any given airport. Well, this is JFK so you're likely to get just about the broadest cross-section going. And it's ugly. JetBlue purports to offer free WiFi, but it's free only for a certain period and the download speeds are glacial; a harsh-voiced service representative is barking orders to the oblivious to make their way to Gate 10 lest they miss their flight to Ontario. That's Ontario, California. Yep, there exists such a place. Screaming children are pestering their tense parents for more of the high calorie, low nutrition "food" that is supposed to constitute a meal here in the departure lounge. The kids are pacified with an offering instead of snacks, and the mother and father wonder aloud whether or not they should use an offering of juice to coerce the kids to use the toilet. The child offers a response in the form an open-mouthed cough, ejecting a spray of god-knows-what into the air. Lovely, huh? And I haven't even tried to board the plane yet.
Label Me Weaksauce
Label me weaksauce if you must, but I'm not sure I could handle living in New York City. Perhaps it's too many years living in San Francisco, enjoying something that approximates a dense, urban lifestyle without the oh-so-New York need to hip-and-shoulder everyone in the path in order to make passage across a busy street. Perhaps it's because I was stuck in the tourist-infested hotel district of Midtown, swarming with overpriced delis and enough gullible tourists ready to fork over the exorbitant prices. Either way I'm not sure I'm cut out for it—at least not at this stage of my life. Being squarely on the wrong side of thirty has shoved me into a social set a few degrees removed from the ambitious twenty-somethings, scrambling desperately to leave their mark on the most important city in the world. With the burning desire to remodel the shape of the planet fast seeping out of me, I think I'll take the lazy facsimile of the urban jungle and cool my jets in San Francisco. I'm not strong. Give me a greasy burrito from the local taqueria, a couple of alcoholic transsexual bums sprawled on the sidewalk and a stiff bank of fog rolling in off the Pacific.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Airport = teh sux0rz
Why do airports have to suck so much? Right now my arse is parked in the waiting lounge at Oakland Airport, forced to share personal space with a couple of sullen looking teenage latinas and an elderly gentleman who seems to feel the need to have the speaker on his mobile phone turned up loud enough to share his cute-talk conversation with his granddaughter with everyone within a 20 yard radius.
It never used to be like this, did it? There must have been a period somewhere in the past when travelling on a plane didn't involve being herded like cattle into holding pens, undergoing borderline rape by the security staff, being stuck in a cramped and overstuffed tube in the air for hours on end while the surly flight attendants "treat" you to a half-filled cup of water and a shitty bag of peanuts. They'll tell you it's service. There's huge opportunity for the rail industry here—huge.
They're calling us to board now. I can hardly contain my excitement. The carrier is JetBlue, and whilst I'm sure they're going to offer me 36 glorious channels of DirecTV, I might also be lucky enough to get stranded on the tarmac or upwards of 10 hours with now way to get off.
All hail the airline industry.
It never used to be like this, did it? There must have been a period somewhere in the past when travelling on a plane didn't involve being herded like cattle into holding pens, undergoing borderline rape by the security staff, being stuck in a cramped and overstuffed tube in the air for hours on end while the surly flight attendants "treat" you to a half-filled cup of water and a shitty bag of peanuts. They'll tell you it's service. There's huge opportunity for the rail industry here—huge.
They're calling us to board now. I can hardly contain my excitement. The carrier is JetBlue, and whilst I'm sure they're going to offer me 36 glorious channels of DirecTV, I might also be lucky enough to get stranded on the tarmac or upwards of 10 hours with now way to get off.
All hail the airline industry.
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