Off Message

'Off Message' has had a ton of views today, significantly more than it used to get when it was 'Existential Ennui'. Have I got new readers? If so, who the bloody hell are they? And what are they doing wasting their time reading this load of old tripe? It's quite a nice day outside (for the moment anyway). Maybe they should consider going outside and enjoying the (momentarily) decent weather instead of sitting indoors reading this crap.

Or maybe they don't have a choice. Are they stuck in an office, like me? Is 'Off Message' their one ray of light in an otherwise stressed and gloomy day? If so, rest assured: I feel your pain. Writing this particular screed has probably been the most enjoyable thing I've done all day.

Jesus that's sad. 

Hnrgh. Mmffurgh, blurrrgh pnfft.

Hrrurgh.

Seems people are still reading this blog. It's a fuckin' miracle.

...wait for it... a novel! Can't remember the last time I read one of those. Aside from comics (which obviously don't count), pretty much every book I've read over the past five or so years has been about politics. I've practically exhausted the available works on New Labour (biographies of Blair, Mandelson, Campbell, plus assorted accounts of the Blair/Brown partnership and the party in general). And now I'm reading a novel. Fatherland, by Robert Harris. The fact that Harris is a Blair confidant and New Labour donor is neither here nor there. It's a novel, damnit. And thus far it's rather good. Maybe I'll read more of these... novels.

...when Justin Timberlake is the best thing about a film. Alpha Dog is the film in question, and it is rubbish. Pointless and annoying use of split screen, a story 'based on true events' that leaves you scratching your head why anybody would think it worthwhile committing it to celluloid, and uniformly terrible performances, including an hilariously hammy turn from Sharon Stone, padded out with 'fat fuck' make-up. The great Harry Dean Stanton wanders into view occasionally, clearly befuddled about what he's supposed to be doing, and Bruce Willis sports a distracting hairpiece.

Nick Cassavetes, the director, is the son of John Cassavetes, the '60s/'70s improv-heavy indie director/actor. Clearly he's inherited none of his dad's talents.

And yet, and yet... I was talking with Rachel after we'd watched it, and mentioned that, unlike many other pursuits, I don't begrudge the loss of an hour or two when I've seen a crap film. It's still a film, and even a shit film is better than no film.

Seem to have a mental block on this blog at the moment. Whenever the thought crosses my mind to maybe post something, I go completely blank. Maybe it's time to just junk the thing.

Coffee, papers, politics, art, food, reading, telly.

Ah, The Thick of It, how I love you so. Shame no one I know watches it or has even heard of it in most cases.

So I just bought the new New Statesman, which is a Blair special. Doubtless they'll spend the 24 pages they've alloted giving him a good kicking. Still, one of the kickees is John Gray, so at least it'll be readable.