New Year's resolutions

I usually keep these to myself because at least half of them are tossed out mid February. However, since most of my resolutions for next year have nothing to do with L.A. Fitness there's a big chance I might see them through. Let's see...

• Yesterday I had the most inspiring dream. I was successfully completing an oil painting. My subconscious was kind enough to allow me to be am abstract artist, so I will stay a little longer, swayed by my imaginary world into all kinds of places before realizing I must be dreaming. And though I know that in the waking world my lines, colors and shapes will never reach the mysterious symmetry of the least understood of visual media, I guess I will give the brush a try. What is the worse that could happen? I'm old enough not to be disheartened if I don't see my work in a gallery... oh well, I am young enough to start a lifetime of addiction to turpentine,-ehhh- I'll just try to avoid that. Basically, I'll go to create something in the one medium I've never tried before.

• I intend, by all means to start a journey. For a person whose favorite saying is "Places to go, people to annoy..." that might sound like a given. I basically have a yearly trip, be it in small or grand scale. Journeys though, are those instances in which travel becomes a revelation, when I come back older and wiser or rejuvenated and wilder. I need to learn something about myself I cannot learn at home. I need to find a place where I've never been and yet I believe, with all my heart a part of me is hidden there, on a stretch of road, in a painting, on a piece of overheard conversation between strangers that turned out to be a life lesson, at the shadow of a monument that will make me cry or laugh out of sheer amazement. I need a new lease on life.

• I will keep delving in  Judeo-Christian Theology, just because it fascinates me how people have dedicated years of effort to try and figure out Someone who, among His natural attributes, reside the word Unknowable. One of these days, I'll present may thesis: The Platypus and many other Inside Jokes: Humor in the Deity.

• Just to complete the above and because I honestly believe His plans are well constructed and His ways are as awesome as they are mysterious, I'll keep on giving a shout out and showing His Love in a practical way because that beats thumping the Bible anytime, anywhere.

• I will write. And once again, It sounds like I'm playing a broken record, because I write on a daily basis. This time though, I have a wonderful writing partner whose level of mischief and wonder are way out there... enough to make me want to acquire a Spanish keyboard. Yes, you heard it well. Voy a escribir en español. Eriiicccc, a donde vamos a llegar?

• In general, I'll keep cooking with Angie, tasting with Izzy, doing the fine art critic thing with Michelle, having extravagant cups of coffee with my sisters, and finding creative ways to annoy my brothers in law. I'll celebrate Kendra's uniqueness, Lysanel's love of all things pink, Millie's outrageous take on life and Katya's adventures in all things college. I will find a way to spend more time with the elder peeps (because 24 hours is not enough time for mom and dad, gramps and titi).

• I will cheer and jeer movie trailers with Robin, scream Viva la Deeva as often as I can while sharing cyber victories with Viv, Mark and the girls. I will dedicate time to discover the mysteries of something called "Tumblr" so I can finally reciprocate half of the jokes Mariah sends my way. I'll keep on discussing every twist and turn on our favorite fantasy series with Mayra until Snow White finds her ever after and will write mini sagas for Ismael's awesome fantasy pics on the side.

More than anything, I'll leave a blank slate for the unexpected and make sure to do something,  at least one thing that scares me, and of course as I always do, I'll set some time aside to make friends out of wonderful strangers
LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE, take it seriously and life will be a lot easier.


The quote. as always, it is kick ass, deep and courtesy of the wonderful Mr. Gaiman. So here it is, a positive spin on one of those annoying things that make us all too human:

"I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes.

Because if you are making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You're doing things you've never done before, and more importantly, you're Doing Something."

A passport to Weirdland... my adventures with Team 126

Disclosure: One third of this is completely true, one third is an attempt at recording, without personal involvement the unfolding of one of the most successful social experiment to come about in the history of the Internet, the other third is comedic hyperbole... you choose.

Some people have been curious about my very secretive ways these past week or so. My presence in Facebook and other social media has been obscure at best- well, not really- I was in another page, conspiring with another people.

Certain members of my family were honestly worried, others were quite cooperative within their means and their abilities...(Batgirl, your identity shall remain hidden, I swear). As always, the midnight crew followed me into the mouth of madness, good soldiers of fortune willing to wake up in the middle of the night to follow a mysterious tweet or a furtive email.

I guess, close to 24 hours after the curtain fell, it is safe to say, being a puppet ain't that bad, when they make you dance tied to sugar string.

The Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen (GISHWHES for short) is my latest entry into the bizarre section of my Curriculum Vitae. Honestly, given the chance; wouldn't you want to add Guinness Record Breaker to your long list of WTF?

The whole concept is the brainchild of my top deranged celebrity, Misha Collins and the mysterious Miss Jean Louis, a capricious artiste from the school of Marcel Duchamp, you know, that nice French bloke, who in a moment of lucidity uttered: "All in all, the creative act is not performed by the artist alone; the spectator brings the work in contact with the external world by deciphering and interpreting its inner qualifications."

If you mix this particular appreciation of life with the wonderful Mr. Collins point of view; constant optimist that he is, the man believes the world can be fundamentally changed, one random act of kindness at a time... then you have the set up for an interesting game indeed.

Who is in the line up, you might ask? Did I mention Mr. Collins has over 318,000 followers, willing to sign into his beck and call,one tweet after another? You might call them followers, he prefers the word minions, you know all potatoes and potatos will end meeting the same peeler.

The thing is that quite a good chunk of people world wide said I do and jumped blindly into a game of art, community and creativity without having the slight lest idea of what was expected of them.

I was apprehensive at first, because all of us are happy in our own little world, you see and Mr. Collins does not believe kids should play by themselves, so what I thought would be just another night at the movies with the midnight crew was more of an act of casting our lots with seven complete strangers, from all over the globe.

As I opened my inbox the first day, I discovered I had two Germans, two Poles, three Canadians, one of them chillin' in the California sun. Well guys, the world just expanded. We bonded, immediately and it is ridiculous to think that a week ago our common denominator was a kind of obscure Sci-fi/Horror series in the CW network and a certain trench coated angel. Well, not even that, Izzy usually avoids all plots involving handsome crying men, so we had to fill him in, and quick.

Today I can say that we laughed, stressed, provided feedback, send frantic emails in the middle of the might, fueled each others whimsy and even managed to dance together. I know that Torben is willing to raise to the roof, Finja is really a fairy in disguise, Monika hates Facebook but was willing to sign up for our sake (she has also been granted my the amazing ability to bring order to Chaos) that Ula knows exactly how low can GISHWHES go, that Michele and Danna can out dance anyone and anything in any setting, that Tamara will get her fingers and toes in a sticky situation, just to help the team advance; that Michelle and Hisriel are willing to get into a fight in an extinct language and that I can both rock kale in salad and above my head to light the dinner table.

Thank you guys for an awesome experience. It was a chance to raise something out of nothing and make it worth everything. Out of all the crazy stuff we cooked together, our little secret society was the best.

What is left to say to those who didn't take part on this experiment? There's always next year. In the meantime, if you see some oddball in a monkey hat, perhaps skipping a couple of steps down the road, singing in Enochian or smiling wide without apparent reason; smile back. There's a chance you are crossing paths with an artist, or someone who is compromised with a random act of kindness... well this person might also be a weird little hobo, but a smile never hurt anybody.

Luuuuuuvvvv to all.

OHHHH... I forgot, in the meantime, if you feel like spreading the love and have some change to spare, get to know the not so crazy side of the coin: www.therandomact.org

En Spanish... Calle 13 mientras mas lo digas...

 Los Grammys llegaron y se fueron y Calle 13 le demostró a el mundo que no se necesita una casa disquera para conquistar la industria de la música. No es fácil lograr semejante hazaña.

Una vez más Rene predico su evangelio de la playera (viste que así se dice t-shirt en español, que monstra soy cuando quiero) dejando saber su pensar en 100% algodón. Dijo lo suyo ante el micrófono y nos dejó con una canción  que se ha de convertir en el himno no oficial de una Latinoamérica unida. Que bueno.

Mucha gente en Puerto Rico esta abanderada con este asunto y por lo general la división es de índole política. Aunque hay muchas excepciones a la regla, basandome en lo que he podido apreciar en los foros... si eres estadista es tu deber que  te apeste Calle 13, si eres popular o independentista,  entonces estas basicamente obligado a apreciar el estilo y el mensaje.

Advertencia: A mí me importa un comino el abanderamiento político sobre este tema. Por mi Rene puede expresarse como quiera en cualquier foro sobre cualquier persona. No es el primero ni el último que le ha dicho lo que piensa a un gobernante en una sociedad  libre. Por mí que le ponga un blanco a la madre de Fortuño en la espalda y que se raspe un Free Willy si alguna vez se da el Delfinario de San Juan hacia el futuro.  Si esa manera de expresarse lo hace feliz, una vez más, sea bienvenido.

Ahora, lo que me revienta de Rene, va más allá de mis 100x35. Me molestan las verdades a medias, la falta de compromiso del artista hacia las realidades de los pueblos. Me molesta que América Latina este corta de estrofas, que no se canten todas las versiones de la historia.

Yo tengo dos cuñados, uno Nicaragüense y otro Cubano, los cuales han vivido una historia que no aparece en las rimas de Rene, la historia que no conviene contar, porque no tiene que ver nada con los excesos del imperialismo Norteamericano, y si con el problema a el que enfrentan los disidentes de los gobiernos que Rene tanto protege y admira.

Oh sí, porque que bueno es recordar  la cara de un desaparecido cuando es víctima de Pinochet, si tú sabes, aquel que los gringos treparon y después no supieron bajar. Pero qué me dices de los que desaparecieron bajo Sandino. Nicaragua tiene su buena y larga lista. Si, háblenme de los sandinistas que tomaron sobre un país y ofrecieron oportunidad de educación para todos, igualdad para la mujer y acceso a servicios de salud para todos a razón de expropiar tierras y decidir quién se queda y quien se va de su propia patria. Cántame Rene de la gente que tuvo que salir de su tierra corriendo por cometer el pecado de ser disidente de una ideología política en el poder. Tírame una rima bien sabrosa sobre la política de apartheid calladita que existe en Nicaragua donde los indios no valen nada. Usa esa musa para escribirle un himno a las madres Nicaragüenses que salieron de su país con lo que pudieron y llegaron a Estados Unidos sin nada a razón de haber recibido la “cortesía y consideración” de todos los países entre Nicaragua y Texas en donde se cobraban todo tipo de multas e incluso se jugaba con  la noción de desaparecer tus hijos si no pagabas cuotas exorbitantes… esas lagrimas tienen valor también. Porque aquí en Estados Unidos están los que quieren, los que pueden y los que no tienen más remedio. Que esta de lo que hablo se quedó en los ochenta? Cántame de México y de lo considerados que siguen siendo con los “inmigrantes” Hondureños que ponen  pie en ese país. Allí hay para cantar un rato.

Y hablando de los que están aquí porque no les queda más remedio. Qué lindo es ver un cañaveral bajo el sol de Cuba. Felicidades a ti que puedes verlo. Déjame sugerir una canción sobre Cuba y los cañaverales. Cántame la cancioncita del trabajo forzado impuesto en los que no están de acuerdo con Fidel. Y no te hablo de los alborotaos que tienen la política corriéndole por la sangre. Te hablo de los que no participan  de la actividad política por causa de su consciencia. Cántame sobre la gente que como el padre de mi cuñado hicieron tiempo en prisiones cubanas a causa de que su religión no les permite tomar parte del proceso político… porque en Cuba la bella estar neutral hacia el régimen es tan malo como estar en contra.

Y si puedes, cántame de los que están en la cárcel por tirarse maromas como las que te tiras tú, querido Rene, porque más de uno le ha dicho hijo de puta a Castro y créeme, no ha sido celebrado como lo eres tú. Háblame de la situación de los cubanos que tienen que bregar tanto con el impuesto embargo como con la falta de humanidad de su propio gobierno. Que las cosas están cambiando con Raúl? Pregúntaselo a las damas de Blanco.

Que tienes guerra contra el Imperio… una vez más me importa un pito, este país aguanta esto y mucho más… que te vas a hartar con el billetaje cuando hagas la movida al mercado anglosajón, como lo anunciaste en Primer Impacto… probablemente. Aquí hay mucha queja de índole social a la cual sacarle punta. Es una pena que cuando te presentaste en Jimmy Kimmel perdiste el tiempo cantando en español para después reírte de los idiotas que te hacían coro sin entenderte. Sabes qué? Una vez más fue decepcionante, porque ese era el foro, ese era el momento, con la atención nacional para pararse y decirle a Jimmy al pan pan y al vino vino… this is what really bothers me about the politics of your country, that has mine by the balls, you know… pero tuvimos que conformarnos con tu camiseta y con tu lirica explosiva y con oírte mandar a los americanos a decir woooohoooo o algo entre coro y coro después de quejarte con un colorido puñeta de que no sabían español.

Sigue hablando de todo el mundo que de mí no recibes una ovación sincera hasta que no me cantes de las dos caras de la moneda. Latinoamérica es una canción hermosa pero le resta mérito estar  inconclusa.

10 years...

This is one of those days I never stop writing on... I've been doing it for ten years and it served both  as a catharsis, you know, just another drop in the Ocean of grief that was September 11, 2001... as much as an experiment on personal perception, on how my views about something so earth shattering could change in time, if possible based upon the turns of the world around it.

 Writing is something personal, and it is tainted or blessed by the imprint of the soul of the person who puts his or her thoughts on paper. Today I am sober, introspective; physical pain does that to you.  Perhaps if I were not going through a flareup, my musings might be a little brighter, cheerful even. That I'll never know. Whatever comes out, I can assure you this is the one day I rather not be cynical, or bitter, or try to be a smart ass.

Some  ten years ago I was sleeping late. I worked the graveyard shift in Capital One's Collections Department... (whenever we go to sleep in the East Coast, there are people in the West Coast that are coming home and deserve to be pestered with phone calls just like everybody else). Lee woke me up and I was not in my best mood. She told me a plane had crashed against one of the Twins and I answered "Oh Geez, poor plane, I mean those buildings can stand up to a 727" and she told me "I think is something bigger."

We sat in front of the TV and honestly I can't recall much on the whereabouts of the other people in my family. Instead of being one of those days everyone was just there, mom and dad were working and so was Lysania. Kenken at four years old was doing what she still does best- drawing - lost in a world of color and imagination, safe from it all by virtue of innocence. I remember Lee. My middle sister and I, we have never been too touchy feely, though we love each other dearly. I remember her hands, intertwined with mine and how we were both slightly trembling. Lee saw the second plane coming before the people who were covering the news noticed. i remember her nails digging in my arms as she pointed to the screen. She had barely screamed "another" when the man in the news echoed her. It was obvious then ans all I could say was "Mercy."

In a matter of minutes we had to internalize witnessing an event that was meant to change the world as we knew it and when KenKen asked why we were crying we were dismissive, after all what has a child to do with terror. Lee held her and told her "There was a big fire in New York." Kenken tilted her head, like most little kids do when they are trying to fit in something, it is almost comical, the tilt of the head and the meeting of the eyebrows... "but I love New York"- as if her statement could keep the city safe from harm. We all did baby, in fact the world entire were New Yorkers at the end of that crisp September day.

As names and possible culprits rose from the ashes, as heroes served and died in the blink of an eye, as the greatest strike to touch American soil since Pearl Harbor took shape, I remember being angry. Very angry. I've always been a fan girl of troops and though Osama bin Laden was not a household name to all I did remember the guy being linked to the USS Cole. We had a mastermind and a possible target in Afghanistan and I remember going to bed saying "Boy, they will soon enough change the topography of that fucking country." Some people might say, oh Lynnette that is not the Christian thing to do or say, but I've never been a hypocrite and nor will I rewrite what I said or felt in order to make it look better. If I am really a Christian then God is a witness to all. In His mercy he even cut of some slack for anger. As I prayed that night though, my initial word "mercy" stayed with me, soothed me, healed me, as I prayed for those that soon will be at risk on both sides: our troops and the innocents in the cross fire.

Ten years on and I will venture say the guys upstairs do not understand the scope of what it is to fight this type of war. Some people might say that being a secular government, we are not equipped to deal with religious ideology based violence. well, ten years ago I decided not to be left in the dark. I started with my Bible. I read it with the sole purpose to find the roots of the Arab bitterness. Guess what, I found none. Jewish scripture didn't shed much light either. In fact Ismaelites were quite loving of their brothers, the sons of Isaac, little rascal that he turned out to be and all. The next logical step would be to read the Koran, which I did- study guide and all- so no one can come and tell me about something I don't know. As I read the Bismillah, I cried, because Allah turned out to be merciful and compassionate and it really hit me how a few could turn something beautiful into a weapon of hate... Ten years on, we are to recognize it happens everywhere. The man who took it upon himself to execute the Norway massacre had, after all, a Bible among his possessions. Don't you dare to blame a book, nor a religion, let alone God for the actions of twisted minds. The sons and daughter of mercy shall prevail. Peace be with you, Shalom, as Salaam Alaykum, they all mean the same, you know.

Heroes. If anything that day, all who died, including those who were born in foreign soil, were considered American Martyrs and everyone who rose to the occasion was dubbed, without a second thought, an American hero. As my heart goes out to the first response workers, the fire fighters and the police that day, to the troops gone and hurt in the killing fields of Afghanistan and Iraq and through the world... it is flight 93 the one I rather write about today.

They didn't have to do it. They could have stayed placed in their seats, saying one last prayer, calling a loved one, asking why me... however these group of people, who comprised a random sample of America, took a stand that kept a bigger tragedy at bay. At that moment, they didn't stop to analyze in depth whether  to include God in a brief prayer offended the sensibilities of those around them, nor did they took count of how many Republicans/Democrats were on the flight or whether or not they could reach a deal that will bring over the other in their objective. When Todd Beamer pronounced that "Let's Roll" that has been sketched in America's psyche, he didn't stop to question Mark Bingham's sexual orientation or whether or not he deserved certain constitutional rights, nor did the other one refused... they were side by side being men of the same stature. Some people say that death is an automatic passage to exhalation in the eyes of the living, after all I've never met anyone who hasn't been "a wonderful person" upon being laid to rest. However, looking at how we are living our lives today and the petty fights and the dirty politics we all get stuck with; I'll dare say, without hesitation that we lost a sample of our best and our brightest on that flight. I wish we had more people who are willing to do what is needed instead of weighing their personal agendas. Mercy was with them that day, as it takes a lot of love and purpose to lay your life for the sake of another.

Where am I going? I don't know... maybe I just want to remind all this is not a day for politics. It is a day for all of us.

I'm watching my TV screen, getting glimpses of what will be the grand reveal of the memorial tomorrow and I just hope that eventually that place will fill with laughter and vendors and crazy people playing guitar and the occasional colorful and scary bum, you know, 'cause it's New York and the city wouldn't have it any other way. Ten years on, and we still live and learn. Ten years on we are justified, critizised, both the best and the worse country in the world depending on who is asking or who is answering.... and I glimpse at my TV and see bits of green where ashes once stood and man made falls where so many tears were shed, and names, representing lives, carved in what seems endless rows and I know there is something we owe them...

As I type, I'm feeling a lot better, which means the piece, which started gloomy will not be at all cohesive. It is expected for me to go revise what I have written and make it sensical, structured. Not today, not even a spell check I swear. This day has always been dinamic for me, you know the one day I toss it all out the window and ask myself, what can be done for others, how is it that we can manage to live our lives with one degree of separation from one another... ten years on, no one should stand on the sidelines. Get out, donate, give your time, educate your children the best way you can with aims of making them better than you ever were. Never forget, but do forgive and let's go forwards and fix those things we've found are wrong. I know we might be on a rut, but we can rise above it.

Tomorrow I might or not go to church, if I do, my sister Lee will be there and there is a chance that we might hold hands and laugh. And thank for mercy. It will be a wonderful day, I bet.

Just for kicks: A very dissapointed review of Dead Reckoning

In a  world in which we are all forced to choose, I must say that I've successfully walked the thread between Truebies and Bookies (if you care for True Blood in any way shape or form you know what I'm talking about).

I believe the secret of my success derives precisely from understanding the workings of both series and books as two different animals.

 While the world of Charlaine Harris has supernatural working and lurking in every corner, it is definitely a "fun read" type of experience. In all honesty, and perhaps because of her choice of POV, her vampires- as described by Sookie Stackhouse- don't come across as lethal as they should. Honestly, for book readers, ever since book 4 people had forgotten this is meant to be a supernatural series and it has turned into a pink coated paranormal romance in which the eager reader is much more engaged by trying to guess the pattern of long haired Eric's braiding than the next preternatural threat.

Still, it is a successful series and it has it's fandom. And yes, I enjoy Eric's golden hair in braids, and I get a kick out of his sitcom marriage to Sookie and I love Bill the King of Geeks with his uncanny computer knowledge and yes I even like Pam in pastel blue.

I have no qualms whatsoever to turn my TV on Sundays and thank his all mightiness of Ball for giving me lethal, sarcastic Eric, who might or might not be interested in "I don't know who I might be" Sookie Stackhouse, and I can deal with William Compton, King of Louisiana and Pam's drop jaw fashion sense.

That's why I was sorely disappointed when reading this book.  I'm not much of a writer, but I've been a fan all my life. There is one thing all authors should know.... fans are bloodhounds, and they can smell fear. It is a rare and sad case when an author proves to be so weak she can be easily influenced by other people's interpretation of her characters. It has been established that Harris can do fun, campy without sliding into ridicule and can pull sexy in a tall glass of blond bombshell. One thing she cannot do is gritty, dark and multidimensional. That is Allan Ball's territory. It didn't keep her from trying, and failing terribly.

This ship started sinking with Dead in the Family. That's when Harris tested the waters for layered Eric. In her effort to create a background story for our favorite Viking- or as I lovingly call him, Po boy's Lestat- she created Ocella, a vampire master impossible to digest and probably her most despicable character to date. And precisely, because Ocella had no redeeming qualities the character didn't resonate with the readers, as most of us found it unreasonable for book Eric to hold any kind of sympathy for him, vampire fledgling rules or not. In other words: Ocella is no Allan Ball's "Godric". By playing the minimal allegiance to Ocella, Eric became... what is the literary term? Pussified.

After the fiasco of trying to show a softer, easy target side to Mr. Blond Fun, then there was no other route than to go grittier, darker with the next installment... that is easy to pull off, right? I mean HBO book Eric up a notch... cause fans of that darn TV show looooove  short haired, quick witted, cocky Eric, so why not? Because there is a big difference between being assertive and being a douche bag.

The following will contain three brief spoilers-two Eric, one Bill- just to prove my point:

• I believe the scene calls for " I do not negotiate Eric", which we have seen a dozen times in HBO, he who scared the living daylights out of the meth pushers in Hotshot, etc etc etc... well Ms. Harris decided it was time for book Eric to show his prowess by scaring a hair dresser- yes you heard me- a hairdresser within an inch of his life for not bringing a cutting cape. Said hairdresser was meant just to cut off a couple of inches of Sookie's hair WTF???!!!
• But let's just wait a minute, book Eric is not unpredictable enough, not enough self absorbed, not selfish enough, so let's spice it up... in a move that runs counter both book and series characterization. Eric beats the heck out of Pam in a fit of rage. He did so in a preventive strike manner anticipating that Pam could reveal a secret to Sookie. Really... really? If there is anything between these characters it is- all puns intended- undying loyalty. It made me close the book and grab a drink, I swear.
• And don't even let me start with Bill. And no, it is not a matter of teams, at this point in both book and series I'm team "Sookie is better off in fairyland." But I guess when it comes to sexy up quiet book Bill who has been out of the radar since book 3... well you know because those TV fans just loooove the tension, there's nothing better than concoct a scene in which a naked Sookie ends up atop Bill in his cubby. Honestly, I had to read it twice because I couldn't figure out how the hell this came to be, all while fighting that pesky cello  in my head... you know Bill's theme, because the words that came out of Bill's mouth were HBO writing staff, guaranteed.

And God forbid I forget the "shout outs" through out... I mean one thing is Merlotte's having "Bad Things" in their jukebox selection, the other is Pam going verbatim on her clever "Are you picking up what I'm putting down?" that established her as the one badass lieutenant.... sigh.

All in all, I still look forward to my Sunday nights, as far as the written word; well, I have books stacked up everywhere. I'll get to Harris when I get there.

Pirates... stranger rants I have written

 There's a big chance this is my last post of Earth as today is May 20, 2011, close to 5:30 and believe me I'm writing Captain Jack because I have already exhausted all of my Theology ;)

There are movies I build hope about, you know the ones I wait with fangirl anticipation circling opening day in big bold red marker. I expect to love this movies to death and wear my midnight ticket stub as a badge of honor. When they don't deliver it is more than disappointing, it is heartbreaking. And because my heart is broken I can't bring myself up to kill this movie in fifteen bullets or less, so I'll just randomly go about the things I found out and try not to spoil it. Understand this, the movie was okay, if it were a stand alone movie I would have loved it, but it's PIRATES and it missed the mark.

This is my rant list:

• The direction was weak. I am sorry, but they should have paid Verbinsky any ridiculous amount of money he demanded, because he was sorely missed. I don't know how they managed to make a straight storyline like this one seem choppy at best. The one story that could have played the best of the real life pirates; the might of the Spanish Empire, the logistic of the British against outlaws on both sides that were the stuff of legend... come on, how can someone manage to bore to tears with such material and a supernatural aspect on top?!. If you want a thrilling high seas chase go rent MASTER AND COMMANDER
• I have said it before. Johnny Depp can do anything, even salvage Captain Jack from this wreckage. He was funny, nasty, charming and straight up sexy at times, but there are three far superior movies that you can rent to see him do this over and over.
• He might be sexy, as Penelope Cruz is a goddess, but there was no chemistry... NONE.
• I really hate when the tap into a great mythology and skim it through. The one good thing, the one perfect element of haunting horror and beauty was a ten minute scene involving mermaids. I wanted more, and ten minutes is what I got.
• They also kind of introduced the Spanish Empire's idea of reigning by divine principle... the burden of Catholic Kings to rid the world of darkness... I know no one expects the Spanish Inquisition, but when you hint at it, you better show it all... the flare the big banners the red from head to toe... but once again, the Spaniards were in the background, more of shadow characters than the compelling force behind a quest I was promised on the opening scene.
• And dear God... whose idea it was to make a Pirates movie without the Pearl? Let the ship be haunted, stolen, sunken to the depths of the Ocean into the Locker... but it has to be there!!!!!

I wish I could write more, but I don't feel it deserves an extra line even.... I'll leave you with a quote, sorta:

"It was an honest error, to mistake a Spanish Nunnery with a Brothel."- Captain Jack ( and I don't think he was truly sorry about the whole misunderstanding)

The cult of Gaga... or celebrities that piss me off enough to blog about

I must confess the first time I saw her -probably before anyone else noticed: a scrawny blonde thing singing Just Dance on the Miss Universe 2008 Pageant- I thought she was fresh. I placed my  bets on her being the future of Pop Music. I loved the concept of "Little Monsters"... a rag tag group of disenfranchised youth coming from all walks of life to rally behind an emerging star poised to deal with issues affecting us all. After all, her war cry was an alternative to staying home texting your frustration from teen mobile to mobile. But eventually it all became the same tired pattern of celebrity telling her fans it is okay to use your critical thinking, as long as you agree with all I am saying. Go forth little monsters and spread the Generic Gospel of Gaga.

Once again there is a reason why this blog is called Time Consuming Trivialities... it is here where I come and say enough on things no one cares for. Make your money biatch... piles of it, after all this is America; but please stop riding the cause of the week in the Pop Culture Carousel. You are not rebellious cotoure my dear, you are rebellious dujour; fabricated, spewing bland words for anyone to hear, no better than Britney, from whom your fans usually recoil in horror.

First it was the gay issue. Gaga rode that Coaster like there's no tommorrow... and along with it there was this ridiculous mystique emerging... is she s tranny?, could it be that in fact she is a man? ohhh nono nono, wait, she's probably bisexual because that's in vogue. And yes we must admit that she did the marching and the Proposition 8 speech and lets not forget that in her inspiring video ALEJANDRO she made sure to put in the image of a guy in military garb rocking some fishnets stockings because that was a frigging statement towards America's attitude about DON'T ASK DON'T TELL. And don't even get me started with BORN THIS WAY in which some idiot PR guy envisioned her as the Maddonna for the short attention span generation. It was dull, and the whole sampling music track thing had a bitter taste of Vanilla Ice saying... no I never used a track from "Pressure"... If you are with me in your old age you know what I'm talking about. For all you have "done" for the gay community. I don't know if I have to over compensate for being straight here and making an issue out of nothing; but I'm pretty sure my gay friends will agree saying Bette Midler, Cyndy Lauper and Cher, she is not.

And now, since the gay thing is wearing down (for her at least it seems) she has taken upon the latest red button issue:  Illegal Immigration.

  I cannot believe that she had the face to go to Mexico and say that ALEJANDRO was partly inspired by her fangirl attitude towards Alejandro Fernandez whom she was looking forward to meet. Oh wait a minute I thought Alejandro had something to do with don't ask don't tell and meat processing and so many deep metaphors the world can peel off like and onion... but of course, I forgot she was in Mexico at the time. How effing original.

While she's never said squat about US immigration policy while in the continental United States, it was convenient to address this issues while in Mexico, Not only that, she dedicated her new song AMERICANO to the struggle of people trying to cross the border and make a living in America. Hmmm, let me check the inspiring lyrics...

"I will cry for, I have fought for/ How I love you/I will die for, I have cried for

How I care/In the mountains, las campanas/Están sonando/Y los chicos, y los chicos
Están besando."


Ehhh, very profound indeed, just like JUDAS was meant to be powerful social commentary on our attitudes towards religion ( while I cough someone please google Madonna's LIKE A PRAYER)


Anyway, I can envision the video for AMERICANO: a whole bunch of migrant workers clad in glitter, leaving flesh, blood and sequins at the border to get to a Lady Gaga concert in Arizona... because that is worth fighting and dying for...

In nicer news... still like Katy Perry, let's hope she doesn't get ridiculous.

15 things I learned from Dylan Dog

Once in a while a movie comes around that leaves me gasping for air. Well most of the time the source of my arrest is the sublime, in other cases is the ridiculous. Go ahead, say it...I can hear most of you chuckling in the dark, whispering I told you so.  Well surprise, Dylan Dog does not fall in either category. Fun enough to blog about, bad enough to tell you go in at your own risk; this is one of those movies that fall in neutral territory. I like it enough not to hate it, I hate it enough to make fun of it, albeit lightly.

So instead of killing the plot in 15 bullets or less, I rather jot down 15 unexpected Dog lessons. Don't worry, it is not spoilery at all and even if it sounds like it, you'll need to see it in context:

• Horror movies should be equal opportunity employers... though I am an avid rabid vampire fan, I'm starting to understand the werewolf community plea. I never thought I said this, but it needed more werewolves.
• Peter Stormare can  read the yellow pages and I'll be a happy camper... had they given him more screen time, I would have walked out of that movie a were-fan.
•  Brandon Routh is not as bad an actor as I judged him to be. My apologies Mr. Routh, you brought it, as far as it could be brought.
• Zombies are people too and if we had an insight into their brains, we'll discover that they'd rather have a hold of our best resconstructor conditioner that our warm, quivering entrails.
• I'll never walk into a  greasy burger joint- EVER AGAIN- without giving respect and attention to the over worked teenager at the registrar
• If they offer you a #9 at the said burger joint and there is only eight items of the menu, take it. You'll be kinda grateful later.
• Vampires are not really known for great marketing strategies, they like their business straight, if the phrase TRUE BLOOD proved successful in HBO, why change it?
• Werewolves are the "Vitte Corleoni" of meat packing in New Orleans
• BTW New Orleans is not only a safe haven for the undead, it's frigging running over!!!
• Zombies are world class diggers second only to naked mole rats
• Beware of people who are fond of Latin
• The best way to win the fanboy/fangirl crowd is to include some Italian dialogue. Is a nice tip of the hat though all nerds concur is better to leave subtitles off
• If it ain't broken don't fix it, you managed to sail through your movie with old school make up, why oh why bring annoying CGI and kill my suspense of disbelief
• I keep very accurate track of my monsters and for endless nights I watched MH1 (Monster Hists One) to try and find out a nice little Where are they Now on Legend's Darkness... forget it, I think I found him.
• Don't ever leave your friends out of the loop when it comes to supernatural stuff, otherwise you'll end up responsible if he or she turns out to be made up as a  dead hooker

The quote: "There's no room for heroes among Zombies, we have  along, proud history of being cowards."

A very public introduction to Neil Gaiman's SANDMAN

Hey baby, or should I say hey sweet young lady?

 Time does fly by as you are to enter High School. Fourteen years... darn it. According to the Library reading guidelines you are mature enough to handle the material I'm about to put in your hands. I don't know, perhaps kids are more open to the world these days, but I found it really funny, as I read this Graphic Novel for the very first time in my twenties and it managed to screw my mind... but a promise is a promise.

I remember you as a four year old skulking into my library, that sacred little space comprised of two giant bookshelves and trying to reach with chubby little fingers an arrangement of books that looked colorful, inviting and fun, all of which were strictly forbidden. It frustrated you heavily, and though I tried to distract you with Wolves in the Walls and the outrageous idea of trading your Daddy for two Goldfish (quite a good bargain, I might add) I promised you then, that in time, my books would be yours.

I've seen you grow since then and although when you were smaller, you rabid attempts at recitations of The Raven and The Tyger made me chuckle and joke that you were made after my own image, I knew that in fact you'll grow up to be a completely different being. You have the drive of someone who wants to drink  life in cup fulls, the mindset of a conqueror and the build of an athlete. Most people would be scared of these departures in character, I'm not. It is my faith that I'm granted a gift, the opportunity to see you reach places I never dreamed of.

But let's go back to the things we have in common: we both despise the mundane, the black and white outlook on life dictated by people who are too afraid to take a chance. We both like the idea of a world beyond our own where we can hide once in a while. Though I meditate in dreams and you seem to want to tear at the fabric of it all just to find what makes them tick, we both believe in that kind of magic.

With no further a do I give you a book that I knew will be yours since the day you were born. It is well preserved and taken care of and even though I had the chance to buy it brand new, I rather give you this one. It has character, little battle scars, it's been places you haven't been yet, touched by other people. It has left  a palpable imprint is those who read it, and now it is yours.

Its is a story, not of a man, but of a being that is older than gods, from whose hands drip the sands that forge the dreams of mankind. You will not meet him at the top of his game though, in fact he is beaten, reduced to nothing, a prisoner fueled by revenge. But don't worry, as in any good story, nothing ever stays unmoving. Eventually you'll catch with what is going on... You know most men and women in comic books go from being regular Joes to having god like superpowers. This one works backwards and that makes it unique, is a hard, long journey towards being human.

I'll leave you now, to the dreams of gods and men and the stuff that lives on the edge of nightmares

Love, L.

The little Theology Corner Presents: let's play it one more time

Holy Week/ Passover is almost upon us and it is time for that yearly rant, reflection I love to share with those willing to read. I usually jot down notes on the Jewish roots of Christianity as this is the best of time to understand and debunk the idea of Substitution Theology that has given a sort of carte blanc to many Christian branches to practice a very subtle and sometimes dangerous, albeit subconscious type of anti-semitism. However there are things that pertain to the Church that are pressing and at hand.

2012, You might ask? I care nothing for the date. God help me I'll be in Ireland, downing a pint with as many crazy peeps as I convince to go to the Emerald Isle. But I do see people talking about war and rumors of war and second comings. All of that is important to me, otherwise I wouldn't call myself a Christian. However, it is important to me, the conscientious traveler, not to loose the flight over a little mishap.

If you haven't noticed this little note is not meant for my fellow Christians, not for those who know not God. It is a heap load  for those who live in the fringes of Christianity, calling themselves sons and daughters of God while walking farther and farther away with each deed and thought. Those who have grown way too comfy in their padded chair, praising with air conditioning, to the point of becoming complaisant, of taking for granted what was done for us and worse; having the audacity of denying it to others.

I heard someone say once that being a Christian is like playing Simon Says. You don't get to make up the rules, just wait for the commands. It is true, but let's not forget that of all commands there is one that trumps, one so definite that embodies the whole concept of our faith. "Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. 35 By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” (John 13: 34-35)

We are lacking, we are failing miserably, each time we judge, each time we separate ourselves and look down on the so called "sinners" like we are high and mighty. Each time  we point our finger and say " I know with fervent proof that God will smite You." We have the audacity to climb to the cross, tear Christ's bloody hands from the beams and cross them upon His chest.

Just who do you think you are? I have no problem reminding you. You were a slave, an imperfect broken vessel and someone took pity on you, brought you home, cleaned your wounds and cut that iron cuff in your ankle that marked you as less than human. Too much was done for you and you look into your Master's eye and tell Him, "I'll never be able to repay you." Guess what if you can't pay it back, then pay it forward.

I know how to play my game, go ahead and try to hit me with your best shot. Simon says I gotta love you. I will, and the best thing is that if I learn to love the right way, not only will I nurture you, I'll grow too.

This post is dedicated to the West borough Baptist Church, the Koran burners, those who believe the gay have no hope in Christ , the Shepherds of America that dare say God abhors this country, the prejudiced, the modern Pharisees and money exchangers that are staining the image of our faith. Your time is running up, start playing the game right or face the consequences of loosing...

I used to have fit of ire over you, but now I just pray, until my tongue is sweetened and I'm able to say with all my heart, I love you, have a Happy Easter.

Words without end....

It's been a while since I've jotted anything down. I have been seriously thinking about doing one of those little selfish excerpts I usually tag under "State of my Union." However, things have managed to be both hard and boring and it would hurt to revisit; even if I try to embellish events and make them pretty with big words I hunt long and hard in my Thesaurus.

So I did the second best thing, which is to go look for other people's point of view, far away from the mundane. Since I had no budget to buy me a ticket to a bonafide Irish Pub, be it in New York or in the Emerald Isle, I carpooled a trip to the local library and soon enough wound up with an assorted gang of books that range from the familiar comfort of Vampire Fiction and beautifully orchestrated collections by Neil Gaiman to the prospective challenge to read about Time Traveling Scabrous Scotsmen... which by the way its a delight of a subject to voice three times in a row, at the top of your lungs while searching in the Fiction aisle....

I'm going nowhere, except that right now my head is full of people and their stories and I need a break between books. Or perhaps is something deeper that I am trying to dismiss as trivial, I don't know. But as I browse through my books, I'm surprised and comforted  by the thought that they are not solely mine. And I guess that is the wonder about Public Libraries, that the paperback I hold in my hand has been object to someone else's subjectivity. Maybe the little book that I so loved  was tossed, mid-reading by someone else back into the library bag after been declared the crappiest piece of writing ever to soil a page... or that the slightly underlined sentence, with trembling pulse in almost faded blue ink contains an arragement of words that meant the world to someone, for the sake or misfortune of their soul.

And as I read, I internalize what a given author chose for me to see and also partake of something bigger, almost sacred. I graze the lives of others, as they will mine; all joined by an invisible thread, by that need to scape to another world.

I can't help but wonder if the person who left that trace of sultry, musky smell on my  paranormal romance book found what she or he were looking for or if the careless reader that left a chocolate imprint on the fantasy collection I'm about to attack found the stories as sweet... As I said, I don't know where I'm going, other than perhaps I felt like singing an Ode to the wonder of Libraries or the fact that unbeknownst to us we might have but a degree of separation from that stranger that across the isle.

The quote:
"My books are very few, but then the world is before me - a library open to all - from which poverty of purse cannot exclude me - in which the meanest and most paltry volume is sure to furnish something to amuse, if not to instruct and improve."- Joseph Howe

Red looks more like washed out pink when exposed to Twilight

Call me an idiot. I should have read the reviews or at least, my heart should have sunken low when I found out that Catherine Hardwicke was meant to direct this one... but when it comes to pointing out the source of all evil, I believed Meyers should have been the culprit and gave the Twilight director one more chance. Alas! I've been duped, the Twilight effect is an ever growing virus that eats at the core of everything it touches, tainting a director forever with the love of unexplainable out of the blue closeups of angsty revelry, and the box office poison that is filming on a closed, second rate set.

Taking in consideration that I am still under a feverish Nyquil Spell, I'll try to put it up in words and make some sense of it.

The one positive aspect- and I'm using the word positive for lack of another- is that each frame of this movie seems to be a love letter to Amanda Seyfried. She is beautiful, sweet innocent with a tinge of wild and it makes it all so much more painful to watch, that a character could have so much potential and yet when push comes to shove what should have been quite an interesting journey of self discovery turns into just another teen movie. She had the chops to make this movie dangerous, thrilling, a bit sexy and a lot scarier, like a good fairy tale should be. Instead she was given a script that called for lip pouting and sighs and a strange little medieval dance that looked like a night of clubing at Ybor City.

Thrown into the maelstrom of too many plot lines too little time, way too many stale shots is Max Irons- son of Jeremy-God Bless him. He is handsome and undoubtedly talented, he did what he could with the lines given and made the best about an "antagonist" that turned out to be quite likable, because he is the nicest guy you will ever meet. It is expected, in the honorable world of squeaky clean teen romance whenever Bella is in danger Edward and Jacob will team up and... oh, hold on that's another movie... is it?

The Glory that is Gary Oldman- strapped off cash -decided to sign for this glorious project. This is a man who obviously discerns Ham from Hamlet played his character accordingly. He delivered his lines bombastically and didn't seem to mind the hens that perched silently and content on top of balconies during a fierce snow storm... because even poultry will face the weather to learn off the Inquisitor what they need most... expository dialogue on werewolves.

Talking about hens in snow storms, cinematography was a pain, the opening shots were promising with beautiful dark green woods surrounded by rolling fog and dark edges and turns. However, the first five minutes give into closed sets that scream heavy plastic/ foam moldings that set the tone towards a crappy pixelated werewolf . Since the concept was wolf supersized they should have borrowed one of Eclipse's angry puppies or shot a real gray wolf in scale. It was distracting ugly to watch and not scary in the least. For some reason the woods were intertwined with giant -over 5 feet in lenght- spikes of what seemed to be ashwood. It's a shame this story deals with werewolves and not vampires otherwise they would have been pushed into a tree and taken out of their misery in a snap.

I would continue and build upon a nice comparison against the best interpretation of this particular story to ever grace film, but I'm too sick to continue so I'll say... The Company of Wolves this ain't.

The Quote: At a given time Peter (Shiloh Fernandez) tells Red "We can't be together, I'm a danger to you" and it's giving me an ulcer to confess that Edward's stupid lamb and lion speech had way more resonance...

ANGEL TIME first rant of 2011

Hello, Lynnette here; a fan through and through. Wherever I go, I carry and take care with utmost zeal of a number of books that never leave my side:

• A King James Bible by God and all His inspired scribes, which comprise a kind of holy et all

Neil Gaiman's Sandman

and Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles,

which kinda gives me the right to be a self proclaimed connoisseur about any of these titles, their authors or people's interpretations on the subject matter. Yes, in other words this is a geek rant about Anne Rice's latest endeavour: ANGEL TIME.

I took my sweet time to approach Mrs. Rice's Christian writings. I did it most of all due to respect of the author perse. I promised I will not read Christian Rice while my mind still conjured certain pervasive images linked to her name. I waited, patiently, until Lestat no longer rose from the page, loud, flamboyant, beautiful and damned. I gave Ms. Rice some time and filled Lestat empty spaces with other characters, replaced Ms. Rice with other authors. I left the books on the side while I pursued my own need to have certain Theological questions answered, questions that lead to solidify my belief and teach others the need to understand - and accept without condition- the Jewish root of the Christian faith.

Finally, after all was read, I guess, and I found it no longer a challenge, and picked the book off the shelf. I really, really wanted to love ANGEL TIME, mostly because what ever little excerpts I got from angels on Rice's ROAD TO CANA promised that complete understanding of messenger and message conveyed, of creatures that although not human deal in the most intrusive of fashion in human affairs. And I use intrusive on a positive light, because it is the work of angels to interrupt the flow of human life with a touch of the divine, a missive that carries a directive from God Himself. Sometimes is a message of comfort, sometimes is a message of joy and sometimes, those times that make us all think about the short span our little lives cover in the scheme of eternity; a message of judgement.

Maybe my disappointment with the book derives from mislead expectations. The title, illustrations and synopsis made me believe this was first and foremost a book about angels. And I am so tired of angels being misrepresented, that I got really excited about Rice touching the subject. If there is someone who knows details is Rice. For years I counted on her to take me to places I've never been to, describe the texture and taste of wines that never touched my lips and spend hours I couldn't spare mystified by buttons.

So when all felt like a promise of angels, I expected non the less. I wanted angels of mercy, guardian angels, those beings who do not know the soul, for lack of one, yet can understand human feeling linked through the Spirit that imparts life to all. I wanted war scarred angels, archangels hardened by battle, wings stained crimson in the fray. I wanted Living Creatures to leave our imagination baffled, with heads that carry four countenances, extraordinary chimeras that burn like burnished bronze. I wanted cherubs, not the round faced babies that adorn souvenir bags and chocolate boxes; I wanted larger than life Protectors of Glory, willing to slice with Flaming Swords through anything that could even pretend to offend the seat of God with its sinful presence. I wanted Seraphim, so touched by the Presence that in order to appear to humans, even in vision or dream they must cover their face, for their countenance reflects the face of God like a mirror and their mere sight is death to those who dare look with naked eyes. And I wanted of course, Fallen Angels, delving in Chaos, plotting destruction, striving in their vanity to hold on to a semblance of beauty...

ANGEL TIME gave me nothing of the sort. The Angel on this novel, a Seraph called Malchiah, serves mostly as a plot device and no matter how cleverly used, it is what it is. Malchiah is the omnipresent narrator on a otherwise first person account. It is there to cheat for the reader in a sense, giving insights into characters lives that cannot be derived off their own accounts.

SPOILER AHEAD, JUST IN CASE:

The matter boils down to a Seraph recruiting an assassin to have him travel back in time and save a family of Jews about to be put to trial on the 13th century for crimes against Christians. There is no reason for the angel to choose an assassin for this task, a good stage actor might have pulled it off, after all, the one thing required of the angel's human companion is to partake of something an angel cannot; to concoct a lie- a pious, white lie, mind you, but a lie nevertheless.

I'm not puritanical when it comes to fiction- or lies, for that matter. Being on that particular character's shoes I would have lied through my teeth to prevent an injustice without thinking it twice. However, it would have been more of a challenge, a challenge for a writer of Rice's stature to solve this problem solely by angelic intervention. I would have given anything to see Michael, Guardian of all Jews both in Israel and the Diaspora wage one of those epic battles in behalf of the People so that whatever was bound in the airs would inevitably be bound on Earth; after all the best stage for innocence is truth.

It was a fun fast read, but that is not what I look for when I pick up a book by Anne Rice. I'm sorry, still, after all this years, all experience counted, I believe that Lestat is, of all her characters, the best Theologian, and that Rice's angels, are effective, touching and true when- as Rice once said- they "are going in another direction."