During the final season (ongoing!) of the Showtime series Dexter, former police lieutenant Deb Morgan goes to work for a private eye and former cop named Jacob Elway. Elway’s dad, a rich oilman, did not support his choice to become a police detective; he waited until his dad died and invested the inheritance to start a private investigations firm.
Now, right off the bat you might assume I sympathize with this character because he’s a PI, but No.
Okay, Yes. But that’s not the primary reason.
It’s an awesome font. Honestly, when I first saw it, I was in love.
It’s a gritty font, with elegant curves that seduce your eyes and sharp, dagger-like accents that threaten to stab your brain. It’s gorgeous and dangerous.
But, it’s also a very distinctive font, which limits its usage. It’s not like Trajan (which is obviously the movie font) or Arial (which is for signs) both of which are generic enough to be repeatedly used without the general public catching on. Continue reading
“I wish I could do what you do!”
This is something most of us have heard from someone, at some point. Our individual gift shines through—whether it’s writing, or slam-dunking, or repairing a car, or finding the discrepancy in a financial report, or singing, or convincing a salesperson to give up a good deal—and the envious praise follows.
As a writer, however, when people tell me that they are impressed at my storytelling or wish they could do what I do, I am often amused by the glamor surrounding the construction of narratives. The irony is that writers don’t do anything other people don’t do; writers just do it consciously.
An ubiquitous theme in art criticism is novelty.
Critics often praise artwork—painting, music, films, books—for “breaking new ground” or being innovative, while they condemn others for being cliché, formulaic, or “predictable.” Transgression and experimentation are seen as virtues in themselves, without necessary reference to any other artistic value, any explicit goal, or social good.
In the same way, anything familiar is condemned as vulgar convention.
To the chagrin of these critics (or perhaps to their smug satisfaction) the art they praise for its novelty and alleged “courage” is often ignored or openly despised by the general population, while the art they pan as “hackneyed” is often insanely popular. And when these critics also happen to champion humanism or the interests of The People, the irony seems lost on them when the real-life humans who make up The People hate the art they idealize.
What’s going on here?
Simple: the aesthetic ideals of these critics are completely out of whack with human reality.
The real question? Is innovation a meaningful, mature measure of value in art or, particularly, in literature?
In protest of the homophobic views of author Orson Scott Card, many are talking about boycotting the upcoming film adaptation of his best-selling novel Ender’s Game.
Before anyone pats themselves on the back for keeping a few dimes of profit out of the pocket of a bigoted assclown, let’s take a look at the reality of outrage-based boycotting.
Dear bands everywhere,
If you have to introduce a cover song by name and artist because people aren’t going to recognize it, just don’t do that cover song. Don’t waste a “what’s this” moment with your audience on someone else’s obscure crap. Do an original instead.
If the audience isn’t going to recognize it, they’re not going to be impressed, and you’re basically doing someone else’s promotion for them. Promote your own band’s sound by doing your own songs and your own takes on well-known songs.
An interesting thing happened on the way to the long-anticipated Funeral of the Codex…
It has often been noted that big summer movies come in thematic twos, the classic example being 1998’s Deep Impact and Armageddon asteroid catastrophe duo.
Beyond the simple coincidence of themes, however, I started to notice that these twin flicks often have a strange, yin-yang duality, with one film being more realistic (or attempting to be) and one being more iconic or even cartoonish. The question it raised in my head was this:
Why was this odd cinematic dualism happening?
Let’s face it: justice is boring.
Do you remember, in the Matrix trilogy, how the first attempt at trapping humanity in virtual reality was described as a perfect world without conflict? Humans withered and died. The machines had to inject conflict, suffering, and injustice into the program for their battery-slaves to thrive.
What I’m about to say might sound like a misanthropic observation, but human beings love conflict and injustice.
