brideshead revisited (1981)

evelyn waugh has a wicked sense of humour, and brideshead revisited is no exception. we picked up the 750 minute mini-series from the local library in hopes of some decent entertainment, and here are the results.

episode 1: et in arcadia ego
we are introduced to charles ryder (jeremy irons). wow, young irons. he is in the military, suffering the idiocy of powerfreaks. we learn he is a painter, and quite sensitive to the social sufferings of his fellow officers. soon our characters wind up outside an estate known as brideshead. ryder has been there before. and so begins a journey into the history of charles ryder and how he came to know brideshead.

charles attends oxford and is one of the good boys. soon he winds up hanging out with the dandies, developing a reputation with a certain sebastian flyte (anthony andrews). sebastian is a chap who insists on carrying about a large, stuffed teddy bear named aloysius with him.

school ends, charles ends up at home. blast. boring. however this is probably the most amusing bit thus far. john gielgud plays his father, edward, an eccentric fellow who appreciates imaginary constructs and torturing the young charles with condescension. gielgud is hilarious here. alas, the fun must end as charles receives a note that sebastian is hurt and he must rush off by train to brideshead at once.

episode 2: home and abroad
brideshead. charles and sebastian spend many days wandering the estate and drinking vintage wine while sebastian’s foot heals. we are introduced the rest of the brideshead clan, and wander through much discussion of religion, specifically catholicism. we get to see jeremy iron’s scrawny white ass. a boring episode, really, compared to the first one.

suddenly i realize that the figures of charles and sebastian in venice is very reminiscent of the talented mr. ripley, and that if they ever redid brideshead the character of sebastian would undoubtedly be played by jude law.

episode 3: the bleak light of day
a decline episode. charles and sebastian begin strongly together, and through the episode they grow apart. as charles notes, while moving closer to sebastian’s family he floats farther apart from sebastian.

after a proper function they get royally drunk, go for a ride in a motor car with some ladies, and sebastian ends up facing drunken driving charges. they are saved by the quick thinking rex mottram, who contrives a plot in which the crown is convinced that sebastian had just come down from oxford and was not at all accustomed to wine. rex is played by a youngish charles keating, whose presence immediately dredged up childhood memories of watching the american soap another world as a boy, during summers away from school. charles keating played that rascal carl hutchins, who i quite liked.

the significant event this episode of brideshead is the mysterious disappearance of dear aloysius. his flightful air and benevolent manner is missed gravely. i suspect the remaining episodes shall not be the same without him, as sebastian continues his decline into drunken adulthood. if only our brave aloysius were there to support him through these troubling times.

episode 4: sebastian against the world
the fall. sebastian’s drunkenness reaches new lows. his depression and alcoholism are brought into the open through several unbecoming incidents. sebastian is sent down from oxford, and he goes abroad for travel with his caretaker. charles is simply crushed by this news. while charles is packing up after his term at oxford our old boy aloysius makes a guest spot. huzzah aloysius! i hope he doesn’t turn into a drunkard like his friend sebastian.

charles’ father approves of him quitting oxford to take up painting. his father that this should be done “abroad” if at all possible. more gielgud. huzzah again!

it is painful, however, watching charles skirt around the edges of a family collapsing in upon itself. they want to pull him in and reject him all at once. poor charles. for fans of jeremy irons’ physique, there is more of it in this installment.

episode 5: a blow upon a bruise
charles and sebastian spend a holiday together at brideshead by chance. the bottles are initially banished, but sebastian is a fiend on the prowl. eventually the family lets him at the drink and he obliterates himself. there is talk of an intervention.

the title of this episode says it all. a very sad affair. charles is away crushed. we now understand the sadness he faces in episode one when he first sets eyes on brideshead after so many years.

looked on the back of the video and realized we are not yet at the halfway point. this is fine by me, as it is turning out to be an admirable series. we acquired these from the library, so i’m hoping i can find the other 975 episodes haven’t been rented by someone who’s died or absconded with them when they fled the country. worse yet, we’ll find all the episodes are viewable except the last half hour of the series which is garbled in some way. that’s the risk of mini-series by library.

interlude
about two months in which the middle episodes in the brideshead series are rented from the public library by another individual, as i feared would happen, causing much irritation and waiting. and waiting. and waiting.

episode 6: julia
where were we? ah, yes. sebastian has disappeared, with 300 quid, though he was left under the watchful eye of rex. but this episode of brideshead, as titled, is about julia. it begins with memories (note: things that happened in the past must be remembered in sepia). then it moves on to the roots and development of the relationship between julia and rex. perhaps the most memorable part of this episode involve rex’s attempts at converting from protestantism to catholicism. he approaches the task with the logical mind of a businessman, thinking he can simply sign a form and be done with it. his character infuses much needed wit into this episode. nonetheless, this digression from the primary plot is a welcome narrative, and amusing unto itself.

episode 7: the unseen hook
charles learns of the whereabouts of sebastian. upon the request of lady marchmain on her deathbed, charles goes to fez to convince him to come to england.

what charles finds is a broken man, withered by drink and having taken up with a nasty german fellow. this is the last we will see of sebastian, broken and pitiful.

the one bright spot in this episode is the appearance of charles’ father and his brutal wit and harsh honesty.

episode 8: brideshead deserted
charles is commissioned by bridey to paint the house, which charles gladly does.

now this is where things became confusing for me. perhaps i blanked out or the series is simply confusing. charles, seemingly out of nowhere, is married. he returns from a two year trip through south america and mexico and we find out that he has a wife that he had left behind. say what?

the notable bit in this episode is the awful looking beard that charles emerges with. fortunately, he will soon have it removed. only a ghastly moustache shall remain, a reminder that the series soon draws to a close and we near the time whence the drama began so many episodes ago.

episode 9: orphans of the storm
or, the charles and julia get it on episode.

after much coo-cooing charles and julia come out in the open with their love, and both charles’ wife celia and julia’s husband rex are well aware.

this episode also contains the brief return of the absurd anthony blanche. it is difficult, really, to describe how absurd the man is. he made me think of tim curry.

episode 10: a twitch upon the thread
bridey is engaged, and will eventually lose his virginity (there is a great joke about this made in the final episode by lord marchmain, bridey’s father).

as well, cordelia returns. she was in spain helping the wounded during the civil war.

everyone seems pleasant enough and the sight of charles and julia being close has grown commonplace. this is a sad episode, in some ways, as we know our tale will soon wind to an end. we can sense the threads of closure sewing shut the grand narrative of brideshead.

episode 11: brideshead revisited
war looms. lord marchmain returns from abroad to brideshead, displacing bridey, largely because he has come home to die. the episode begins with a great deal of wit by lord marchmain, but quickly dissolves into a struggle over religion. the children are all aghast that their father has repelled the priest and the concept of a religious death. charles is in complete accord with lord marchmain and this is the cause of certain strife with the family. the theme of religion and morality strung throughout the episodes reaches its apex here.

father mackay is brought in for absolution while lord marchmain seems to be at death’s door. there is a scuffle, charles vehemently arguing that the father should not be allowed in while lord marchmain is still alive as the shock may be enough to kill him.

these are the final turns around the noose that charles ties for himself. you had the lady! you had the house! and you flushed it, charles. his cynicism towards religion and belief in truth get the better of him and he forces himself out of julia’s life.

it is all little more than a memory now. charles goes off to war, and brideshead represents a fond but depressing reminder of yesteryear when he comes across it one cold day in the course of duty during the war.

the house is empty, save for a few serving girls, much military equipment, and old nanny hawkins in her room. charles takes tea to old nan and gets the goods on the recent history of the marchmains. nan reminded me of a delightful nanny i once knew, the grandmother of family friends, the kind of elderly lady that outlives most of her children, grandchildren, and possibly great-grandchildren.

later, a young soldier says to charles, “you said you knew this place before.”

“yes. it belongs to friends of mine.”

charles still has his sense of humour when he jokingly says “i’m homeless, childless, middle-aged, and loveless.” after a bit of cheering he makes his way to the chapel, kneels, and says a prayer.

afterword
what is to be said? a thousand other shards of narrative than i have given here. this is a slow moving story that is filled will countless touching, humourous, and intriguing moments. it leaves you feeling complete and tired, having traveled the long journey through charles’ life as a young man and into middle age.

although the sheer size of this series is daunting, i encourage you wholeheartedly to take it on one wintry week when you are well stocked with bombay sapphire tonics and your heart is open to the world of evelyn waugh’s brideshead.

the prime of life

this is as open a book as a 1960 publication date would allow simone de beauvoir. in it is an insightful and honest exploration of self and society through the 1930s up to the liberation of france in 1944.

the prime of life covers an enormously influential and developmental period for beauvoir, and goes into great detail about her relationship with sartre, camus, and many other french intellectuals of the time, as well as her close relationships with less famous friends and family.

beauvoir documents the growth of her independence in thought and spirit, sharing intimate details about her misgivings and epiphanies. she is an admirable figure, one that courageously sets out on a path of the understanding of self and other.

she documents with detail what life was like during the german occupation of france during the second world war, and shares diary entries from the period. we learn about sartre’s enlistment to the military, his capture by the germans, and his subsequent escape. the reader gains an appreciation of the difficulties facing the intellectual left in france at that time period, and how they worked together.

i simply cannot say enough about this book. while i always have enjoyed learning about beauvoir’s life (largely through deidre bair’s biography), it was a friend that gave me the prime of life as a gift. this is one of the most remarkable books i’ve had pressed upon me, to which i am most grateful.

simone de beauvoir is a writer with clarity and humility that fully expresses the struggles of the individual during this socially difficult and intellectually explosive period in french history. whether it is due to the numerous anecdotes, the enchanting philosophizing, or the brazen honesty, this is one of those few books i recommend with insistence.

nicholas nickleby and much gushing over dickens

my love of dickens goes back to high school. in grade twelve we read the mystery of edwin drood, dickens’ last unfinished novel. our task was to write an ending to it. what a strenuous and rewarding task. how rich the language, how thick the social commentary. regardless of the predictability of a dickensian plot-curve, i cannot help but feel enveloped by his sense of narrative and his striking turn of the phrase. he is a social satirist without equal, and i readily admire his prose. take the opening of bleak house – there is nothing its equal. if you disregard dickens completely, at the very least read the first few paragraphs of this masterwork. you cannot deny the brilliance. i am a terribly cynical and sarcastic man, and i unabashedly adore dickens.

LONDON. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes — gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another’s umbrellas in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if the day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.

Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time — as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look.

how can one not disappear, consumed by the wealth of detail and voracious quality of such writing? i always have the sense that great art should invoke in me a feel of hunger, and dickens does not fail to provoke such ravenousness.

the 2002 film version of nicholas nickleby manages to succeed at bringing to screen dickens’ thick and thoughtful prose. it captures the melodrama, while honing in on the nuances that mark dickens’ writing. jim broadbent (as wackford squeers) and christopher plummer (as ralph nickleby) inspire in us such loathing, such depraved insolence, that their performances are worthy of nothing less than standing applause. they play horrible men wonderfully.

charlie hunnam embraces the righteous and loving character of nicholas nickleby in a way that has us all yelling in moral indignation. and, perhaps most brilliantly of all, jamie bell shows us the agony of young smike, a boy bashed down by both disability and love. if bell’s performance does not make you feel, then you have no heart.

while the period pieces of m’lady jane austen make us pleasantly euphoric, the social satires of dearest dickens leave us somewhat weary and warmed by the success of his protagonists and the degradation (or death) of his evil capitalists and cruel imprisoners.

this is a wonderful film to press upon anyone (especially your children), and a great success by its director douglas mcgrath and multi-talented cast. equally importantly, you witness the annoyingly adorable alan cumming do a scottish dance, timothy spall as a tenderheart, and the irrepressible (who else can own that title?) nathan lane as himself.

kingdom of fear

if you’ve read one hunter s. thompson book you have an inkling of what he’s all about. agitated, reactionary, hyperbolic. and entertaining.

kingdom of fear traces a goulash of events in thompson’s life, primarily looking at the period between the late 1970s and 2002. he rambles endlessly about various adventures he wound up in, peppered with a sense of the ridiculous and a lust for outlandish behaviour. thompson is one of those rare characters who seems to have a monstrous ego, refined eccentricities, and yet remains amusing. even when hunter lands himself in the middle of some deranged situation that appears to be entirely his fault i find myself sympathizing with him. partly because he is self-conscious of his antics, reputation, and mandate. partly because he doesn’t know how to say just say no. he knows he is absurd and likes to do dangerous things that he discourages others from trying. the very fact that he doesn’t recommend his hard-drinking, drugging, and fast-driving lifestyle is what makes him attractive to many readers. he is a self-constructed outlaw figure. he lives his own legend, while at the same time continuing to cultivate the cult of personality that surrounds him.

as a book, though, this is a mediocre document. there are some extraordinarily funny moments, such as when he starts off making an interesting point, becomes aware of how great is writing style is (thinking that he is in a groove), and then he blows it with his mind wandering into a method for killing charles manson in the instance that someone’s daughter beccame messed up with his type. this piece is brilliant in its comic buildup and hunter’s awareness of his own unraveling narrative.

largely, though, this book feels like a justification for much of his behaviour and a defense against the various allegations made against him over the years. there is much talk of god, with hunter waffling on his faith throughout. in some ways this book has the feeling of atonement, with hunter trying to shrug his shoulders with an “awe shucks” attitude.

for all the glorious moments in kingdom of fear, i would still recommend fear and loathing in las vegas for anyone trying to get hunter at his gonzo height. hell’s angels is also a great book, though written with a different purpose. hunter’s ego is in hell’s angels, but he was feigning more journalistic objectivity. it is a fun book that hints at what is to come.

in recent years hunter has become a parody of himself. his writing style has become highly repetitive, and his catch-phrases overkilled. i saw an episode of conan o’brien’s late night show a while ago in which hunter was doing his author tour for kingdom of fear. he had trouble walking up stairs, looked very dazed, but still had a great wit. i think we continue to love him because there is only one hunter s. thompson. there are many imitators, but he still exceeds them all and will continue to do so until he is long gone.

chaos and genius

chaos
finished consuming james gleick’s chaos this morning on skytrain. he knows how to write entertaining books on science, drawing on the personal lives of mathematicians, meteorologists, physicists, and biologists to show the human struggle for understanding. plus the book has a lot of very beautiful pictures relating to the development of ideas in the field. i’d be interested in reading some of the developments in the field since the book was originally published in 1987.

chaos largely looks at science done in the 70s, as the study of chaos really began to take hold, with characters like the curious mitchell feigenbaum figuring prominently. you have to marvel at the daring minds who set themselves at the dangerous vanguard of science. careers are at stake. reputations are gambled upon. when theories and research suddenly click and the world is forever changed it is stunning. gleick captures this excitement and wonder. he makes science and scientists sexy.

and how cool is this: a free download of a chaos program that lets you visually look at mandelbrot sets and strange attractors, made by autodesk and based on gleick’s book.

genius
recently i had a chance to read a more recent book by gleick, genius, looking at the life of richard feynman. from his work at los alamos to his investigation into the challenger space shuttle explosion, feynman provoked and innovated fiercely. gleick portrays a man who is extraordinarily driven, funny, charming, and brilliant. again, gleick captures not only the essence of the scientist, but puts science into a social context.

feynman’s character flaws and eccentricities are laid bare, revealing the personal side of genius (as opposed to the very public discoveries and breakthroughs scientists announce).

in this book, too, it is gleick’s writing style that drives the narrative briskly through a heavily populated timeline. he really understands what is exciting about the work people like feynman do.

i’ve signed gleick’s faster out from the library, which i’m looking forward to. i’ve read so-so reviews of it, but i’m betting it’s worth a go. also can’t wait to get my hands on his new book on isaac newton. yum yum.

research

researching. it’s something i love and hate. i love having an excuse to read heaps of books on arcane subjects. i hate trying to do this while holding down a day job.

i’m currently reading about new religious movements of the 60s and 70s. could there be anything more fun?

plowing through ed sanders’ the family. a thick book written in a strange personal style. pretending objectivity? not ed. his highly subjective writing style constantly reminds you that you are reading the history of the manson clan through a filter. still, a fascinating study.

calgary. climbing. experience.

so i didn’t go to calgary. or anywhere else. thankfully.

not so long ago i made a trip out to g.e. polymershapes in vancouver. it is the lollypop land of plastics. i now want to grab every piece of plastic i can find and paint it. the rubbermaid shudders in the cupboard as we speak.

after much family visiting i’ve succeeded in doing almost no reading. still working through martin amis’ experience. i’m still entertained and intrigued 207 pages into it, so it must be alright. there are some little rambling bits which lose me, but i chalk that up to the walkmen, chatterbugs, cellphones, and altogether buzzing atmosphere of the city bus.

my current lust is rock climbing in squamish. indescribable, thus far.

calgary. anarchy. amis.

recently spent a week in calgary for work purposes. i hadn’t been there in probably 12 years. there’s no need for me to be snarky and comment how i don’t plan on going back, but for christ’s sake could you people provide at least ONE vegetarian dish?

i have to admit that the people in calgary are incredibly friendly. case in point: my co-worker is lifting a dolly of grouting equipment over a parking barrier. a kindly calgarian, dressed in a suit and tie, give him a hand. you do not see this kind of behaviour in vancouver. in vancouver the suit would have knocked my co-worker over and urinated on him. in conclusion, calgarians are very friendly folk. i like them. if we could transplant some of that down to earth humanity to vancouver i’d be plucky.

now that i’m back to the more reasonable coastal climate, i’ve returned to reading at a decent pace. here are the latest:

douglas fetherling’s bio on george woodcock “The Gengle Anarchist” is a worthy primer on the legendary writer and activist. the book is short, but that is as it should be. it introduces us to the incredible and well-travelled life of woodcock. fetherling’s personal relationship with the subject enhances this bio (although i’m not entirely sure what i think of his insanely literate weekly column for the vancouver sun), and i can do nothing but recommend it beyond measure.

another recent read is martin amis’ “night train”, which, unfortunately, was not so great. i can understand why writers branch out and try new things, but why a brilliant british turner-of-the-phrase would try is hand at the yank hard-boiled detective novel is beyond me. sure, there is some good play on the genre, i’ll give him that. and the phrases are of course well tuned. but it just didn’t do it for me. i’m cranking through his “experience”, which is proving far superior. update to follow.

ballard. bowles. crowley. delillo. prison.

life has been a blur of work, reading, and procrastinating.

as the observant would notice, if they were diligent enough, it has been months since i’ve last written anything here. time does not have meaning here, even with the odd current events item. it’s all a slush of being at my place.

things that have pleased me since we last spoke:

  • a little J.G. Ballard never hurt anyone (except its characters). High-Rise was a disturbing work which begs to be filmed, but to which film could never do justice. it would be too campy or too unbelievable as a movie. somehow Ballard is capable of taking distressing concepts and acting them out believably with a cast of misfits.

    still, this book was not nearly as scary as The Atrocity Exhibition, which kept me compulsively flipping pages, part of me hoping no one on the bus was reading over my shoulder. Ballard’s notes are probably more interesting than the book itself, but the surreal snippets of prose are akin to nails being pounded into your head (if such a ridiculous analogy may be employed). where is the world going, and do we want to be on it when it gets there? if Ballard is a visionary of the future, i’d like to take the next off ramp. yet, as Ballard knows, we will be too caught in the headlights to escape what our own hands have created.

  • Lawrence Sutin’s bio of Aleister Crowley, Do What Thou Wilt was a lengthy and interesting read into the oft misrepresented icon of the deviants (Crowley does seem to have misrepresented himself plenty, though).

    what i primarily got from this was the complex dealings of new religious movements, their organization and foibles, and insight into the type of personality that starts their own framework for finding meaning. Crowley comes off as a battered human struggling to make sense of the world, his own way.

  • Don DeLillo’s Mao II is slipping so far into my memory shards that i can barely recollect. let me skim it for a moment… ah, right, Bill Gray and the world of the reclusive writer. good book. DeLillo knows how to throw a sentence together and pick compulsively at the sore that is western culture. i seem to recall it being not particularly uplifting around december.
  • Martin Amis is someone i’d read briefly in the past, but have been getting more into. Success was a lot of fun, snappy as hell. one of my favourite Amisisms in it is: “I want all that and I want all that. And I want all that and I want all that. And I want all that and I want all that. I don’t want what he has. But I want what he wants.”

    i chased this little book down with The Information, which I found tedious and drearily long. too many digressions. too much too much. still stylishly written, but poorly executed.

  • Paul Bowles has ran ahead of the pack and planted himself as one of my all time favourite writers. brisk, austere prose. working through the big Selected Stories, and just finished off The Sheltering Sky. delicious and vicious. filled with anxiety.
  • the most recent nonfiction, nonbiographical book to smack me good upside the head was David Cayley’s The Expanding Prison, in which he tears apart the criminal justice system and explores the major issues therein. a substantial and accessible book, bound to shock and anger you.
  • perhaps i should write here more often, becoming something more than a retrospective life in point-form.

    in transit: the divine invasion of houellebecq

    transiting 2-plus hours a day gives one a lot of reading time. after putting down a lot of crap i came into a bunch of good ones.

    Michel Houellebecq is amazing. his book Atomised is one of the best books i’ve read, period. the ending is absolutely incredible, taking the book in an unexpected direction. kind of like the ending to A.I.. at first you question this incredible leap, but then you buy into it. when taking that risk pays off, it pays off big time.

    Houellebecq’s whatever is good, but nowhere near as good as Atomised. it reminded me of Camus in some ways (i can’t remember how, it’s already been a few weeks since i read it and i have a notoriously lousy memory). check out this quote, partially blurbed on the book cover – the main character is discussing his experiences with his therapist:

    …From time to time he glances at his wristwatch (fawn leather strap, rectangular gold-plated face); I get the feeling of not overly interesting him. I ask myself if he keeps a revolver in his drawer, for patients in a state of violent crisis. At the end of an hour he pronounces a few phrases of general import on periods of blankness, extends my leave of absence and increases my dosage of medication. He also reveals that my condition has a name: it’s a depression. Officially, then, I’m in a depression. The formula seems a happy one to me. It’s not that I feel tremendously low; it’s rather that the world around me appears high.

    also thoroughly enjoyed Lawrence Sutin’s Divine Invasions: A Life of Philip K. Dick. Sutin used a few too many cliched phrases, but this was his first stab at a book, so he may be forgiven. his editor, however, should be persecuted to the full extent of literary law (in which i believe being ‘booked’ rather than ‘stoned’ is the ultimate sentence).

    Phil Dick is a wacky cat, and his attempts to further understand the nature of reality and meaning leave me in awe. in a way it is no more amazing than how everyone else seems to buy into their own realities. Phil just struggled with his version of things a bit more. not to trivialize him. his excursions are simply incredible, whereas most people are mundane and rather boring. if only everyone questioned themselves so heavily.

    the other best read lately was Ted Anton’s Eros, Magic, and the Murder of Professor Culianu, which could have turned out to be nothing more than pulp crap but was actually intriguing. Anton makes a bit much of certain aspects (Culianu’s dabbling in the occult), but does a decent job of giving a brief overview of Romanian political history. i’m not sure if Culianu was everything he’s made out to be, but he comes across as a powerful mind that was turned off far too soon.

    other than these good reads, transit sucks shit. it makes my day long. really, though, Translink, and this fucking strike in general, are killing the poor, disabled, and elderly. like i really have anything to complain about compared to that.