PHOENIX

Those of you who haven't yet done so should check out French indie band Phoenix's latest album, Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix. Perfect fusion of ambient and pop, and very, very listenable. In places, the lyrics are positively dream-like:

Acres

Visible horizon

Right where it starts and ends

When did we start the end?

Acres

Visible illusion

Where it starts it ends

Love like a sunset

Just enough to tease and tempt you, but not so much that it comes off as slutty. I like.

SOCIOPATHS IN LOVE

If there's something sexier than a sociopathic couple doing what they do best, I don't know what it is. Nor do I wish to know, as I don't believe I am wired to handle that level of eroticism. I am speaking, of course, of Paul Bernardo and his ever-so luscious partner in crime, Karla Homolka.

For those who don't share my taste for the aesthetically sublime, Paul and Karla were a young, attractive couple who perpetrated what later became known as the "Ken & Barbie" murders in Ontario in the early 1990s. Said murders consisted of the drugging, rape, and death of three teenage girls, including Karla's younger sister, Tammy. Karla's sultry cold-bloodedness can be clearly seen in the events leading up to and shortly following her sister's demise.

In the summer of 1990, Paul decided that de-flowering Karla's younger sister was an idea whose time had come. Karla enthusiastically participated in the plan to drug and rape Tammy, a plan which came to fruition on the night of December 23, 1990. Following a christmas party, the sexy couple brought Tammy back to their home where she was drugged with animal tranquilizers (Karla worked at a vet's office). After Paul and Karla took turns raping the comatose girl, Tammy aspirated and died. While lesser women would have had, shall we say, a less calm reaction, the delightful Karla jumped into action, clothing her dead sibling and moving the body into the basement. Not only did she not appear to be too upset about this development, she went on to assist Paul in ending the lives of two more unsuspecting young ladies.

Okay, so I'm guessing you want some sort of uplifting, edifying conclusion to all of this, don't you? Never fear. At their trial, Karla quite brilliantly painted herself to be an abused victim of Paul's, doing his bidding not out of her natural lust for destruction, but out of fear of the consequences of disobedience. In exchange for her testimony regarding Paul, Karla received a significantly reduced sentence (12 years), while Paul received a sentence of life imprisonment with a possibility of parole after 25 years.

Like most lovers of life, Paul and Karla decided to videotape their adventures. Much to Paul's chagrin, and for various reasons not relevant here, the tapes (which did NOT support Karla's story of a frightened victim) did not surface until after she had entered into her plea bargain with the prosecution. Karla thrived in the country club prison in which she was confined (engaging in various naughty activities with other females), and was eventually released in 2005. She now has a baby with her new husband and is rumored to be living somewhere in the West Indies.

A woman so entrenched in evil and depravity is something close to a national treasure, although I sincerely doubt the Canadians appreciate their good fortune in this regard. She participated in the death of her own sister, and the murder of two other girls, and then introduced poor Paul to the underside of the proverbial bus to save her ass. Gotta love that.

The Marquis de Sade often said that when a woman commits a libertine act, she is effused with an angelic glow, the kind of radiance that is mesmerizing and terrifying at the same time. Look at the dead eyes in the photo above. The glow is there, my friends. I like to think she had it often. Love ya, sweets.

I WANT TO SEE THAT FUCKING LOOK

I'm not even going to deny being a closet sadist. Peoples' pain and discomfort has a calming and life-affirming effect on my psyche. One of my most treasured fantasies is as follows: I find a good-hearted soul, one who believes that the universe is a beneficent and well-meaning place that has nothing but the best interests of the human race at heart. This type of belief can take many forms, all the way from belief in the Judeo-Christian god to belief in astrology to belief that "nature" is the true "god-force," otherwise known as Pantheism.

The key ingredient in this ethos must be that, whatever the machine that powers the universe, human beings are at its metaphysical center. We are the reason behind the machination. Something or Someone is watching out for us and there is a definite purpose, a "why," if you will, for everything.

Once I have located this hapless victim, I take them to that place. What place is that, you might ask? I am referring to that special window, that magnificent opening in the space-time continuum where one can look and behold the true nature of things and experience the reality of existence with no illusions or false promises. And when they look through that portal, do you know what I want them to see? Nothing. That immense void, the boundless and endless blackness that is the truth of all things. I want them to know that the universe neither knows nor cares that we are here; that there is no one watching out for them; that things do not "happen for a reason"; and that nothing you do or say means anything save to those who have had the good fortune to know them.

And I want to see the look in their eyes, that dawn of understanding and horrible realization. I want them to feel it all at once, and to see that feeling reflected in their bulging and terrified eyes. In those few moments of abject grief, I will find a little bit of peace. And it will be worth it.

TRANSCENDENCE I

I love those rare moments where pop culture crosses the line from mere entertainment to something approaching art, or even to art itself. While one should certainly always be on guard against impostors at every level, popsters posing as something more are a particularly risky sub-set. But every now and then, something comes along in the big bad world of multi-media that hits me like a tidal wave, and I am unmistakably (if a little embarrassingly) moved.

One such moment is the first time I saw the video for Glosoli, by the ethereal Icelandic band Sigur Ros. I don't want to spoil it for those of you wanting to watch it, but let's just say it places a much-needed positive perspective on a theme from The Catcher in the Rye. The first time I saw it I was transfixed by the beauty and hope contained in its little universe. Watch the video and see if you don't agree.

MOVIES ABOUT MOUNTAIN CLIMBING

For the most part, I love 'em. Two of which I am especially fond are K-2 and Touching the Void. While drastically different in style and tone, both films adhere to Formal By-Law of Mountain Climbing Movies #1, which is "Thou shalt maximize actual mountain climbing footage when at all possible." Slightly less known, but of equal import, is By-Law #2, which states "Thou shalt minimize intrusive sub-plots that detract from adherence to By-Law #1."

The makers of Nordwand (2008) appear to be young upstarts who think they have no need for such silly, fuddy-duddy old rules. Better known in America as North Face, the film tells the story of two Bavarian climbers attempting to scale the dreaded north face of the Eiger in 1936. For those of you not in the know, the Eiger is a mountain in the Bernese Alps, about 13,000 feet in height, and infamous for repelling over-eager scalers into the infernal regions.

Attempting such a feat in 1936 was, as you can imagine, a source of pride for Nazi Germany. Granted, the political ramifications of such a sub-plot are certainly not irrelevant, and I wouldn't expect the film makers to leave it untouched. I would, however, expect to see some significant time on the great mountain before half the movie is over. We don't get that here. Instead, we are treated to an incredibly lame love story that I cannot imagine any fans of mountain climbing movies would possibly find interesting. In addition, we are reminded (again and again, and in every which way possible), that the Third Reich has its beady eyes on the two dare-devils. Yes, we get it. The Nazis were Bad People. Now let's climb that fucking mountain before geology has its way with it.

CHINESE DEMOCRACY

Without going over some exhaustive list of fucked-up artists with galactic egos, I feel safe in believing the cliche that the crazier an artist is, generally speaking the higher quality of art he will produce. Of course, the term "crazy" can have many meanings in this context, and I realize that one man's crazy is another man's normal. That being said, I feel equally safe making the unqualified assertion that Axl Rose is a colossal prick who has learned nothing from life.

Following the success of Use Your Illusion I and II, Guns N Roses split up, due in no small part to Axl's, um, "difficult" personality. Instead of taking a brief hiatus and then releasing a mediocre yet listenable solo album like most former lead singers, Axl retained ownership of the GNR name and spent the next 16 years masturbating to pics of himself and teasing fans with the imminent release of the mystical Chinese Democracy album. The album was finally released in late 2008, but by that time many GNR fans had lost interest, had kids, fought in wars, or started bands of their own. The good news for the remaining GNR fans is that Axl seemed immune to the hard lessons of life that have a tendency to bring a sense of maturity and perspective to many normal folk.

Don't get me wrong: I'm all for youthful rebellion, a hearty fuck you to your parents, schools, teachers, preachers, and all the other meanies conspiring to steal your individuality. But you know what? That shit stops being cute after a certain age. I am not sure exactly what age that is, but I'm pretty sure it's something before 46, Axl's age at the time of the release of Chinese Democracy. See, Axl spent a good deal of time giving the finger to the world in the late 80s and early 90s, and it made sense. Then.

One would be inclined to think that, given the realization of his own mortality that typically comes with middle age, Axl would have "mellowed" a bit and taken some responsibility for his own role in the vaudevillian mess his life had become. But no no. Instead of the brittle self-awareness offered by country great Merle Haggard ("Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading, I denied. That leaves only me to blame 'cos Mama tried"), we get the petulant whine of a 16 year old boy content to sit alone in a room and hate his "wrongdoers":

"You like to hurt me
You know that you do
You like to think
In some way
That it's me

And not you(But we know that isn't true)"

Of course it isn't, Axl. How could it ever possibly be you? The song, Sorry, is rumored to be about former bandmate, Slash, but of course, it could be about any number of villains that have victimized poor Axl over the past 46 years. Not only is there no ownership of personal responsibility for any of his many problems, there is the utter lack of understanding of the wall of self-deception he has had to put in place to rationalize his life:

"It's harder to live
With the truth about you
Than to live with
The lies about me"

Well, yes, lies are often easier to live with than the truth. That's why people tell themselves so many of them. Victim boy doesn't quite seem to get this, and I'm sure the "lies" he is referring to are the versions of events his "enemies" have offered. Regardless, the spectacle of a 46 year old man challenging the world to a fight for "hassling" him Holden Caulfield-style is a sad one indeed. Please join me in inviting former GNR frontman and current crybaby pussyboy Axl Rose to grow the fuck up.

INSOMNIA

It really is a gift from the gods, if you think about it. Some of the most creative thinking and problem-solving happens in those still, quiet hours when you either (a) haven't been able to sleep and got up or (b) slept for about 2 or 3 hours and woke up and couldn't go back to sleep. Whatever mental turbulence is keeping you up can be quelled by the silent reflection in those psychotic fucking moments of reverie that accompany solitude and fatigue. The best is when you can see the light starting to come through the shades and hear the birds boastfully announcing their existence. This is when lives can be (emphasis on can) altered forever. This is also why you should throw away your fucking sleeping pills.