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… in which the giant ape is subdued by Naomi Watts within seconds, same as any other male mammal, regardless of size.

I’ll keep my remarks short, to a sentence or two per thought, in the new style.

Peter Jackson’s King Kong establishes what I suspect we all knew but perhaps would have liked to see for sure: Pete can make a great flick about something other than a drunk Irish dwarf babbling on and on about “yeees, but what about second breakfast?” for over nine hours, with a ring and some sh*t.

Not that we needed proof. Although Lord of the Rings has dominated much of Jackson’s last ten years, we knew from before than, via Heavenly Creatures and his slasher-action, that his would eventually rise to a level.

I read or saw that Jackson wanted to re-make Kong since a young kiwi. That took me back in time, to my own personal Shire. When I was 12 (or 27), and making videotape movies in my parent’s garage. Robocop 5. Space Bounties. Tie fighters… in a pile… on top of a pile of paper grocery sacks. Burning, all burning. Parents come home during this. Carport on fire. The party days.

Kong works where the Hulk didn’t for one reason, I think: the execution of Kong (Andy Sirkis) is flawless. Since this isn’t an original story (”WHAT? GIANT GORILLA ON THE MARCH IN NYC? WHO WULDA THUNK?!?!?!?”), that fact is probably 50% of the magic.

I think what Jackson and WETA learned on Rings with Gollum is that it’s not really about character believability from the integration, modeling, alias and jaggies-reduction, compositing and lighting perspective: it’s the acting that comes through the animated character.

From that perspective, I guess it’s an old concept. At least as old as Shreck, or that peg-legged flying elephant with the peg leg, and the magic feather.

Most of the zero people who read this blog already know the story of Kong, so I’ll only note it’s faithful to the original, and the awful (although this is the one I grew up with) 70’s version with Jeff Bridges and, uh, Cybill Shepard or someone?

The character of Kong, one can see, without any words, really wants the relationship with his human-sized chick (Watts) to work. And that’s so important.

And who wouldn’t want it to work, what with Watts being one of the most desirable women on the planet? She’s perfect for the role. Not SJ (too pouty), not J-Lo (too butt-y), not Kidman (statuesque and undeniably beautiful, but also too aloof and stringy). Really, who else could play the role of Anne Whatever-her-name-was-that-Naomi-Watts-played? Lindsay Lohan? Too young and ravaged by cocaine.

What I’m saying is this, ok: a goddamn 70-foot tall silverback gorilla is going to really try to make a relationship with Naomi Watts work. Possibly in ways that us guys (e.g. Adrian Brody) can’t quite pull off. Really explore the space, you know? The… large-mammal-to-much-smaller mammal-space.

Unfortunately, I have the grave suspicion that Kong’s phallus (which we don’t see, and really: why is that?) is probably the same size as Watts in her entirety, so there are practical limitations to really, you know, fully exploring the space.

As such, we are left to witness a very true, heartfelt, and non-verbal/non-physical (other than Kong getting Ike Turner and beating the crap out of Fay) relationship bloom between Watts and Sirkis/Kong, before that final wave of fighters come in and blow him off the Empire State Building to fall to his death a thousand feet below.

Did I mention before this one was fairly true to the original? Sorry, let me fix this:

WARNING: SPOILERS

King Kong dies at the end of King Kong. No sequels.

Jack Black is good as a sh*theel, breaking new ground. Adrian Brody, also really exploring the space, is great as Watts’s gay screenwriter (hey, now!) boyfriend.

I think my favorite Peter Jackson addition has to be this, though: so Kong escapes his chains in NYC, right? He runs out in the street, and he’s slipping around, because it’s winter and icy, and he’s not equipped for it. He’s looking desperately for Watts’s character (again… Anne something? Barrow? Darrow? Farrow? Bone-something?), and keeps picking up vaguely similar-looking blonde chicks from the street, checking them out, determining it’s not Watts, and then throwing the girls into the sides of buildings, where their WETA stunt doubles dutifully hit concrete then bounce down the street.

Is “Naomi Watts” even spelled that way? As much respect as I have for her, your not going to get the answer here.

Who among us hasn’t been rejected at some point? Everybody’s searching for something. Just ask Lemmy of Motorhead, who is always looking for that last Jack and Coke of the evening that he misplaced under his boot. It’s so rare (I’d say it only happens once or twice in a lifetime) that we actually become a giant ape, smashing cars in the street, looking for that girl — that one — and actually having the power to do something about it. Which is to say, smash cars and other girls until we find her, then climb up a building, be a big target, and get shot to death.

Other than that, the “Skull Island sequence”, which consumes approximately 89% of the film, is first-rate, with lots of snakes and fire and a dinosaur and scary natives who are summarily executed by the main characters, and that’s where we meet Kong.

The film really makes you think, basically, which is what it’s all about.

On one level, you take something that is beautiful (a giant gorilla) out of its home, into a strange place, after taking away the person it cared about the most, and then you antagonize the gorilla with machine guns and ice. In many ways, it’s a perfect allegory for the I.T. industry.

On another level, it’s a clear demonstration that Peter Jackson can not only lose ~70 lbs (which, btw, congratulations! I’ve been there, and you’re looking great!), but make a tremendous non-elvish movie. Not that you shouldn’t remake The Hobbit, PJ. However, if you are reading this (and note: you are not), I have your next project right here. CONTACT ME.

On another level, it’s about taking something beautiful (Naomi Watts) and paying her, I dunno, $6 million dollars to be in the movie.

Mostly, I think, it’s about loss of self, which seems to be a big theme these days, with the Matrix movies and whatnot. Kong was comfortable on Skull Island. Then, he meets Naomi, expects to torture and eat her, but becomes enchanted, as all men would be. Already, he’s outside his comfort zone with this little blonde chick, off balance. Eventually, he’s in NYC, which should be homey since it’s a concrete jungle, but he is first stoned, then sliding around on ice (an analogy for “losing one’s footing?”), then climbs a building and gets shot to death (an analogy for being “shot to death?”), the fate that awaits us all.

There’s a little Kong in all of us. Unfortunately, the ability to backhand taxis into buildings is not part of the bargain.

rds

See this movie, then see (if you have not):

Mulholland Drive
21 Grams
Jurassic Park (mostly to see how much better this is… I mean, it’s been more than ten years…)
Lord of the Rings
Shallow Hal
That movie with the gay boyfriend in it
The School of Rock
Original King Kong
Boogie Nights
U2’s Rattle and Hum
Master and Commander: The Far Side!

Then listen to:

Antony and the Johnstons… for the true sadness Kong feels.

Something newer Mac / OS X users may not be aware of is the value of performing a periodic “Repair Permissions” activity on your OS X boot disk.

Why would I? Isn’t OS X infallible?

Despite what I told you in the past, OS X is not perfect. saying it was perfect was merely a tactic I used to convince you to buy a mac.

When experiencing random strangeness, failures, slowdown, apps crashing, application hangs, gremlins, daemons crashing, pieces of sky falling, running a “Repair Permissions” is a good idea..

Why did I, Rick Shangle, just do a “Repair Permissions” within the last 30 minutes?

In my case, wholesale freezing of the Finder on boot… EVERY BOOT. Some apps could load, some would load and hang, some would load and crash. Some would run fine and crash. Profound strangeness. This followed a reboot prompted by getting a “fork: cannot spawn process” event in the Terminal, which led me to believe a) I had runaway processes b) procfs was severely trashed or c) some other onerous event was happening. That’s neither here nor there.

Finally I logged in not as “me”, but as an empty/default admin account I keep on the system called “backdoorman”. There, the hanging Finder problem was not evident, and I was able to run Disk Utility ==> Repair Permission (see process below).

Note: I really recommend the empty/default admin account thing, as well. Without it, I’d probably be searching for a 10.4 DVD to boot from, and since i throw away / shred all CDs/DVDs within moments of loading any software on them, such an activity would probably require a trip to the Apple store (which, fortunately, is 1mile from my new home).

What does “Repair Permissions” do?

You know, other than what I can infer by the name (repairing permissions on key system executable / resource files), I really have no idea. Go Google it.

How did the “permissions” get in need of “repair”?

That is an excellent question. You know, I don’t know the answer to that either, just that it happens sometimes.

Maybe rebooting too much. Maybe rebooting not enough. Maybe running Azereus, a Bittorrent client that seems to have no limits with regard to the amount of havoc it causes on my system.

Who can say?

How does one “Repair Permissions”?

a) Load Applications => Utilities => Disk Utility

b) Click on your boot disk in the left pane

c) Click “Repair Permissions” button below the main pane.

d) Wait, hope, pray something good will happen.

e) Repeat periodically, like flossing.

How long does it take to “Repair Permissions”?

Couple of minutes, usually. Unless something horrible happens.

I just ran “Repair Permissions”, and it did something. Then I ran it again, and it appeared to do something (the same thing) again. Why?

It’s just how it is. Such is the mystery of “repair permissions”.

Would one ever just do the “Verify Permissions” activity, say, before doing a “Repair Permissions”?

Not that I can see, no. Unless you are a huge nerd.

Is the .Mac “Backup 3.x” product a worthless piece of tripe that will lead to a false sense of data security, followed by inevitable data loss?

Sadly yes, it is the case. rsync + cron, or rsnapshot. You’re running UNIX, folks. Take advantage of it. Tar, if you need to. cpio.

Next chapter: manually reloading netinfo databases from a backup.

rds

Bob Mould Solo Acoustic
Birchmere Auditorium in Alexandria, VA
Some time in late November, 2005

I’ve never been to the Birchmere auditorium / dinner club-esque system before. There was lots of available parking, and while walking through the rain to the door, at no time did I feel that I was going to be stabbed in the neck with an icepick. It may have been a misperception on my part. Suffice to say, I was not icepicked before or after the show.

In addition to being the Godfather of Alternative Rock, Bob Mould wears many other hats: blogger, rock guitar maestro, producer, Mac advocate. He may unofficially be the hardest-working man in rock, and I think he approaches his job - to share his pain by making your eardrums bleed - in a very professional, workmanlike manner. In the solo acoustic setting (actually, only half the set was acoustic, played on a twelve string that refused to stay in tune; Bob indicated said guitar was not long for this world, that we may in fact be privy to its swan song), the mission is only slightly modified - make audience eardrums bleed, softly.

Things started on slightly down note when, upon approaching the box office and asking if this is where I could pick up Will Call tickets, I was stared at by the mongoloid within the box for approximately ten seconds before being told, “yeah”. I’ll only say that it is not always the case that Will Call tickets are picked up at the standard box office. Perhaps the response was driven by my appearance - long-sleeve t-shirt, shorts, generally wet and disheveled and speaking profanely. Perhaps I’ll let it go only indicating that thoughts of ice picks again crossed my mind, but then Eric and I had our tickets, and we were in. I’ll repeat: WE WERE IN.

We grabbed a beer and some smokes while Kristin Hersh finished her set. I’m sure it was good, we just didn’t see it. For Tanya Donelly, I probably would have made the effort. It’s sad, but true: I’m a bad person.

We walked in and took seats way stage right (the main area was fairly packed) as Bob ripped into “Wishing Well”, which has been his standard opener the three times I’ve seen him play acoustic. He was looking trim and healthy, and I made a mental note to - soon - shave my head completely, as I’m going bald, and it’s reaching the point where it’s sort of embarrassing, as the receding hairline is starting to team up with the big bald spot at the crown. One in my position could always go for the Picard, I guess, but really what’s the point? Bald is beautiful. We’ll see what my fiance feels about that. Seeing Mould in this mode - fit, balanced - also makes me want to quit smoking. One thing at a time. Bald first. Then getting over my disdain for mockery at secret Will Call windows. Then… the sky’s the limit.

Having missed dinner, I was quite peckish, and ordered what I soon determined was probably the worst possible food item for a live music venue where said music isn’t pummeling the crowd in excess of 140 dB - nachos. A small panic attack overtook me when they arrived, and I realized I was facing the real possibility of pissing off not only those around me (three couples; it was fairly empty in our section), but the performer as well. Since I have more respect for Bob than any other musician on the planet, this was worrisome, but I soon developed a two-step methodology that I figured could keep us all alive and happy: a) only eat a nacho when the music was playing; and b) take the entire nacho, stick it into my mouth, and more or less b1) swallow it whole, letting my stomach do the “chewing” or b2) chew said nacho with my powerful throat muscles. I think Bob was none the wiser, or at least he tastefully refrained from asking, “I wonder how the nachos are tonight, jerk” between numbers. The guy sitting between us and the stage, however, was clearly annoyed, and turned around approximately a dozen times, ever time I finished another intense esophageal chew. Again I was awash in a sea of icepick-thoughts, but he was in the right, no denying it. Soon, however, the 3000 calorie nacho plate was done, and with a few songs left in the set, no less! But by then Bob was plugged in, so it really didn’t matter; had I more nachos to eat (and believe me, I wished I did; they were pretty good), I could have eaten them with impunity, getting right up in Anti-Nacho’s kit and slathering my face with nacho cheese and salsa that was delicious, if not spicy.

Bob was joined by Richard Morel (keyboards; Blowoff partner) and a talented elvish woman on some sort of large stringed instrument (cello? bass? I’m not a journalist; it was black with red trim, if that helps anyone; and it had a bow) for about half the set. Set list below. If you’ve never seen Mould do a live acoustic show, here’s the protocol, boiled to extreme over-simplification:

P1) Bob plays a bunch of songs with a 12 string acoustic guitar. Eardrums bleed, due to the sheer sonic brilliance.

P2) Between numbers, Bob is a little chatty as he retunes the guitar in its entirety. We learned, as I already mentioned, that he was about to give his 12 string ax the… ax, after fifteen years of service, and it is sometimes hard to let go (a theme referenced in many of Bob’s songs, and a sort of universal truth). Then Bob chuckles and rips into another song.

P3) I eat nachos so loudly that an elf could shoot me in the dark.

P4) I become somewhat annoyed at Anti-Nachos, who is upset by my nacho-eating, but can’t do anything about it, because he’s in the right. I do hate him, though.

P5) Bob hits a few key emotional high points (for me, they’re “Poison Years” and “Brazillia Crossed With Trenton” and “Celebrated Summer”), and puts on a comprehensive, value-oriented show. It’s his job, and he knows it, and it’s refreshing.

P6) Bob switches to his Blue Strat and plays solo, plugged in. The earbleeding begins in earnest. Then, the feedback solos. A whole new world, this one made out of tones instead of atoms and quarks, is created.

Bob did let the veil slip when he noted that most nights onstage, performers are off thinking about whatever performers, who are in fact human, think about - paying the cable bill or the need to remember to pick up kitty litter on the way home from the gig - and that last night was not one of those nights, indicating that his reason for slipping part way through “Wishing Well” was a twinge of pain caused by the realization that his twelve string was soon bound for the toothpick factory in the sky. Then, in homage, a twelve minute feedback solo followed, to the amazement of all, as Bob rammed his blue Strat into the twelve string again, and again, and again, skewering it as if it were a gladiator, and he was Titus Pullo. At one point (around the thirteenth minute of the feedback solo, actually), Bob started shouting “Thirteen! Thirteen!” with each thrust of the Strat. Then he tore directly into “See A Little Light”, which was punctuated by several more feedback solos, at the end of each verse. After that, the strings on both the acoustic and electric guitars an unholy howling as they were grated across each other in some form of strange guitar tribadism, Mould, profusely sweating from the Herculean exertion, launched directly into a medley (now, keep in mind, this is with no backing band… just Bob and distorted Strat) of “Ice Cold Ice”, “Girl Who Lives on Heaven Hill”, and “Data Control” after being joined on stage (wait, so there was a backing band!), amazingly by Grant Hart and Greg Norton, his former Husker Du bandmates. After another feedback solo (this one twenty-five minutes long), the show was torn down (and people were actually standing for this, which was a first) by a speed-metal rendition of “In A Free Land”. Hart smashed his drum kit, while Bob helped - any previous rifts between them sealed forever through the healing forces of a true metal circus. This was so amazing that the guy sitting in front us actually stopped checking to see if I was eating nachos for three or four seconds.

It’s possible that little or nothing in the last paragraph happened (same is true for this entire review), but they were thoughts that crossed my mind during “Circles” from Bob’s latest, Body of Song. The fact that I had the thought is in no way a slight of Bob’s performance, which was immaculate (I mean, did anyone notice the “mess up” on “Wishing Well”?), but just a fantasy of something I would like to see before I die, but know I probably won’t.

Bob’s an iconoclast, and is one of the few real embodiments of true, lasting, meaningful punk rock.

My only disappointment for the evening, set list-wise, was not hearing “Semper Fi”, because I really love that fife and the line “it’s a total f***ing travesty”. Overall, I wish happiness for Bob in the New Year, and every New Year, and hope I get to see him many more times. He is a bit of an inspiration to me, and for any and all who wish to be without whole eardrums.

Afterwards, after a professional reviewed the shredded remains of our eardrums and declared the situation hopeless, Eric and I returned to the bar for more beers - a mini power hour, as it were. Bob came out and signed some autographs, and I saw that guy from the WIll Call box walking around, and glared at him, shooting mental ice picks from my shredded eardrums, which were now a mental icepick launcher. Eric asked me if I was going to go ask Bob about his “dolphin sightings” referenced on his blog, and I indicated no, that although I believed rock gods are somewhat human, I would be unable to say anything to Bob that wasn’t humiliating to both of us and that he didn’t already know (ex. “You’re awesome”, “You made my eardrums bleed!”, “I’m going bald, and I’m going to shave my head, what do you think?”). Although he seems like the kind of guy who would be content to hang out and talk about his Mac, a topic of much interest.