White Winter Hymnal

After reading THIS article--a response to Francis S. Collins's book The Language of God--I wanted to post a long, drawn-out, atheistic rant.

But I decided not to.

Probably better for everyone, eh?

Revolver

After returning from London and Paris--two of the biggest tourist sites in the world--I feel obligated to funnel all of my anger about photography into a single entity.

You may be thinking "What's the big deal, Casey? Don't be such a prick!"--but I absolutely hate some of these twats that carry cameras around big cities.

First of all, I don't mind the occasional photo with your family. I might express a tinge of annoyance when my mom tells me to stand next to some monument, but it's all in good fun. I can understand how much it means to my mother. What I don't appreciate are the self-absorbed tourists that carry their video cameras around like a child. While I'm walking around the streets of London, the last thing I want to be worried about is whether or not I'm going to be seen in some future family video.

On that note--why do people tape absolutely everything?! I watched a family tape their entire stay in Westminster Abbey; are they planning on watching all of it at a later date? Will they sit down to later experience their entire visit to Poets' Corner? Mind you, they weren't even speaking: the father was just panning the camera around filming everything he deemed "cool."

I understand that we, as a society, feel the need to document every single moment of our lives--as evidenced by Twitter, Facebook status updates, and weirdly Orwell-ian Bluetooth tracking of concert-goers--but this is starting to get a little out of hand. I was routinely asked to step aside for picture of random shit in London. I'm not talking about memorials or landmarks--I'm talking about stores and streets. Excuse me for not wanting to step aside for your photo of a newstand--I'm trying to buy a fucking paper.

But--travelling even deeper into the unknown hatred of my mind--none of those minor twitches can compare to my ultimate pet-peeve: people who take pictures of art.

My family went to the Tate Modern, the Louvre, and the Orsay--and at each one there were dickheads who feel that their digitial camera can do a much better job of capturing Monets brush strokes or Van Gogh's color. I don't claim to know much about art, but I do know that it is supposed to be absorbed in person. If all you wanted to see was a picture of Van Gogh's self-portrait--then I have something to inform you of: Google Images.

GAH. I'm going to keep going: In the Louve--the Mona Lisa was made into a tourist attraction. I find that perfectly acceptable, as it is probably the most famous painting in the world--but the fact that there was a crowd of people around the frame taking pictures with flash absolutely infuriated me. Nobody I saw was simply standing there, admiring the painting. They must have felt that their camera phone could capture the moment even better than actual memories.

I'm reminded, once again, of the Bob Dylan quote my parent's used when I graduated high school.

Four Word Letter

As a future English major, I was very excited to witness, first-hand, all of the classic English being thrown around London. It felt a bit uncomfortable at first--as my American accent instantly labels me as a lazy, slobby, hick--but most of the people I met and spoke with were very forgiving. The awkwardness of having to ask "Could you repeat that?" did get a little tiring, and I was constantly looking at exactly which coins I had in my pocket--but, eventually, I was able to settle in and try to study exactly what makes the English language a little different.

Immediately after arriving from the Metro station, the change was particularly jarring. Instead of an "Exit" sign pointing us to street level--there was a "Way Out" sign. The obvious differences--such as the "u's" in "colour," "favourite," and "behaviour"--were all very apparent to me before I arrived, but I started to notice even more.

The English are obviously opposed to the letter "z." It is hardly ever used--except at the beginning of proper nouns, and even then I only saw it put to use twice. The letter is also omitted from usually simple words. "Recognize" and "energize" were the first two words I witnessed to become part of this phenomena--but anywhere where I've grown accustomed to a "z," an "s" has been substituted. The change wasn't as drastic as I had expected, but the sheer scale of the switch was quite amazing.

Rather than "line," the British use "queue"--which can also be turned into a verb, with the product being "queuing." This makes the entire process of standing in a line much more efficient--as the act itself has an entire noun, verb, and phrase attached to it.

One of the most surprising uses I noticed was the use of "suspension" as a noun. Rather than saying "No Parking"--a sign on the street would inform of a "Parking Suspension."

The language across the pond is definitely a bit more sophisticated. Simple signs that we take for granted, such as "Exit," are replaced with much more descriptive counterparts. This may have been the nerdiest blog you've ever read--minus all of that Harry Potter fan-fiction (you know who you are)--but, for me, this entire experience was extremely gratifying.

I made my literary pilgrimage to Poets' Corner in Westminster Abbet--where I was able to pay my respects to the authors I've practically worshipped over the years. Shakespeare, Wilde, Keats, Carol, Dickens, and Wordsworth were all memorialized (Did you catch the "z!") in Poets' Corner--and I felt honored to have the opportunity to show my appreciation. I just returned from a trip to the Pantheon, where I saw the graves of Alexandre Dumas and Voltaire. Before going off to college to study--just as these writers had done--I can safely say that I have made my trip to the Literary Mecca.

Observations From London

I need a place to publically acknowledge all of the weird shit that has been happening to me in London so far. This list has mostly been in my notebook--but it's gotten to the point that it would just be easier to compile it here.

June 28th, 2009
- Has anybody ever actually bought anything from SkyMall? There seems to be quite a market for lawn ornaments...

-Nothing can destroy a peaceful, serene Pink Floyd album like a screaming child seated directly behind you.

-Nintendo DSs obviously emit a plane-destroying signal frequency.

-I'm just as excited for the accents as I am for the art.

-People REALLY want you to know what movie they're watching--as assessed by the cacophony
of portable DVD players in my general vicinity.

-When the lights dimmed in the place--after waiting on the runway for almost an hour--I felt like yelling "Woo!" as if I were at a concert. I'm fairly sure others felt the same.

-Flying in the '70s must have been amazing. Everyone would just be smoking and drinking. They should reinstate that policy--as it would make the whole experience much more manageable.

-Whenever I sit anywhere near the wing, I have a sudden urge to pretend to be William Shatner in that episode of The Twilight Zone. Hold your applause, fellow nerds.

-First class seats shouldn't get oxygen masks or floatation devices--just to even the odds a bit and make them a bit more wary of coach passengers.

-The longer the flight, the less space you'll have. I was on a two hour flight to Salt Lake City, Utah--and NOBODY was on it, but the twelve hour flight to London made me feel like cattle.

-Flight attendants speak more about "special credit card offers" than they do about safety procedures. That makes me a bit uneasy--but now that wall-sized map of the world in SkyMall looks much more easily attainable...

-In America: White guy with dreadlocks = Total prick
In London: White guy with dreadlocks = Ladie's Man

-I went into a McDonalds by myself and ordered a large drink. Just for fun, I decided to use a fake British accent to see if anyone would notice. Nobody did. I felt a lot better about myself.

-The British use coins for the 1 denomination. How do they tip their strippers?

And finally--the most annoying thing about this trip so far...

-Anything announced over any sort of intercom will undoubtedly be repeated by my mother or father in the worst British accent imaginable. We ride the subway almost ten times a day. The pain is intolerable.

We All Well Know...

I have never had a spiritual experience--but I came pretty damn close tonight during the mewithoutYou concert. Only a band with an amazing back-catalog and a diverse sound could ever have this effect on me--and I was lucky enough to be there for it to happen.

Chanting the lyrics in a tiny bar, while others around me did the same, was at the same time both therapeutic and deeply emotional. My lungs were gasping for breath at the end of every song--having screamed as loudly as possible.

She's like a hot cloth on a fevered head,
And like a needle she leads me (while I follow like thread)
Tie me up! Untie me! All this wishing I was dead is getting old...
IT'S GETTING OLD!!
... it goes on, but it's old.
-"Tie Me Up! Untie Me!"

How can I even respond to that? The imagery and sound is just so touching that it's hard for me to even put its effect into words. Aaron Weiss--as Kevin and I were joking--may not be the voice of our mainstream generation, but he is undoubtedly the greatest lyricist I have been able to witness in his prime.

You know, I always used to scoff at those people in church who would raise their arms to the sky and gyrate along to the music as if possessed--but now I completely understand. I had my spiritual moment tonight, and I feel very different. I still don't truly believe in any God--but I definitely believe in myself more than I ever have. I caught myself raising my hands to something I don't believe in.

Tie me up! Untie me! It doesn't matter at this point. I've let loose my ties to the past and moved on. Her ideas of perfection always bothered me, but part of me always wanted to believe along with her. I wanted to believe her when she said we were "perfect for each other," which, of course, was not true. I was never able to believe--mostly because of my general stubbornness--and I'm glad I never succumbed to those feelings. My spirituality is simply not found within the walls of a church. I found it tonight. Perfection is such an odd concept. It is one theory that can rarely be observed. The "perfect" circle. "Perfect" symmetry." She can believe it if she'd like--but I feel sorry for her. Truly.

If you fail to see a problem, which I find hard to believe,
Or if you're hanging on from branches licking honey from the leaves;
You say, "The hopelessness of living... and the childishness of suicide!"
But there's a call to love my brother that can never be destroyed.
-"Leaves"

Fast Women and Slow Horses

Summer always makes blogging feel unimportant. I've either been out around town or holed up in my apartment-like upstairs loft.

Who needs blogging when I can play Street Fighter all day?

Anyway--I'm heading up to NAU for orientation tomorrow. I'll be alone, which should make the experience very note-worthy. I'm hoping to meet lots of new people with some similar interests and to develop some early friendships.

Not much to say. Too much to do.

Oh--and I bought two bootlegs on vinyl that will be sending my children through college. Thank you, Radiohead.

One Soft Infested Summer

I wanted to grab you and kiss you one last time.

Somehow I held myself back.

That white dress sure as hell didn't help.

Atlantic City

My usual sleeping patterns make my nights much worse than I need them to be. The problem is not that I stay up much too late--the problem is that by staying up too late I allow my mind to wander into all sorts of bad places. I've fallen asleep for months to the same thoughts. Thoughts that I'm plagued with because of my own negligence and careless decisions--wrong decisions.

I figured that by now I would be able to partition these thoughts off into the areas of my head that I rarely think about--but that obviously has not happened yet. The Boss helps a little bit, but songs like "Atlantic City" tear me up inside. Look up the lyrics if you want.

This wasn't ever planned to be a huge post; just as a short extension of my usual thoughts.

Sorry if it disappointed.

Friction

I can't wait to perform that song I wrote about a certain someone's poetry. Maybe that will knock some sense into her.

Once we're out of high school, everything will change. The petty differences and arguments will have washed away--and we'll be faced with the true relationships between every single one of us. I truly look forward to that moment.

My musical retrospective is almost done. I picked five albums that meant a lot to me for each year dating back to 2004. After graduation, I'll be sitting down and going through one year in an entire day. I'm expecting some intense emotions simply from the memories alone. Hopefully the list will be polished enough to be posted--but I would encourage everybody else to go through the same process.

Hearing "Like Vines" by The Hush Sound will instantly bring back vivid memories of Emma and Lanly. Performing with them onstage was a highlight of Sophomore year. Junior year has the privilege of containing "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd. That album--more than any other--helped me through a time where I was completely lost. As a matter of fact, Junior year my be the most intense. Here are the albums for Junior year alone:

"Wish You Were Here" - Pink Floyd
"Grace" - Jeff Buckley
"In The Aeroplane Over The Sea" - Neutral Milk Hotel
"Pink Moon" - Nick Drake
"Down the River of Golden Dreams" - Okkervil River

That will be an amazing lineup to sit through--but I'm actually quite scared about what it will force me to remember.

I'll leave you with the quote my parents used for my senior ad in the yearbook...

“Take care of all your memories. For you cannot relive them.”
-Bob Dylan

That quote inspires me every day--and it is that sense of rememberance that I'm hoping to receive from my backwards musical journey.

Dear Chandler Education Foundation,

I would like to formally thank you for awarding me with the Vision Collegebound scholarship. The intense work and countless hours of volunteering were more than validated by the $200 check I received on May 7th, 2009. Even more--I was able to take a picture with the principal of my school! The REAL LIFE principal!

Now, I understand that the economy is in a recession. I also understand that budget cuts were recently made. And although I was not exactly disappointed with the aforementioned amount--it was significantly less than what I was promised during my first year of high school.

I was told that if I devoted my time and energy into the community--I would be rewarded with $1000. You see... $1000 is a much larger amount than $200. I realize that something may have happened between now and four years ago, but I would have at least liked to have been informed of this before exhausting myself for a month at the YMCA. Perhaps a mistake has been made--so I will gladly accept a formal apology or a check for the remaining amount. I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding.

Unfortunately, though, I have already spent a portion of the check I was awarded. Obviously, the Chandler Education Foundation was not entirely truthful when it promised me $1000--so I must admit that I have not been entirely truthful with the Chandler Education Foundation.

I did make a promise that your scholarship money would be spent on college-related items. Instead, I've taken a picture displaying exactly what I bought with that money.

I apologize for the obscene gesture as well. It was entirely unintentional.

Thank you for your time,
Casey Reed

On a Long Forgotten Morn

A particular trend that I've noticed through most of my high school years is the ability for a teenager to tune the world around them out. Now, this can be incredibly useful at time--such as while on an eight hour bus ride to Utah with fifty Theatre kids--but for other times, I wish that more people would just stop and listen.

The most common practice of achieving this ethereal state is to use standard headphones. Now, I have no objection to listening to music--and I love music as a complete entity--but I would much rather appreciate the events around me rather than having music constantly pumped through my ears. While walking the streets of New York, most of my fellow tourist companions were completely engrossed in whatever they were listening to. I, on the other hand, was listening to a couple break up on 7th street, a car alarm on 5th, and a man trying to sell me a belt buckle in Harlem. These are the things that can only be heard in that specific area--but the modern citizen feels the need to cover that natural beauty with beauty of his own choosing. I simply don't understand.

My relationship with music is deeply personal--and I think part of the reason that I took such a liking to vinyl was that it is not exactly practical. It feels special; as if that slab of vinyl needs to be cared for and cherished--not just thrown on on iPod and picked apart for playlists. It feels as if music has lost that sense of connection to the world and now just acts as background noise.

Granted, that connection can still exist between Man and iPod--it is just much harder to achieve. Someone I go to school with always has his headphones in. Whenever I try to talk to him, I have to repeat the first sentence--after he's taken the buds out of his ears. This isn't what music is supposed to be. I'm not at all religious--but I still believe that there is music everywhere in the world. So why deny to yourself what has been given for free?

The conversations missed, people ignored, and sounds lost just don't seem worth it for a constant stream of auditory pleasure. It makes me think of the the soma tablets in Brave New World--where citizens in the future take drugs to stimulate themselves when they feel any negative emotion. Nobody knows how to deal with their personal problems anymore--they just pop their headphones to their ears instead of facing the problem--using music as an "escape." True, I sometimes use music to shut out my own personal demons--but I don't ignore the problem as if music cures my troubles. It simply helps me evaluate life.

I've learned more about music with my headphones out than I have with them in.

I Am Fine, I Am Fine, I Am Fine--I Just Need a Hundred Dollars

Last night, I had people over after our improv comedy show. It was just a relaxing hang out. We made a small fire and talked about music and literature. There were some people there that I had never really sat down and talked with--but my close friends were there as well.

We arrived on the subject of music by usual means--I had a record on in the background--so we moved up into my room. One of my friends grabbed my acoustic guitar and we both started playing songs we had written. Another friend, about a half hour into the small concert, made a comment that I completely agree with.

"You know, I see all those people on MySpace that say 'Music is my life' and that just bugs the shit out of me."

I can't stand those shirts that are just "[Blank] is life," because it gives such a one-dimensional view of life. Music is a huge part of my life--but it does not equal life. "Is" is just a synonym for "equals"--in this sense. Life is something that is bigger than all of us and bigger than the sum of all of us--so I find it pretty absurd that our generation can boil the entire concept of "Life" down into a simple sentence.

Music is not life. Basketball is not life. Even love is not life.

Those sayings are only futile attempts to have a form of identity. That same night--we were looking through my old yearbooks and saw a picture of a girl who said that music is her life. She was photographed lying on the ground--CDs strewn about in the perfect messy-yet-completely-controlled formation. The problem--that we all noticed--is that the CDs were either Greatest Hits albums, "Now!" compilations, or just flat-out blank. I had a good laugh.

Even for somebody like Bob Dylan--who has been making music for fifty years--music is not their life. Other issues are present that cannot be qualified or quantified, and I hate that our generation now feels the need to make a statement about "how much we love music." It's almost as if we have to prove our love for things. Not just things, even--people too. Facebook recently added an app that tracks what people enjoy. You can become a fan of "Music," or "Sleeping," or probably fucking "Breathing."

Music is a form of expression. It is a medium for conveying emotion through form. It can touch our souls and our lives--but being so focused on one thing is quite detrimental to the actual form of life.

Has our generation really lost our concept of identity to the point where we need to shout it from the rooftops and across bandwidth just to make sure that others know who we are?

I do not have to prove my love. Yes--music is a huge part of my life; so is theatre--but I associate myself with people whom I feel don't need proof.

Two Minutes Hate

Hateful songs are some of my favorite. "Idiot Wind" by Bob Dylan is one of the meanest, most disrespectful pieces I've ever heard--and it was all inspired by a girl.

The "Two Minutes Hate"--as relating to Orwell's 1984 is a period where every person shouts at a flashing screen of images. The images are the focus of an entire country's hatred. Everything is redirected towards a single entity--and the subject must accept that hatred whether it is legitimately earned or not. In this case--it really wasn't.

I've written two hate songs in the past two days. I don't feel all of the emotions that I put into them--but it sure as fuck helps flush out my system. It also feels weird that the words come so easily.

Euphemisms

I also thought that it would be helpful to comment about my use of euphemisms--mostly names--in my writing.

No. I don't know anyone named "Maria" or "Mary" or "Virginia" or "Johnny"--but I've been using them as euphemisms for specific people in my writing for as long as I can remember.

So, if you're worried that you might be one of these faceless people...

You might be.

The Trap I Set For You Seems to Have Caught My Leg Instead

I need to start playing shows. I've been writing constantly for the past couple months--and some of these songs need to be taken off of my shoulders. They're depressing. They're disturbing. Sometimes I'm scared at what I write.

I wrote this song about a man being hanged for murder--and then realized it was all an allegory about my experiences from the past six months. And while I didn't exactly commit murder, the story still follows very closely all the things I'm ashamed of doing. Here's the chorus:

Let me die in slumber
Send your hope to someone else
I only wish you'd notice
Just how much you have helped
Don't watch me now, Maria
It'll only hurt you more
See me led out quietly
Above another door

I guess I just never knew what a toll the constant jealousy was taking on me. Eventually, I got sick of it and just gave up. This song is called "Another Door," but there are so many others that need to be heard by someone other than myself. A song called "Sounded Just Like Fire" chronicles that period of horrible depression and loneliness--where I had one person who seemed to take a reasonable interest. "Crescendo / Decrescendo"--as most of you know--was what pulled me through the months of November and December. Sometimes I play that song when I'm alone--as loudly as possible when no one else is home.

I recently wrote a song that I've been calling "This'll Take All Night." Very Gaslight Anthem-y, but I add my own story-based spin. It mostly helped me deal with my dependence issues and where they stem from--and how I don't want my children to wind up like me.

My songs are so self-deprecating. It hurts to see those words in my notebook and know that they're true, but part of the process of writing should be realization. A realization that what's been written is meaningful and expressive--and that's how I've been feeling since late October.

Felt My Fingertips Tingle and It Started to Rain

After much deliberation--and many changed ideas--I've decided on my first tattoo. For a while, I was planning on getting something completely universal: either the bass or treble clef, some simple notes, the opening bars of "So What"--but that all changed once I saw this design on my Gaslight Anthem shirt...

Seriously. Just take a look at that beauty. I'll suck up my pussy needle phobia to get THAT THING on my arm. I figure that it'll be my graduation present to myself.

On that note, my mom is now in the process of planning my graduation party. A graduation party that I don't want. I understand where she's coming from, but I can't stand having a party for myself. I don't even tell people when my birthday is anymore--except for this year, but that was because I came into about $12,000. I felt the need to tell people about that. Especially the guys I work with. Haha

I also recently completed my Gaslight Anthem vinyl collection. I don't know how many collectors actually read this blog--but if you're a collector and you're reading this, you already know the feeling that happens right when the exchange of items occurs. I swear, I'm glad I'm not addicted to heroin--because being addicted to vinyl is ten times sweeter. And--presumably--a lot less expensive.

Here's a breakdown of the collection so far. Mind you, Sink or Swim and the Sink or Swim Demos both have a variety of different pressings--each with a different color.


"The '59 Sound" single - 7"
Señor and the Queen - 3rd pressing 7"
The '59 Sound - 2nd pressing [Signed by Brian Fallon] 12"
Sink or Swim - 3rd pressing (Purple Splash) 12" [Pictured above on the turntable]
"Sink or Swim Demos" - 3rd pressing (Green) 7"

And... My prized possession...

Live at Park Avenue - 1st pressing 10" [Signed by EVERYONE]

They said that this was the first copy of this album that they had ever signed. It was a Record Store Day '09 exclusive, and I'd like to send my thanks to Zia Records for actually having this set aside for me when I came in.

Return to Form

I'm typing this post simply as a way to tell myself that I posted something recently. Hopefully this will kick my writer's ass back into gear.

The Gaslight Anthem show was fucking fantastic. I had no worries that it would be anything different. Talked with Brian Fallon after the show for a good fifteen minutes--while everyone else was sweaty and gross in the car--and then got my copy of "Live at Park Avenue" signed.

I'll leave you all with these lyrics and a link to their page. So glad they played this song last night.

The Gaslight Anthem - "Blue Jeans and White T-Shirts"

We are the boys from Little Eden
We are the hardest Saturday nights
Drank from the fountains of the fireworks
Sweat and bone for a better life

We like our choruses sung together
We like our arms in our brothers' arms
Call every girl we ever met Maria
But I only love Virginia's heart

And we sing with our heroes thirty-three rounds per minute
We're never going home until the sun says we're finished
And I'll love you forever if I ever love at all
Wild hearts, blue jeans, & white t-shirts
With wild hearts, blue jeans, & white t-shirts

Some things, babe, they never told you
Some things papa doesn't like
Spend a lifetime just to get over
You always said my mama tried

Still we sing with our heroes thirty-three rounds per minute
We're never going home until the sun says we're finished
And I'll love you forever if I ever love at all
Wild hearts, blue jeans, & white t-shirts
With wild hearts, blue jeans, & white t-shirts

So tonight I'll call you from a fourth-street payphone
But I'll sleep on the beach if I ain't got a ride
Someday I'll buy you that house on Cookman
We could sleep on the beach all night
Sleep on the beach if we ain't got a ride
Sleep on the beach all night
Sleep on the beach all night
Sleep on the beach if we ain't got a ride...

It's Not Really Something. More Like the Abscence of Something

Wow. I haven't gotten more enjoyment from a website in months. Check this out.

I'll be posting the obligatory New York post later. I need some time to mull it over.

"Your turn. What do you see?"

I was very young. Too young to be reading this material. But something about that yellow cover with a blood-red stain attracted my naive eye towards it. Flipping through pages produced emotions that run the gamut from horror to sheer joy. Of course, I had read a wide variety of comics at the time--with most of my education coming from the stereotypical heroes: Batman, Spider-Man, Superman, the X-Men. The only one from that group that comes close to being entirely human is, the Dark Knight himself. He was my first real journey into the depths of literature--and watching him grow amongst death and chaos helped a small, fragile mind like mine develop enough to think for itself.

And then, there was Watchmen.

These characters were like no one I had ever heard of. A sociopath who does not let killing stop his pursuit of justice. A rapist asshole who understands the joke--and who was rumored to have shot John F. Kennedy. A human-being who has reached the peak of performance, but still keeps his college-professor demeanor. The man who hung up his suit to lead a better life, and got nowhere. A god among men--who cannot connect with any of them.

So, after almost ten years of waiting for an on-screen adaptation, Zack Snyder has bestowed upon us his view of Alan Moore's cherished baby.

I loved it the first time. I enjoyed myself the second time. And yet there was a twinge of disappointment in the back of my brain. I tried to force myself to forgive Snyder for taking his creative liberties with the ending, but I feel like I've been let down. A book as deep as Watchmen has constantly been called "un-filmable," and I now have to agree. Jackie Earl Haley (Rorschach) Jeffrey Dean Morgan (Comedian) and Patrick Wilson (Nite Owl II) all turn in fantastic performances. It is now impossible to read any of Rorschach's lines from the novel without hearing Haley's haunting, noir narration.

But, looking back and removing my rose-colored glasses, I feel so... underwhelmed. At first, I was fine with Snyder changing the ending, but now--I resent it. It misses the point. The ending is supposed to unite the entire planet under one common goal, but now they pin the whole mess on Dr. Manhattan--who is fine to take the blame. The scenes of Laurie and Jon walking through the rubble and bodies and blood--which takes TWELVE full splash-pages in the novel--is over in barely thirty seconds. If Ozymandias was supposed to feel the guilt of his actions, why aren't they shown?

The subtle details and characters were all there, but they felt empty. I was eager to see how Snyder would pull off Hollis Mason's murder--and he wasn't. In a book that involves so much human suffering--why did Snyder remove the suffering?

Snyder is fantastic at taking a piece of literature, skimming across the top, and producing a polished--if not perfect--work of art. So, while I didn't enjoy 300 as much as everyone else did, I applauded him for his general loyalty to the original material. The movie opens with a fantastically nostalgic montage of the alternate world that Watchmen is set in--which is, in particular, one of my absolute favorite scenes. But then, I was forced to acquiesce to Snyder's choices and fight back my own grievances.

I let it slide that Hollis Mason is in approximately two minutes of the movie. I overlooked that Silk Spectre I may have had the worst makeup in superhero history. I tried to understand why Malin Ackerman decided to over-act to the point of nausea.

Maybe it's because I feel so attached to the source. After the thrill of seeing the legendary characters on-screen for the first time had died down--I was left feeling empty. Perhaps my expectations were too high. Watchmen has always been one of my favorite books to loan out because I love seeing somebody's reaction as they read the same story that affected me ten years ago--and most everybody's reaction to the movie was just the same. But I felt like something was missing from the entirety of the film, and I don't think Snyder could do anything about it.

I knew from the beginning that the movie would never replace the novel. It's just impossible. But it feels as if Snyder stayed just faithful enough to get the point across--a point he casually throws in towards the ending. Of course, we were granted the gift of seeing Rorschach, Nite Owl, and Comedian played completely perfectly--and that is something that will always make the movie re-watchable--but the rest of the cast is played either too shallow or too over dramatic.

I want to love this movie. I really do. But can't you forgive me for not being blown away like I was by the novel? If you've already seen the movie, try to look with an objective eye at what you watched. It took me a while to see, and I'm not entirely sure if I appreciate my new point of view. But I can't change it now, can I?

All of my feelings for this novel can't be expressed in just one short blog post--so if you'd like to know everything that ran through my mind, then we can chat about it.

Darkness On the Edge of Town

I'll be turning 18 on April 3rd, 2009. Bruce Springsteen will be at the Dodge Theatre that night. The Bruce Springsteen. The Bruce that taught me about high school and love and hope and helped me through more lonely nights than possibly any other person.

I'll be missing that show.

It would have been so perfect.

Ironically, I'll be performing in Hamilton's dinner-theatre performance that. Theatre has taught me so much as well--but no one comes close to The Boss when it comes to high school.

I like to think that I'll be there in spirit--but I won't. Mine will be out on the stage.