This decision could prove devastating to an entire generation of film-makers; for all its ups and downs, the Film Council has got involved with the likes of Armando Iannucci, Andrea Arnold, Lynne Ramsay, Peter Mullan, Sam Taylor-Wood, Kevin McDonald and Pawel Pawlikowski. How much credit the council can take for their film-making is up for debate, but it has at least functioned as the connective tissue between such disparate talents.
A British hedge fund manager has cornered the market in cocoa:
The British news media has christened Mr. Ward “Chocolate Finger,” a nod to the Bond villain Auric Goldfinger. And on Facebook, someone has created a “Choc Finger” page featuring Mr. Ward’s face superimposed on a pig that is bellying up to the trough.
(via The New York Times)
From the Large Hearted Boy:
On sale at Amazon MP3: the 36-track Stroke: Songs for Chris Knox compilation album (featuring Jeff Mangum, the Mountain Goats, Stephin Merritt, Portastatic, and many others) for $3.99.
If the whole thing is only US$3.99, how much money does Chris actually get? Because I thought that was the point of the exercise.
I volunteered to serve food to the workers at Ground Zero after 9/11. There were dogs trained to find living people. The people who worked with the dogs became worried because the day after day of not finding anyone was beginning to depress the animals. So the people took turns hiding in the rubble so that every now and then a dog could find one of them to be able to carry on.
Resistance is futile, of course. You aren’t in Shatner’s presence ten minutes before he reverse-engineers your emotional state; first, you adopt those conversational rhythms of his—everywhere, the jelly!—and then, by God, you start to feel the enthusiasm of your words, an enthusiasm inevitably heightened by your knowledge that this is WILLIAM TIBERIUS FUCKING SHATNER! you are dealing with, the most meta, the most absurd, human being in Western Civilization, and you fall in love with that meta-absurdity, the bonanza of impunity and laughs it generates.
A lovely meditation on permanence and impermanance from, of all places, Gizmodo:
She’s made a ghost bike for him, painted a thick-pipe commuter bike white with spray paint. Going to leave it on the corner, chained to a lamp post. She posts a time on David’s Myspace page, lets her friends know when to gather.
Word spreads. She’s pushing the bike down the street, surrounded by hundreds of mourners. They saw her message on his Myspace page. They walk by the bike, tossing down flowers and photographs and messages to David. She didn’t expect this.