Elements in Art

Now I'm seven episodes into season two of Breaking Bad, I've finally gotten to meet Jane, the character played by Krysten Ritter my friend Ada likes so much (she'll be happy to know). I can see why Ada likes her--I remember seeing the actress in minor roles on Gilmore Girls and Veronica Mars where she always stood out. It's nice seeing her in something closer to a major role finally. It's good to see she's appearing in the upcoming Veronica Mars film.

The episode of Breaking Bad I watched last night also featured a great cameo from Machete himself, Danny Trejo, as a DEA informer from a Mexican cartel.

It's part of a plot featuring Walter's DEA brother-in-law, Hank, moving into the upper echelon of the agency. He's one of the weaker characters on the show but I like how the writers made strides in the sixth and seventh episodes of the season to make him a little more layered. It's funny, too, seeing him, used to being cock of the walk, feeling out of place among the jaded, fluent in Spanish, agents.

I still haven't seen Machete 2, on the subject of Danny Trejo, as much as I loved the first Machete. I imagine a lot of people can say the same. And most of those people would probably give the same reason--Mel Gibson. It's possible that's what swayed me, too, or maybe it's just that I couldn't fit it in with the other twenty seven new movies I saw last year. I don't know. I'm not sure how I can happily sit down to watch a Cecil B. DeMille movie and still shrink from Mel Gibson. I doubt one man held less despicably intolerant views than the other. Maybe it's that Gibson represents more hypocrisy, that so many superficially righteous Hollywood people are eager to forgive Gibson for things he evidently doesn't feel sorry for.

No, that's not it.

Gibson repels me as an artist. His work is somehow both puritanical and narcissist. It's in every second of Braveheart and Passion of the Christ. I'm really, really tired of the preoccupation with self worship. I want to hear people talk less about themselves that way.

I was sorry to hear Pete Seeger is dead.

Twitter Sonnet #590

Inflatable feathers reward nothing.

Ragged coal tunnels pinch the airless mine.

Cobalt gum routes results from blue pathing.

Ivory chalk dust lightly seasons the lime.

Dog-eared Daleks return to Christmas armed.

No knowledge dribbled ignorance's ball.

Radiators leave the frown land harmed.

Waves of paper pulp against the rock wall.

Purple mouths waver on the makeshift stage.

Godly sloped bonnets sweat on the weak chefs.

Frozen seas'll ring with tuning fork age.

Innisfree draws moon eyes from Dover's cliffs.

Hillside flowers turn indigo with dusk.

Silt peninsulas wear skyscraper husk.