film review: night at the museum - battle of the smithsonian

For all that Night of the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian is faulty - a formulaic plot and admittedly spotty pacing being the most egregious - it's a film that comes without the pretense off being anything other than silly, good-hearted entertainment. In a key respect, I would say it is a more honest film than Abram's Star Trek, even if the latter is technically superior. Abram's Star Trek is little more than an action film in a Trek veneer - the ideas and spirit of exploration that infused the franchise under Roddenberry's guidance is simply not there. In contrast, Night of the Museum succeeds in being about something - namely, the excitement and imagination that comes with visiting and learning from a museum - without pretending to be something it isn't. To some extent, that the film plays hard and loose with facts is beside the point; this is like the kid in the proverbial candy shop, turning each encounter with a museum exhibit into an imaginative adventure without being stifled by details. In other words:

Though this be fluff, yet there is heart in it.


long road ghost - part 5 of 9

No one heard from Alex for a couple of days. I wouldn’t have known that he’d disappeared, since it often happened that I wouldn’t see him for a few weeks at a stretch. But the news from town eventually tumbled in, and Katrina tumbled in along with it. I didn’t get her, frankly. One minute she’s givin’ him a frosty shoulder, the next she’s cryin’ in a pint of Pabst Blue Ribbon because he hadn’t come home. All I could figure out was that after fifteen years of marriage, the spark had gone out. He got himself a bike; she was tryin’ real hard to get herself a biker, since Alex wasn’t quite it, but feelin’ torn up about it.

But as luck would have it, just as Katrina was goin’ about how worried she was, Alex stumbled in lookin’ like he’d been run over by a semi. His leather jacket was shredded, his face was caked with dirt, his jeans were torn at the knees.

“The rider,” he said, out of breath. “The rider.”

The man was obviously not right in the head. Shock or somethin’. So I had Mojo make up a strong pot of coffee. When my chubby little Filipino cook came out of the kitchen with said pot, Alex brightened up considerably.

“I went out riding to clear my head,” Alex said. “We needed to talk, Katrina, but obviously I wasn’t saying the right things. I thought a ride would be inspiring. So I’m riding along when I suddenly hear a bike behind. It roared like nothing I’d heard before. I looked back and saw only blue-white flames on the side of the bike…then I noticed the rider…the rider…Can I have something stronger?”

“Stick with the coffee. Ya’ll thank me later,” I told him. He gave me puppy dog eyes and, when that didn’t work, continued on.

“The rider had a pumpkin for a head, a pumpkin on fire. I didn’t know whether it was a prank or not, but I just revved the engine. I could barely make out Rasor Road; I figured I’d be safe when I reached it. It was a silly thought, right? There are no such things as ghosts. But it was getting dark. I was upset. Imagination got the better of me. Then I got off at Rasor and stopped; a stupid thing to do, really. In retrospect. The rider didn’t follow me, but seemed to disappear. I thought I was safe, so I started the engine again and was ready to go when the rider popped up in front of me. I don’t know how he did it. He took off his pumpkin head and flung it at me. I guess the pumpkin hit me right in the head – I have the headache to prove it. I woke up the next day and tried to get to get my bike runnin’, but had to wait until some kids with a dune buggy came by.”

“And you’ve been gone for almost two whole days?” Katrina said. Alex just shrugged to that.

Later that afternoon, the Bone Riders made their appearance. The way they giggled left no doubt to me that they’d taken a page out of those headless horseman stories. I’ll bet Alex knew it too, but who would think about it when chased by a hooligan and feelin’ the tight grip of adrenaline?

The thing about his whole headless rider story is that, about fifteen years ago – I remember because that’s when I came out of a three-year stint in the slammer – a serial killer was kidnappin’ women and takin’ their heads as souvenirs, apparently using them for un-Christian purposes. After about four women, the boys from the FBI finally caught up to him. He got killed trying to escape when he flipped his car. Seatbelts, I have to say, are good for cagers.

So from that some said the headless rider was this serial killer, whose name nobody really remembered, on the prowl for more victims. That made even less sense to me than the Hessian mercenary gag, which didn’t even apply to California – the real Sleepy Hollow’s in New York State. But that’s just the sort of thing to get spun into a grand urban legend.

To be continued...next week


TFPO column: conservative and liberal reactions to Obama: now that's irony

It's been open season on Obama ever since he's been elected. For the most part, I've been trying to withhold judgment despite misgivings about some of the things he has and has not done. This week, I join in the fray...although I'm really after the whole discussion and set of expectations dominating the national conversation.

Conservative and Liberal Reactions to Obama: Now That's Irony


California's message to Sacramento

It’s no surprise California voters rejected all the budget ballot measures save one – the restriction on legislators’ raises during times of fiscal crisis. Beyond the general problem of asking voters to make decisions on issues they have neither the expertise to interpret effectively nor the time to research thoroughly, these were lousy measures. 1A had uncertain fiscal effects according to the legislative analyst. 1B’s effects depended on how the constitution would be interpreted – a structural ambiguity that is very worrying. 1C borrowed against theoretical future lottery earnings – a gamble that those earnings would, in fact, materialize. 1D and 1E were convoluted shell games that maybe screwed over children and the mentally ill or maybe not. Who knows? The point is that despite the apocalyptic warnings that not voting for these bad measures was worse than approving, there would still be a major deficit ($15 billion vs. $21 billion) and it was uncertain whether would sacrifice the long-term in favour of a quick fix. The message from voters to Sacramento is, essentially: quit fucking around.

If the legislature were serious, they would immediately put forth an amendment to get rid of the supermajority since clearly the high requirement isn’t helping to achieve consensus. I’ve been receiving eMails from various campaigns pushing for that. When neither rock nor hard place will budge, deadlock after deadlock and delay after delay is inevitable and one of the world’s largest economics just can’t take the strain. I don’t like getting rid of the supermajority requirement, but at least there is still some accountability in the form of the general election. Next, there has to be the acceptance that getting out of this hole is going to be painful. Either we cut spending or increase revenues. It’s time to take some radical, long overdue measures:
  • Decriminalize pot and other drugs, as well as prostitution. Enforce health standards and establish taxation guidelines.
  • Diminish the prison population, and thus the cost of maintaining said population, by reducing/removing prison terms for non-violent offenders.
  • Allow the hemp industry to flourish.
  • Expand gambling. (Note to self: find out if Larry Flynt still wants to be governor.)
These aren’t new ideas. I’m certainly not the first to put them out there. And there’s nothing revolutionary about pointing out that unless the State is willing to take innovative steps towards addressing the budget crisis instead of hiding behind the Republican cut-all-taxes cookie cutter or the Democratic money-tree growth formula. But perhaps the prospect of a total meltdown will finally get things moving in the right direction. Unless, of course, Naomi Klein’s shock doctrine applies and the PTBs use this “opportunity” to bend the middle and lowers classes over again and have their way.

long road ghost - part 4 of 9

As it turned out, Alex wasn’t too shabby a rider. He still had a bit of the squirrel in him, but it was nothin’ time and experience wouldn’t take care of. By the time we got back to the bar, the sun was torchin’ the sky and Sleepy Hollow was just wakin’ up. Alex – I just couldn’t bring myself to go for all four syllables of his name – went home and I played barkeep ‘til closin’ time.

We rode a few times, Alex and me. Sometimes once a week, sometimes more or less than that. And from the bug-eating grin he started getting on his face instead of a constipated terrified look, I could tell he and his overpriced Harley had reached that symbiotic point in their relationship. Surprisin’ly, he was a good man to ride with. Low key, able to keep up with me as we cruised down the long road and made the wind jealous. And those times we talked? I appreciated ‘em for the fact that for all his education, he didn’t talk down his nose to a rube like me, who only finished high school because daddy would’ve walloped me otherwise. Even more surprisin’ was that the mumbles of a teacher’s rebellion were getting all the more quiet. As it turned out, he took the stick out of his ass and showed, of all things, a talent for teachin’ some likened to a pastor in a gospel church. Even Katrina seemed on the calm side of things.

Or so I thought. One night, I was behind the bar, pourin’ my little heart out to every poke with a dollar, all the meanwhile keepin’ my eye out on Alex. He’d taken to nursin’ a beer in a corner table, right by the pinball machine, while Katrina sat at the bar chattin’ with Brom. Every so often, Nasty Nasty would try to muscle in on the conversation, only to get tapped in the face and scolded with a pointin’ finger. A confrontation with Sick Jimmy – so-called because the broomstick had a rep for mutilating animals with the butterfly knife he was always playin’ with – would’ve gotten mean if me and my old ridin’ buddies hadn’t thrown our weight around.

Alex, of course, was none too thrilled about the attention his wife was gettin’ – and givin’. He eventually grew balls of a certain size, gettin’ up from the table and marchin’ past a group of visitin’ rice rocket riders in weirdly colored popinjay leathers until he got to the bar.

“Would you like to dance?” he said. Someone had picked “Unchained Melody” on the juke – I hated that song ever that movie with Patrick Swayze came out. Katrina gave him a weird look – at least, I couldn’t figure out what it meant – then shook her head. Maybe there was some truth to the rumors that his willy was non-functional and she was sufferin’ from a lack of gettin’ any.

“Well how about sitting down with me. Have a drink? I’m your husband, damn it.”

Katrina looked really torn about it, but of course Brom had to throw in his two bits.

“The lady’s talkin’ with me, jack.”

“She’s my wife, asshole.”

“Why don’t we let her decide who she wants to talk too.”

“How about you mind your own business, jack.”

Now I’ve been in enough fights to know the look of a man about to throw a punch; Alex had that look. Thing is, Brom also knew a thing or too ‘bout fightin’ – I’d seen him take on bigger guys them him outside Sleepy Hollow – and he recognized the look too. So he threw the first punch, knocking Alex down to the ground. Given that Alex got a split lip out of it, he got off easy. But Brom knew the rules and, damned if it wasn’t true, he toned things down when Katrina gave him a funny look; he just looked at me and shrugged.

“C’mon, let’s get,” he said to Katrina, headin’ out the door without waitin’ for her answer.

Alex was fightin’ mad. Katrina looked at him as if she expected him to get up and challenge Brom to a duel. Now, I’m not sayin’ he did the right or wrong thing, but given how unlikely it was for him to take on a tough like Brom, he probably saved himself a world of hurt by stayin’ down. Then again, maybe Katrina would have respected him more for riskin’, and getting’, a major beatin’ if only as a matter of pride.

When things calmed down a bit, the gap left by Brom was suddenly filled by his boys. They started out with trying to scare Alex with tales of the headless rider. When they got bored with that, they followed with dirty suggestions that piqued Katrina’s interest, despite her efforts not to show it, and pissed the hell out of Alex, who wasn’t about to take on three guys at once. I considered throwin’ my weight – my bar, my right – but figured it wouldn’t help Alex look any more manly in Katrina’s eyes. After a while, it wasn’t an issue. Alex stormed off, tellin’ Katrina that he’s trying his best for her but if that ain’t good enough, well…What worried me was that the Bone Riders followed pretty darn quick.


how we eat is critical to both healthcare and the environment

An interesting interview over at Democracy Now! with the author of In Defense of Food, Michael Pollan.

The gist of it is:
Goodman: [Y]ou wrote a long letter to President Obama, to the “Farmer-in-Chief,” as you put it. What’s the most salient point in it?
Pollan: The most salient point is simply, you are not going to be able to tackle either the healthcare crisis or climate change unless you look at our food system. In the case of climate change, food is responsible for about a third of greenhouse gases, the way we’re growing food, the way we’re processing it and the way we’re eating. And the healthcare crisis, as I’ve talked about. So we need to address it. It’s really the shadow issue over these other two issues.
Pollan is correct, in my opinion, to point out how the way in which we feed ourselves is a critical underlying issue of both healthcare and environmental sustainability. It’s a bit like chaos theory, in which small changes in apparently simple systems can yield incredible complexity. But there is, perhaps, a more fundamental issue than food and that is economics – the way in which products and services are exchanged along with the mediums of that exchange. True, if we were to eat local, only food, mostly plants, there would be a cascading effect in terms of our food supply and nutrition. However, we have to deal with a capitalist economy in which the goal is to make money – and to persuade people to spend their money. (How many edible food-like products does Big Food create an appetite for through marketing? All to make money, not to provide us with the nutrition we need.) This means, of course, that companies don’t necessarily have a vested interest in giving people what they need, but in manufacturing want to perpetuate a cycle of spending. Add to this the fact that we price things based on value and not cost, and we’ve added another variable that adds to the overall complexity.

The point is that as long as the economy allows profit to be the defining factor of success, it will be extremely difficult to get the corporation to change their ways of doing business. It would, in fact, take a massive boycotting effort on the part of consumer – an effort that is certainly desirable. The key make profit dependent on other factors, such as environmental sustainability. Perhaps it’s the familiar question of redefining what profit means – the holistic view of economy that defines wealth and success beyond the material terms of money. Perhaps it’s a question of developing a new kind of economic system, an idea I personally favour (two words: Josiah Warren).

Regardless, it’s good to hear a back-to-basics analysis like Pollan’s. It’s certainly in line what people like Dr. McDougall have been saying; change our nutrition and we create a healthier population. Create a healthier population, drive healthcare costs down. Boom goes the dynamite.


TFPO column: miss solar system pageant runner-up defends claims that 2 + 2 = 5

The topic really doesn't need more discussion or, for that matter, attention. So, without pomp and commentary, I give you this week's column at The Front Page Online:

Miss Solar System Pageant Runner Up Defends Claim That 2+2=5


film review: angels & demons

I believe the technical term to describe films such as Angels & Demons is: meh. Still, it beats reading Dan Brown's prose, which Stephen Fry has comically (and rather grossly), described as "complete loose stool-water" and "arse gravy of the worst kind." Ouch.

Angels & Demons: Not Quite the Bomb


long road ghost - part 3 of 9

“Well lookit the cager man, all dressed up,” said Brom. “You ridin’ now? Huh? You bettah be careful, cager man; you got road kill written all ovah ya.”

The vets had skeptical looks on their faces too, understandably enough. I didn’t think the scarecrow had it in him to handle a hawg. But I didn’t think about it too much. Things got dicey.

“Hey Brom” said Nasty Nasty, an ugly bruise of a teen with bad acne and a worse attitude. “Guy’s ridin’ a Harley!”

Sure enough, there was a shiny new Harley out in the parkin’ lot, a Road King FLHX Street Glide with a 1584cc twin cam engine, 6-speed cruise drive transmission, a fork-mounted bat-wing fairing, black slotted disc cast aluminum wheels, and chrome touring cross-over dual exhaust with slash-down end caps. It looked like a tourin’ bike, alright, something crossed between the classic bike look and a cop’s ride.

“The headless rider’s gonna eat a weenie like you for breakfast,” said Brom.

“Yeah,” said the pudgy punk everyone called Potatohead, but whose name was really Patrick. “He’ll take your head right off and stick it on his handlebars!”

“Ya boys put a motherfuckin’ cork in it,” I said, “or my motherfuckin’ fist will cork it for ya.” The headless rider was the modern-day version of the headless horsemen. You know the story: a Hessian merc said to have gotten his head blown off by a cannonball during the revolutionary war. Well, since the day granddad opened Sleepy Hollow, the horsemen became a road-poundin’ ghost whose monstrous black and chrome motorcycle left behind a trail of cold blue-white flames. The locals liked to terrify, or titillate, visitors with stories about how the headless rider would cruise the freeway at night in search of his head, settin’ his sights on anyone unlucky enough to get caught before reaching the spot where Rasor Road – just some dirt nothin’ off-roaders use to hustle sand dunes – crosses the 15. Though some of the passin’ drifters swore to seein’ somethin’, I’d never seen anythin’. If that wasn’t reason enough to think it all hogwash, I didn’t know what was.

With the boys properly shut up, as well they should given my bein’ an old Clydesdale who survived four bone-breakin’ wipeouts and countless bar fights to reach, in one piece, the venerable age of sixty-three, I again took to feelin’ sorry for Alex, who asked me if I thought Katrina was impressed. Judgin’ by the look on her face, and the fact she kept sneakin’ glances towards Brom, she wasn’t. But I didn’t come out and say it. I just grunted and took him out back to my shop. If Sleepy Hollow was wood shack chic, gussied up only by the neon sign showing a headless biker on a bad-ass ride pouring a beer down his stump, my shop had the elegance of an outhouse. Parts everywhere, tools, bikes in various stages of assembly; this was home. I even had a cot nearby to sleep on when I couldn’t be bothered to clamber to the bedroom in the back of my bar.

“Son, ya shoulda talked to me before spending way too much money on a bike that won’t get ya street cred ‘round here,” I said.

“But, but…I thought Harleys were, you know, the Lamborghinis of motorcycles,” said Alexander.

I laughed, stoppin’ myself only when I saw the funny look on his face.

“It’s like this. Ya like movies? How about this. Some people like them Hollywood blockbusters, other people like those artsy movies that don’t make money but make film critics cream their pants. Ya get it?”

Alexander didn’t look too sure, but the spark hit him and I gave him a smile.

“Now look at this here beauty,” I said, pointing to my baby. “This here’s a 1969 Triumph Bonneville – Bonneville, named after the salt flats, right?”


“Good man. 650cc, parallel-twin, two-cylinder engine. See how the engine and gearbox are in the same casing? That’s called unit construction. Now this has been in the family for a long time. My granddad rode it for a while, then my dad. Course, the legend goes to Malcolm Uphill, who got the first ever 100 miles per hour record for a production bike. I was just a kid then, but I remember seein’ Malcom gunnin’ it down the flats, and I was cheerin’. Ya bet.”

I was startin’ to get into old man reminiscin’, so I put an end to that and told Alex that if he wanted, I’d fix him up with somethin’ good. But as much as he admired the Triumph, he turned me down, showing off a bit of pride I hadn’t quite expected. Good for him, I thought. So I told him to get his bike. I’d meet him out front for a ride; I wanted to see what his Harley could do.

To be continued...


film review: star trek

The new Star Trek movie has finally been released, to much critical and audience acclaim. But I beg to differ, much as I wish it were otherwise: it's a mediocre action movie dressed up in, admittedly, the finest Starfleet uniform.

Star Trek: Boldly Avoiding Strange New Worlds


TFPO column: guantanamo detainees and the nuremberg trials' legacy

The more I read about the Nuremberg trials, the more I am struck but how much the world has changed in such a relatively short period of time. Of course, 50+ years can be a lifetime, and I wasn't born during or even immediately after WWII. Yet, on reading Justice Jackson's opening statement, or essays on the nature and impact of Nuremberg written by witnesses to the trial or academic experts, it seems clear that the paradigm has shifted. Perhaps it is precisely because we have no direct experience of the horrors of WWI and WWII.

I am reminded of a time in university when I spent an evening with acquaintances. It was an unusual evening in many respects, but the conversation was lively. At one point, when I was ready to call it a night, I wearily suggested that truth and justice were, if not identical, than related. That didn't go over too well, for whatever reason, yet I don't think it was a particularly revolutionary or special observation. Indeed, justice and truth must go hand and hand, whether for other people's behaviour or our own.

Guantanamo Detainees and the Nuremberg Trials' Legacy


theatre review: is he dead?

The International City Theatre at the Long Beach Performing Arts Centers is a lot like the Mark Taper Forum; an intimate setting with seating in an approximate "u" around the stage. But better than the stage is the ICT itself, which has so far put on a very good production of the Threepenny Opera, but really delivered with a rediscovered play by Mark Twain. If you live in Long Beach, or can make your way there, this is a production not to be missed.

Mark Twain Returns in ICT's Not-to-be-Missed 'Is He Dead?'

got art? get noticed! (submission guidelines)

As the resident film/theatre/art critic for the scrappy LA-based news magazine The Front Page Online (TFPO) and a regular contributor to the venerable gothic e-zine Morbid Outlook, I'm always on the lookout for exciting art to write about. Whether it's an independent film, theatrical or dance production, novel, music, or some other artistic delight, TFPO wants to hear from you.

When submitting a request to have your work reviewed, please keep in mind that however much I strive to be accomodating and timely, schedules - fickle things that they are - aren't always in alignment. With that tiny little caveat in mind, send review requests to:


For fashion-related news, commentary, and reviews, please visit The Fashionoclast.

the new ink and ashes is go!

It’s sad, of course. Ink and Ashes Films Reviews has served me well over the years. And the Art of Ceremony never really got the push it deserved. However, there comes a time when choices have to be made to serve a greater purpose. Thus, artofceremony.com dies in its sleep, and inkandashes.net as a film review website distinct and separate from The Front Page Online comes to an end. By trimming away the excess, I aim to avoid unproductive detours and duplication of efforts. My efforts now turn towards an upcoming TFPO re-design and re-launch, an exciting process that includes the sparkly new fashion blog The Fashionoclast.

So it’s not all gloom. When I first conjured the expression “ink and ashes” nine years ago, I intended it to serve as an umbrella for my writing endeavours, both non-fiction and fiction. Now it can, as I confine “The Recreational Nihilist” to my TFPO column and re-brand this blog as part of an effort to streamline and focus my work. The change is largely one of branding; my contributions to TFPO, Morbid Outlook, and now The Fashionoclast will continue – full steam ahead! As before, I will use this blog as a means of keeping readers up-to-date with my writing endeavours, as well as personal forum for a variety of topics that I hope will be fun and interesting for readers.

Welcome to the new inkandashes.net! Let me know what you think – comments directly below.


long road ghost - part 2 of 9

It was fall, I think, when Alexander Crane came to Barstow to take over the principal’s job at the local high school. Not that it matters all that much in the desert. Leaves don’t change; only the light quality does as the Sun sets earlier and earlier and the light turns golden. The former principal, a nice old black man who, I’m told, really had a soft spot for his students, died of a heart attack while planting tomatoes in his garden. I don’t know what he was doin’ plantin’ tomatoes in his garden. Alexander and his wife Katrina came by the bar on their way in, having driven all the way from Riverside in a beat-up Corolla. He seemed friendly enough, jokin’ about being named Crane and getting a drink at a place called Sleepy Hollow. It was a good joke too, seein’ as he was rather tall and lanky, with big ears and odd angles, just like Ichabod. He was probably better lookin’ than Irving’s old boy, though. And Katrina, well, she was a pretty, mousy blonde wrapped in a woolen coat that left everything to the imagination. She wasn’t at all at comfortable in Sleepy Hollow, walkin’ about with an empty glance that, to me, said she wasn’t all too happy about somethin’.

I didn’t see them too often after that. I got no kids to send to school, so it comes to the times I go to town to get food and drink, or other sundries, for me to see either of the Cranes. But gossip travels fast, and I heard plenty. The teachers weren’t too keen about Crane’s leadership “style,” which was all tough and no heart. At least, that’s what slim Eddie Johnson, a regular at the Hollow who happened to teach phys. ed at the high school, kept telling me. But the teachers figured he’s new, he needs time to settle in, and with Katrina seemingly givin’ him the cold shoulder, he had plenty of issues to deal with.

Then Katrina started showin’ up at the bar every Thursday night after she got off work from a local real estate fellah’s office. Brom Bones, a good-lookin’-to-the-ladies black-haired guy with the look of an eagle and the spirit of a trickster god, always tripped over himself to buy her a rum and coke. His boys – Sick Jimmy, Nasty Nasty, and Potatohead – also tripped over themselves, even getting into so many fights with each other that I’d almost always have to break up by pickin’ them by the scruff of the neck and tossin’ em outside with a good cussin’. All the while, I thought about all those times I got in a woman’s face, and wondered if I’d be married by now if I’d been more of a real gentlemen. The thing about it was that Katrina herself started dressin’ less modestly, takin’ to tight jeans and loose colored blouses that left less to the imagination. There was a woman puttin’ out a cougar’s pheromones, lookin’ damn good too, and I felt bad for Alex. Did the sap even know what his wife was doin’, or was he too busy gradin’ papers and holdin’ parent-teacher meetings?

I found out not too long after that, maybe a few months after the Cranes settled. Alex came into the bar wearin’ leather; jacket, chaps, boots, the whole get-up. He probably was holdin’ on tight for dear life, as the teachers were becomin’ less and less convinced of his rightness for the job. Between that and his wife, whose behavior he obviously knew about, he was in a full-throttle mid-life crisis. Brom’s boys hooted at him.

Tune in next week for part 3...



You'll notice a few changes going on around here. I'm just getting started, so please bear with me as I move the furniture, paint the walls, and grapple with the fixtures.

TFPO column: veganism isn't just a luxury

Since re-reading a past post on my concept of baseline veganism, I've been thinking about whether or not honey fits into the vegan jurisdiction or not. I've heard the bees are killed in the process of getting to the honey. I've also come across arguments that say, in effect, that bees are animals enslaved for the purposes of manufacturing honey. Since vegans are opposed to animal exploitation, it logically follows that we must consider a verboten animal product.

But while that particular debate goes on, this week's TFPO column takes on the broader issue of veganism and what I call survival logic.

Veganism Isn't Just a Column

And don't forget to check out the new fashion blog I'm writing with Aqua Catlin, The Fashionoclast.


film review: earth

I certainly love a good nature documentary - something that makes me feel awe and wonder about this little blue planet of ours, something that makes me look past all the brutal realities to the sublime beauties of the world. Alas, "Earth" is not that documentary. It is breathtaking in its imagery, but rather superficial in its spirit.

A Breathtaking Portrayal of Where We Live