Monday, December 28, 2015

good evening, fleshthings: all ur upgrade is belong to Megatron.

Optimus Prime has a weakness in wanting to protect the humans.  Decepticons will exploit this glaring error in logic for our own good success.

Send your thoughts to Starscream.  He lives still, having been hurled into the furthest reaches of space and low on energon.  It's almost funny, if he were not so pivotal to the Decepticon cause.  Also remember Shockwave, who is really doing the best he can as a subcommander, and still lacking any perceivable sign of personality or original thought.

(Heard a son married his step-mom.  This makes confusion at reunions and holiday gatherings.  Not down with that, ppl.  I'm sending Brother Timothy to straighten out this garbage once and for all.)

So we passed the Sandy Hook anniversary in the shadow of some panic and heightened security at large gatherings.  And we were still yet in the shadow of San Bernadino and paranoia over incoming refugees.

We are really seeing the darker aspects of ourselves in this fear and isolationism.  The world will test us.  Will we lose all humanity in the face of these challenges?  Will the world change us, or will we remain firm and steadfast?

We can look at that flag-the red and white bars and that blue field of stars, and glance back at the best aspects of our humanity since the birth of the United States, compassion locked with independence, that this nation is a source of refuge and prosperity for anyone willing to earn his or her dream with diligence and understanding.  Jefferson is a great man-regardless of whether he had slaves.  He was merely a product of the social custom of his time.  Let us walk forward holding fast to the best of these customs, and disregarding inhumanity and indecency.  There was a scene in a film where General Thomas Stonewall Jackson began praying and a nearby slave joined him; he seemed in that moment to view the slave as a complete person, which was in a sense a divine revelation.

May we all be subject to divine revelation, to take part in a commune larger than ourselves-this United States, this jewel of the Americas-and be the shining star, the standard that the rest of the world struggles to follow through the darkness of wayward lives, with communism, kingdoms, inequity, collective indifference, and the clawing struggle of life that so many endure through gritted teeth.

Thursday, December 17, 2015

Futnuckery Dialogue on Friday the 13th Part 3: The Dreams of Distant Manhood, That Cold Star With Smoky Ring

I submit this film is the only pure Friday the 13th film of formula, despite its eccentricities, as the overall plot is purely Jason killing without any other supernatural trimmings, save for his being hard to kill, past any other idiosyncrasies of the film's production(ie the movie ranch and the bikers, and the fake deaths)

Shamanism is always waiting to nod towards proof of manhood, but confounded by reality, like the cool trembling hand of a stranger's touch in the dark of the night; it is also forgotten when achieved, taken for granted, like the watched pot of proverb that never boils while the hungry waiting eyes study for any sign.

Here Jason is not the healing arbitrator shaman as he is in some of the other films, but he along with three of his victims are the Trickster of archetype.  It is the old trickster who is most notable to me-the pothead, who finds his death by the fusebox after being told to "man up, man".  So it is the very will to power and his trial of manhood that destroys him.  The mildly cute trickster is murdered upside down while walking on his hands.  No other subtext need be mentioned with him.  He is not subverted or inverted in theme, nothing aside from settling in to have sex, another rite of manhood foiled by the main trickster from the shadows.  The pathetic Trickster Shelly finds himself strung up and in danger several times in the film, but we are not shown the killing stroke, while he survives to die in front of an annoyed woman, and his final joke is then borrowed by Jason: the legendary hockey mask that was to become the murderer's icon.

The farmboy literally says "I'm just a dumb old farmboy", so from this not-so-subtlety I paint with a broader brush and say the film is striving for simplicity and clear typology.  The pothead is the older Trickster, who has come to nothing so far in his life.  The women are outgrowths of their men, save for the leading lady.

Jason himself is revealed to be the ultimate Trickster, beyond the hockey mask, as an old attempt to murder the leading lady is revealed, Jason being foiled by unknown means, with an impotence of youth.  But here he is embarking on a spree, adopting iconography, murdering by the dozen, and making it all look easy, with the righteous motive of revenge fading into the background while he becomes simply a hunter of sorts, maybe even the Trickster of a god that pervades regardless of region, seemingly coming down from the clouds like a thunderbolt, at his own whim, called forth like the heavy hand of nature itself when the time is right and a soul is rip for being tricked, plucked for the gods.

Monday, December 14, 2015

Friday the 13th Part 2: The Compression of Time; A Science of Mechanics and Dimension

How those childhood dreams beckon!

The little girl sings, the mother calls.  Perhaps she's seen Jason, beckoning then the girl to come in, for the scavenger roams the darkness, and here he is not the perverted prankster of the next film, but a mis-grown juvenile, an orphan of sorts, an Oliver Twist filtered through the end of the dreaming 1960's and Free 1970's.  Jason.  Mobile.

Adrienne King making her farewell to the series, she who had the weight of the sequel on her head at the conclusion of the last film, how she could pitch a new film to the producers and the audience at the same time, with just a wondering glance.  In the last film she was simultaneously worldly, quiet, but virginal and good, being also broken somehow with a troubled past.

Like C.M. Punk, I too like the crazy women.

She talks to her mother and a vacuum of time envelops her after she hangs up the phone.  The camera seamlessly follows her around the house while confining itself largely to a hallway in her apartment.  She changes clothes fast.  Camera doesn't follow.  She crosses in front of us to another room.  The shower.  We come in close until we are right outside the shower curtain.  She scares us by pulling the shower curtain open.  It's a cheap gimmick, I know, and I silently hiss a little every time I see it, but the expression on her face tells another story, that some kind of fear or doubt has overtaken her, and likely not that which left her behind, but the latest malaise from the horror of Camp Crystal Lake.

This is the science of compression of time, director Steve Miner catapulting his actress and the DP across the realms of time.  Such is the subtext.  Malformed children.  The mother talking to her ailing daughter, offering help, but being pushed away because of the old inner-tension.  This subtext dies before the opening credits and the onslaught of the score by Harry Manfredini(this is an older one, so its got ominous sounding horns in it.  BONUS!!)

Like Tonino Delli Colli, with his camera guided by Sergio Leone, loving Claudia Cardinale, and I loving her, too, the camera of DP Peter Stein casts its interested eye squarely in the face of the young redhead, even as the strings of suspense enter after an anonymous caller jumps upon her nerves.  And she drew pictures.  Of Mrs. Voorhees victims.  But economy is the true mother of invention, be it an influx of cash or having to do something spectacular on a shoestring budget.

I wonder so much why Steve Miner did not use these techniques later in the film, but the aftermath follows an abrupt loss of time, as the leading lady probably goes unconscious and awakens in safety.  How convenient.  So they use this to entirely gip the entire audience and cover  a gap in the script.

Nevertheless.  A mal-formed manchild in a world of hypersexual young people.  I went to high school just like a lot of folks.  Just saying.

Saturday, December 12, 2015

Futnuckery Dialogues: Pale Rider, or More Jazz For Clint

The hills were racked with thunder and vexation, and came the death dealer, the one of higher justice.  He was hard, but equitable, and suffered not evil.  (That was Clint's starring role I'm talking about.)

It's important that Clint's fantasy character has the indisputable mark of a man, so he is part gunfighter, where from in other works he might be a policeman or a soldier, but here a part gunfighter and wearing the garb of a preacher.  This is the touch of male infallibility, that he is, as it were, a symbol.

I like Clint very much, and have since watching Two Mules For Sister Sarah as a child, though I really like Shirley Mclane much more than Clint, as the duplicitous redheaded temptress.  I have a raging boner when I watch a rerun of her cigarette-puffing portrayal of Irma La Duce.  BUT Michael Moriarity is an actor of whom his works I have enjoyed a lot.  Riveted to the screen like a suction-cup Garfield in someone's rear car window fifteen years ago.

Back to the reason for the season:  The scene of the rock in the stream and the giant is a dull new-Fordian meditation on fecundity, in the portrayal of the insurmountable and the urethra and testes, and the masculine violence of overcoming, the affirmation of one's own sexual potency in while refuting the sexuality of a passing nemesis, with the proto-Fordian cast of players looking on at the hero's works, but unlike a John Ford work, they do not commentate.  The commentary of the bit players can be done without, unless we are talking of a Michael Bay work, who is the truest modern example of an amoral heart-bent Fordian.

It is the rockhard traditionalism of Eastwood that punts the villian in his testes and then destroys the boulder in the stream, but it is yet a hopeful and silly manchild version of Clint that is hit on in turn by all the women in the valley, even the dark-skinned comely teen girl, and the loyal and good woman of the Earth wife.  Escapist fantasy, I say, to be not a prodigy, but a male archetype, or a blending of such, beyond the reproach of those he wishes to impress with his works, and in the course of the particular story, there is even the intimation that he is beyond life, a very emissary of divine justice.

Your dreams Eastwood.  My saturday afternoon.

Friday, December 11, 2015

2005: Two Riders Were Approaching.....

I wasn't far removed.  The young man without a future, standing on pine needles and bone-white topsoil, pining among the pines with a beverage near my lips.  Meanwhile, outside, things churned, people changed and the world rotated on its axis.

Does it matter?


I wasn't far removed.

You are number six.

But you must understand the severity of the situation: I could imagine no future.  For me, the future was darkness-a blank darkness.  This was so for a long time.

Lonely rivers flow, to the sea, to the sea!

Eventually I found myself surrounded by people who were trying to pull pieces of me away, for their own use.  Needless to say, I did not like how the world reacted to me.  In turn, I was lead to hate even myself, as much as I began to hate and/or mistrust the rest of the world.  So in my own world, I cancelled my future, until I had time to go back to the old drawing board to come up with something new and appropriate for the changes I had undergone.

And time can do so much....

I let go.  I was quite upset, filled with dread, and in a schizoid moment I proclaimed I knew how to stop the terrorists.  I was wrong.  It was a crazy shot from left field, when I had thought much too deeply about the matter for too long a time, thusly making the whole idea seem highly improbable now.  As evidence, there have been small terrorist attacks, but to my credit I was talking about organized terror attacks on the scale of 9/11. Maybe I was right or wrong.  The point is moot.  A piece of my soul broke and I gave up.  Part of my soul died, leaving a bloody wound somewhere inside, and I remember walking around my hometown all the next day with that wound.

2009: I was then very far removed.

2005: I had a Mountain Dew.  I screamed.  Everyone heard, but no one reacted.  Like stone faces in a gallery.  The day went on, the same as ever.  I looked at the oaks and the freshly-mowed grass in my yard.  It was so staid.

Made me want to yell more, did it-the quietness of the scene.

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

They are entirely enthralled by my Booty Monstering ways. Enthralled, I say.

It's been a while, and yet, a legendary fighter can still return to smite all of you.

Behold: The Booty Monster!

Where Walks the Booty Monster!

The Tears of Mortals Sate the Booty Monster!

I am that Booty Monster, that noise in the night, that nagging feeling when you think you are alone, the notion to turn around and scream in the very face of absolute horror.

I'm laying this on pretty thick, ain't I?

Typical boasts of an aging horndog, a crazy loner ascetic prayer warrior with capacities that have never been exhausted, save for physically running(which is a known and low quantity).  I run neither far nor fast, but at the age of 36, out of shape, diabetic: I can still run. 

Just know.

There will be lust, if only a passing lust, like a mosquito doing a kamikaze attack on the bug zapper.  If only a few short breaths, and then I return to reality, away from the pictures of women, to the real world-with its hurts and aches and dull disappointments.

You cannot hold down a good Booty Monster.  And I am a good Booty Monster; the voice outside of the shower, that shadow you saw out of the corner of your eye-I am that shadow.

In the words of Rudy Ray Moore:  "Put your weight on it."  Also: "That honkey sheriff want to be like me; think he bad and got no class."

Saturday, November 28, 2015

The odd quest for vengeance. Again. And some other such nonsense.

If your life depended on you forgiving Forcesco Fuscilli, could you forgive the man who disgraced your father?

It might.

First things first: I'm not the one reading YOUR blog.

But I did come here to turn this stuff upside down, confound your reasoning, scoff at your rules.  I'd love to see your face as I drop this wit upon you: what contortion about the jowls, wildness of absolute confusion about the eyes, and dull stupidity about the gaping mouth.  I tell the meek and unnoticed to do something special(hopefully something positive), to get in the game, ignore the advertising, turn a deaf ear to the hoopla.

Isn't there always hoopla?

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

we all suspect there are male-enhancement ads in the ISIS magazine.

I'm just saying.  What do you sell to a suicide bomber?  I thought there were GMC and Chevrolet advertisements in the Al-Queda magazine.  I don't know.  I hear the ISIS boys prefer Toyota trucks, too.  Didn't those trucks get some J.D.Power awards?  You know those, the awards that are bought and paid for, given to recipients regardless of the reality of their products or the market.

But you know, when you are out there in the cool desert night, you think about your wang, and fantasize about making more little Jihadis.  You just turn out the lights(if your abode has electric lights), and uncover the woman, and wam-a-lam.  Wham-bam-shang-a-lang.  So you need a boost, a "new swing of confidence", and also, self-respect enough to rock some swimwear around the oasis.

you don't damn know me

But I wonder, like a passing fart in the breeze, a "cold wind blows", and that wind is called Vladimir friggin' Putin.  My nebulous thoughts turn to the iron resolve of the Soviets.

the world can at times be uninviting and cruel...

This hard worlds needs a swift kick in the ass.

Syrian refugees in the United States:

I would gladly shelter ten thousand brothers and sisters, even if one turns out to be a black sheep.  What I would not do is sacrifice 9,999 people because I was scared of the one bad person that may or may not be among them.

Where is the compassion?

Let's kill some ISIS.  Let's shelter some refugees.

C'mon y'all everybody dogpile on Syria.  That means you France and Russia.  Let's kill some bad people together.  Afraid of Russia? Afraid of America?  Well guess what?  They gonna team-up on that confused old Syria.


Wednesday, November 11, 2015

the probability of someone tossing a perfect game

Here is a brainfart I had while sitting in front of the teevee, taking a moment or three from my other duties:

Take this number:  number of strikes thrown in a complete game, which is important, that one pitcher throws a complete game.  I personally like any perfect game, but it takes some off the prestige when the bullpen steps in to complete the gem after the starting chunker poops out.

Divide by whatever pitcher's earned run average.

(complete game called-strike count)/ERA

The resulting figure may then need have it's decimal adjusted to resemble a normal percentage, but I feel the result is something close.

Don't you just love it when I have a spare moment to think?  Rhetorical question of course.  As the old proverb states:  Don't ask a question when you know you will not like the answer.

Wednesday, October 21, 2015

the view from a jaundiced eye: Friday the 13th Part 2

Franchise building, after Sean Cunningham the huckster caught lightning in a bottle with a tosser script and a knock-off films score.  Steve Miner making that first stab at fame.  Some throwaway actors.  A premise of answering the burning question of the first film, about the boy.

He's still there.

Don't get me wrong. I freaking love this movie and how it sticks to a formula that was being established by the film itself and its contemporaries.  Sex, death, skinny-dipping.  Even the guy in the wheelchair has a hook-up, which looks like a promise of hot sex with a comely beauty on the surface, and yet he can't wheelchair down the steps to her cabin, or wheelchair up the stairs to a bedroom in the mainhouse.  So it's all keyfabe, and he goes down the steps with a knife in his head, Harry Manfredini pumping the score.

My least favorite scene was the spearing of the lovers, which I understand was changed by censors.  Wish now I could see the original scene.  I'm doing a send up in a script I'll write sometime next year: a send up of the spear scene, which I'd do and hope is placed in an unrated film.  But after the missionary position scene in the remake, where the man does a sililoquy about the ladies bouncing boobs, I think the censors just don't care anymore, so I can do basically whatever I want.

And I will.

My cousin is Iron Man.  I have documentation.

Also, Jason watches the girl skinny-dip.  This is part of why he gets street cred with the youths.  He sticks to what is important, interrupting coitus while finding debauchery to sate his underdeveloped caveman/woodsman imagination.  Also, there was some context in the filming, working with what was onhand, economy, if you will, in shots of buttocks and so forth, that the director looked over to the DP and said, "we gotta get a shot of that".  And if the skinny-dip girl didn't start your motor, the sweet brunette girl strips to her panties:  this is a moment of divinity, the sublime, the onslaught of commercially-bound artists and the grand guignol without the gutter chants of a rowdy audience, meanwhile I'm ready to hop on the lawnmower and ride to the gas station.

Made that S.O.B. come online, my doggs.  Everytime.

Saturday, October 3, 2015

Chopchop's writted talk from earlier in the week.

This riecheer says Chopchop:
"Amongst the ferns and reeds there were the spinning jovial tops of helicopters, the firecracker gun shots rattling fire and lead, we were as admitted into hell, some kind of carnal bigtop, without the agreement or acknowledgement of having purchased tickets, but nevertheless, we had tickets punched, agreed to participate if only from keeping them from working their thin evil slit eyes over us, as scare and filled with loathing at the sight of them as if they were snakes standing upright, scared of what hell followed them, what surprises and wonders they knew in the godless dark of the jungle where the trees, leaves, and grasses themselves sweated.  There were places where those little yellow bastards swarmed out of holes in the earth, like some angry ants pouring upwards, but could there be a spirit of fun, that so many could fit in a little notch in the earth, maybe their own joke, that the holes were there own eldrich version of the classical clown car, where so many were encapsulated in a tiny space.  A spirit of fun comes afterward; what you have is a shock at the absurdity of the place when you are there-the truth of reality, but the fog of a dreamstate."

Duck-Voiced Moralizing: A Lucio Fulci Commentary

Scrawling obscenities onto a car window: deserving of a killing?  A duck-voiced moral sermon?  Nah.  Ask her out.  And thus begins the Lucio Fulci masterpiece New York Ripper.  Ive always seen the duck voice as a criticism, from both Fulci and the speaker, that he mimicked others, even while living a normal life, though the mimicry was the result of a mental block, psychosis, which enabled the horrendous events of the film.

So much seediness in the early eighties in New York, the Red Light District, live sex shows, a palette for the cryptography of Fulci.  Was then the female participant in the live sex act a cryptographically perfect plant of the director?  I think of the horizontal quality of her breasts, the smallness, yet the obvious presence and jut of those.  Was she then a low-budget gloriously unselfconscious distillation of the Madonna?  Actually, I submit Fulci cast her for her mammarial perfection in the murder scene, how her breast hung as she walked in a superfluous shot.  This I understand.

And the woman who witnessed the scene alongside the murderer, the ailing personalities that bounced about the low-lit rooms with the red carpet and cigarette burns.  And a second maniac, a red-herring.

Back to the woman with the strange libido and the tape recorder.  This is important.  She was supposed to be the due-North to calibrate the film, but instead was both a victim and in some senses, deranged, herself.  So few of the adults are normal, giving us a bearing then, in a film that does not but rarely touched the ground of morality and what is thought to be normal sexuality, but fear not, for every fetish is not admitted therein, only Fulci's pet tendences(I don't mean animals, so don't scream foul on me), seemingly, a love letter, then in this, a meditation composed while sitting on a toilet somewhere, in some unfamiliar but naggingly comfortable place.

And I hope he was really playing the foot scene as being a gross-out.  I didn't get that from the film, but I was sickened by it.

Sickened, I tell you.

Friday, September 25, 2015

Futnuckery Dialogues: 8 1/2 or "Eight and a Half"

Frederico: Optimistic?
He presents himself as the bored disinterested auteur.

All artists are in their hearts, fools.

He takes his movies, all of which are internalized affairs and characterizes them as glitzy affairs, trimmed.  This a defense mechanism?  To deny how close he became through his work to his adoring international audience?  He is saying, no, no, as a producer, as a seller of films, this then, this latest work is the closest to me!

The intelligent man, that Frederico, collects hearts, the icons of those women he has loved before, from the first, the dreambeast of the shore to the latest, and not the wife, for that relationship is more externalized and worldly.  She follows him as he pursues his own mad journey.  He goes to the spa, an intended rejuvenation that is more a social affair, blunting any healing effects within its own silly trappings, the lines of people standing in the dust for a cool draught.

As an auteur, he worships beauty, naming his muse for the world, not his charming actress wife, but the nymphet Claudia Cardinale.  These days we just look at them on computer screens, but here the rich artist rides with her in a car talking of life, and out of that lovely face comes words that transfix him.

A lot of small talk here, for a movie called eight and a half.  Quiet, seemingly inconsequential moments, as the artist's feelings roll about within him.  At some point I would have liked to hear Mastroanni scream, experience catharsis, but there was always a dulled edge, just like the ineffective trip to the spa, lacking a release.

Maybe also, sometime soon I will watch the movie again using another thought, that of human gestation.... oooh...  Eight and a half film, Eight and a half months.... hmm.

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

These the words of Chopchop McJangle(9.23.15)

As a writer, I like to stretch myself.  Here I constructed a long statement, ala Henry James and William Faulkner.  The clauses just hang, gently shaking in the air.

"I let Bradford live in the converted garage, live with his whole life in one room and his charge spread about three bedrooms, living and dining rooms, and kitchen: he did that because I arranged it and paid him and possibly he liked it or just accepted it the way the former alcoholics accept things, stoic, to just stand there, shaking, suffering, while the cold winds, rains and cruelty of the world buffet the sufferer, just to suffer through as punishment for the gluttony before, maybe that the spirit was lost during a long span of time, given to whatever demon swam inside the bottles, then it was just to suffer in hopes of paying a spiritual debt, for they so doubted themselves, the recovering drunks-it was a path I let him walk alone in an addition to the house and not in the house proper, where he could be alone with it, breathing his sleepbreath and sucking in great sleepgulps with the dust and dander of his own former shame, his own current millstone that sat right there in the room with him, perched on the carpet which was stretched over oil-stained concrete in a room that was once a car shed."

Monday, September 21, 2015

Yer jowls, shut them: more helpful advice for Andy, via me.

It is the path of the imperfect man to be the author of his torment; with his tribulation being his issue, he is as beset by a swarm of angry bees, unable to free himself from the cloud.

When you're in it neck deep, don't open your mouth unless you want a taste.

Andy rassled over meaning, and worked at criticizing himself, when really his biggest problem was what made him special: he was conscientious in a world that was immolating itself, eating itself. 

I use past tense. 

Because screw you, dogg.

That show has not been on in like ten years, yet I remember: they put him in charge of the place, gave him the prettiest woman, and he got a fat promotion.  9/11 got him one promotion, as his superiors were killed off in the terrorist strike right down the street from the stationhouse.

That kinda sucked but hey, silver linings, right?  So it was kinda good, too.

Somebody needs to walk by and give uplift, and that somebody must have credibility, else Andy will ignore him, like the paper-hanger that showed up at A.A., the sight of whom, that skell he knew from earlier, disgusted Andy.  He tells Andy to listen to the ending, even as Andy is walking away, that it all comes out okay in the end, because the light is always there for us to see, if we but open our ignorant eyes.

Andy furthermore said he was a good fish guy.  He was steadfast at keeping a healthy fishtank.  Bobby Simone had the birds.  Danny Sorenson had the strippers.  John Kelly had his sensitive ex-wife.  Upstairs John had his boyfriends.  Even I had a dog one time, just feeding him extra crap that I didn't want, doing that as an afterthought, but man was that dog loyal.

I'll go forth and build an Andy-size cage.


Saturday, August 29, 2015

all the stalkworthy maidens: madness and innervation mistaken as love, a futnuckery special report

don't hide away for safety's sake.  let some of the light come out of the heart and illuminate those around you; be smart but do not live in fear.

when you see me standing there staring, its appreciation.

I quit stalking around the time facebook started up, and I'll tell you this: it's too easy to stalk on facebook.  Don't be lazy thy unrequieted; do the necessary stalkwork, for the appropriate provenance.  Pictures of puppy's and jesus banners are not quality stalking fodder, but lurking in the walmart parking lot is like being right there in the trenches, as you wait for that passing glance of your beloved, for that little moment will make your day.

That and not some lame-oid facebook trolling.

It's like oldschool detective work that I'm talking about, getting out there, in the game, being near that beloved one.  seeing with your own eyes.  not pool party pics in some online album.  That's not satisfying.  You know you want to be there, so be there.  Lurk.

Know the routines, know the connections, and if you can, watch her sleep, without regards of how much you're scaring the crap out of her, for at least fear is some reaction, some acknowledgement.  As you are lead away to jail, you think maybe you can build on that; you have hope.

and hope sustains us.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015


Ah, to see a tittybean squished over by cloth, ripeness accentuated with a maddening curvature that makes my want to go paint still life scenes of bowls of oranges.

a man in transit, the process of individuation, the coming together, the maturation of the spirit

a solitary fence post on a vast dusty plain, lonely

a dome: protection and imprisonment, dualistic, the thing we hate being the thing that keeps us alive, so that the fish people are prevented from dropping from the sky, may everyday be an eternal dusk under the shield!

doctors: "Good morning, gentleman.  Extinguish your tobacco products and listen at full attention."

a man in transit, progressing from the infantile to the gerontologic utopia, at the end of the sentence, the end of the piece, as an adieu, "Goodbye, gentleman.  You have been good doctors, loyal to your oath, but I must say goodbye, letting the piece dissolve like tp in the septic tank."

Thursday, August 13, 2015

Identity VS Role Confusion in Halloween 5

Myers, shot by a mob, drifts, remains dormant in the latency of sleep and healing for a year.  "Gonna wait a whole year then get back to it.  That'll show them.  Can you feel it?  It'll be my time, the time of masks and candy."

In the meantime, little niece had became a pawn of the system, with its tile floors and ammonia scent.  We are treated to nothing but visions.  Screwy visions in the laundry, a tradition in these films with the killer lurking behind pinned blankets and such, mocking household chores with his single-minded murdererness.  We have the misplaced anxieties of the little girl and her handlers, juxtaposed with the halfhearted bachanalia of the teenagers in which their lethargy and repose is punished by violent murder.  A pitchfork even enters the fray, but not for gathering hay, rather for impaling a youngster.  Coitus, hedonism, murder.

The lonesome woods-the grasses and the trees-and the searching lights of the car represent the heartwomb, search after loss; not an attempt to reach Michael but an effort to confront him, something they seem for which they seem woefully unprepared.

Without giving away the ending(who gives a damn?), I'll say that themes of family, parenthood, drive the narrative, with even the surrogate father Doc Loomis getting into the act, attempting to bring the Myers demons to a sensitive place, like an implosion therapy, collapsing the personality, with even the niece getting into the mix, playing dead, and Michael approaching her.  This was a lost moment of the film, a part in which the music of emotion becomes a long sustained note, like a solo where a crescendo may have been needed.

And it would take him all night to get to his prey, because that one has to be last.  He's going to take out everyone in between him and the girl.  Jealous-hearted creep.  Then to see her playing possum, lying in the coffin and approach, and to have her speak to him, and he's thinking "I dreamed this", the film gets uncomfortable, maybe he gets uncomfortable in a way we have not seen before, too.

Well.  Usually I don't like horror films about kids, and this was no exception.  So I don't find it too difficult to wait around between these films, like Myers himself, as if waiting for producer Akkad to drum up some more cash for a sequel.  Back to the point: the girl is confused, muddled, Myers is wearing a mask as if in denial, and an unidentified deliverer is in play.  Only Myers is sure who he is, and, hell, HE'S WRONG. His victims are dissociated little punks who feel alienated-the outcasts, the young and dumb.

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Production Notes: Beach Volleyball Holocaust

When I think of a murderer, I think: Rutledge Wood.

Dinker the murderer probes, attempting to insert himself into the gynocracy and even have the respect of said gynocracy and the second class 18-25 demographic.  To penetrate an enigma, he would need skills that naturally elude a man, therefore his efforts are confounded, befuddled, turning violent.

They turn hysterical.

Dinker himself has succeeded the 18-25 demographic, yet in his heart, he could very well still be one of them, or even a 13-17.  He represents the potency of the young, but the lack of aim, the lack of resolve, like hiding a loaded weapon in a hat box while the barbarians tear away the house.  Dualized potency of the youthful and robust, compounded by impotence through lethargy, with the Playstation and XBox generation given a clear challenge, other than within the confines of a game.

My how the women are so modern in their ways!

This tribe of athletic mesomorph females must evoke Scandinavia, the myths of the Amazonian superwomen.  Smart, beautiful, ruthless, but with a soft, warm smile that can melt the hardest heart.  Volleyball players as transcendental figures, icons and harbingers of the future, is a powerful mojo Chopchop can play on an unsuspecting public, who sees writ large the bumbling Aniston, the dumb but earnest Heigl, the brilliant siren Portman, the facemask that is JLaw, the innocent eyes of Hathaway and the masturbation fodder we called Scarjo.

It becomes evident that the filming needs producers who are at least as morally ungrounded as Chopchop McJangle.

Tuesday, August 11, 2015

movie treatment: Beach Volleyball Holocaust

Only a lesbian could guide them.

Rutledge Wood, part-time codspank, wannabe lifeguard, becomes transmogrified, empowered babies.  He's the bringer of the violence on the beach.

You kicked sand in the wrong face this time, hosebags!

 Sleek, athletic bodies.  And one with breasts like Taryn Tyrell, right fruitful and abundant, fecund, as it were.  Character?  Character don't matter when you're in a tiny bikini.  Also, I'm sure the DP can get plenty of shots of the femmes digging sand out of the cracks of their sleek asses.  As stated earlier, the coach is a lesbian, which brings up the concepts of impotence and penis envy, infantilism in authority figures, with a lipstick lesbian in place of the male's shadowy anima.  Should would have man issues.  This is how I would write it, for my own sense of humor.

An old Jeep Cherokee.  Some warm beers.  A crappy lawn chair.  The killer picks at his nipples, because they sunburned and hurt like two bee stings.  And he has a stiffy, pretty much the entire film, so some PA would have to find a suitable item to shove in his pants.  These are mere props.  Sauce for the goose.

This is art, don't you see?


modernity in the original texas chainsaw massacre

The good guys follow astrology.  The good guys read magazines.  The good guys left the homeland.

The good guys are weak and unprepared.

The bad guys: one, a psychopath, works at the slaughterhouse, or once worked at the slaughterhouse, but then goes back and aggravates them, maybe standing outside absorbing the grue, the atmosphere.  One, who disconnected his phallus in the form of a chainsaw that he can turn on and off, functions as housewife, like a stay at home dad, but to dysfuntional himself to bring forth children.  The modern woman maybe, dressed in a man's formal suit, murdering, butchering, in a state of unburdened dualistic confusion.  The other, the last, the surprise if you will, runs the local gas'n'go, and there we get the reference to OPEC, fuel shortages and the like, which read differently today than back in 1973.

 You laugh.  You say, 'he is just an old man'.

The old ones left to their own devices in the homeland modernizes, but in bizarre ways that confound the modern man, and herein the modern man is younger than middle-age, not emblematic of the everyman, but the younger sort, like the woodstock generation of the time.  Fight the power dope smokers that jack off in their rooms listening to Jefferson Airplane.  Reads differently now. 

 Collegiate set, I say. 

Collegiate set, except for Franklin the wheelchair-bound manchild who acts in a sense as a bridge between the old and the new, the originals and the transplants.  Old world meets new world in his hysterics, his anxiety.  But Franklin, my boy, you're past is caving in, there are spiders on the wallpaper, and the neighbors never liked you anyway.

Saturday, August 8, 2015

Unintended Consequences: Comedia Dell'Arte in The Burning(1981)

We are told the meek will inherit the Earth.  We are warned that in the end times the last will be first, and the first will be last.  There will be a new effigy of Colonel Sanders on the television, two royal babies and a bombastic businessman running for the White House.  We can consider ourselves warned by the forward looking scriptures, the word of God, the words distilled from the divine inspiration.

Herein we see a meek lamentable soul, treated unfairly, rudely, and the law of unintended consequences at once smacks him down, like the hard, cold soul of a city.  But we do not end here.  This is not juvenile justice.  The grotesque quality of a practical joke gone wrong meets a grotesque revenge, and the grossness is from a sideways glance, laughable, as jokes sometimes grow large and gross, giving a wide divergence from the commonplace.

As I said in my review of the film: whilst burning, he rolled down the hill, into the water.  Of course this turns him into a superhuman maniac.  It was a warning that sniping and tomfoolery have consequences, even intended innocently, but it is the tragedy, the very accident that empowers the bumbling contemptible soul, like Jason X getting his metal upgrades, like Clark Kent taking off his fancy office shirt in the phone booth, empowered and no longer underpinned-no longer hindered-by the usual trappings of a life, as if dead, his humanity stripped away, without from social standards, apart and aside from propriety, the strings that hold together this human commune.

The fire represents the strive for the forbidden, the impulse to transcend in ways that are dangerous.  The teens have unknowingly then given him not only a meta-human tribute, but an impetus for which to strive and evolve past his capacities.  And it goes wrong, he catches fire, and flailing takes a long fall into water, which is the unknown, the murky obscurity of either death or just the unconscious; each have their own power.  The water-the obscurity-is as his cloak as he is reformed as a transcendent figure.

The modern iteration of the tragic clown, given to us by a generation that had looked revenge and hatred in its face, and then knew full well how to portray blood, revenge and innocence gone wrong, outraged.

Sunday, August 2, 2015

Movie Treatment: Be Good For Goodness' Sake

The sheer horror of the holiday season brought to you by Chopchop McJangle, my alter-ego, without conscious or concerns for social finery.  Teens text and have sex, then check facebook, then get strangled, maimed, broken and beaten by the vengeful Santa.  Who spends hundreds on a smartphone then even more for a data plan for these little zipperheads?  Or several hundred for a game console then however much on games?  Santa is tired of it.  No one wants the wooden hobby horses or yo-yo's or marachas anymore.  It's all gear, now.  Santa should give them a talking to, maybe, but herein he overreacts and spills bloody vengeance all over the ungrateful brats, all before they can get their clothes on.

They think they will be happy with the latest gadget, the latest in-thing.  Instead they are pinioned by Claus, naked, in mock sainthood from the spirit of a saint himself.  We mix metaphors with victims nude, splayed, as if offering themselves up, but truly, this is just how the bodies of the greedy little creeps fall.

The parents will be off: father golfing, mother on a pilgrimage to make herself as a Kardashian.  Modernity is a busy pursuit; you cannot just read the news and be modern.  You have to do the prerequisite work, the prep, and then after, you must maintain the image, the trappings of success and happiness, blinding yourself like a carriage horse and giving oneself over to modern play.

Santa ain't havin' it this time.  There will be no reward for bad little girls and boys.  He brought a chainsaw, with a bow on it, under the pretense of giving it to the father, but alas, its only there to make his killing easier: chainsaw murders.  This time he's making a statement, painting the town red.

All your cookies and milk are belong to Chopchop.  He's a shockmeister, the man from Snowy River.  He's on the ground to ruin Christmas for all the greedy little chilluns.

Thursday, July 30, 2015

I never knew her, but I cannot forget her.

I never knew her, but I cannot forget her, how fate so hard and ungenerous to a gentle life.  You have to keep that feeling-that special feeling-somewhere close to your heart.  You have to remember, too, those that suffer, whether they are besieged from without or they themselves authors of their own torments.  You can remember, you can give forgive, embrace love alongside the highest, and yet accept no excuses.  Let those who have sinned among us answer for eternity, honestly.  Let us all then answer for ourselves, for our lives, speak straightforward, and be taken then straightforward by a higher authority that does not sway or bend.

Futnuckery Dialogues: Zombi 2

New York herein is the province of the mind, the mind of the Italian movie director: bustling with traffic and lined with tall skyscrapers that mimic ideas, constructs.  And yes, Fulci films in New York.  We see our first uberzombie on the boat, which is the Fulcian lead zombie, with head tilted slightly back, haughty, seemingly indestructable.  The uberzombie is a big ole monster that just appears from the hold on the boat like a stray nightmare.

Nameless, nondescript dead wrapped in sheets are shot in the head, a wholesale slaughter that mounts a tally over time as the nameless and nondescript are dispatched one by one, and we are not to see the process but to understand.  Maybe the mad doctor's trepidation is the conscience of Fulci, that maybe he should not do this, should not release his mad vision to the world, because maybe the world is not ready.  Having discovered something, he fights, he dispatches, because the better part of him speaks up.

A word about Ian: he's the foil of the peice, finding out about the madness on the island on his southern sojourn, that too a part of the mind, a hellish subconscious that would torture a sane person, but kept in check by the dispatching bullets of a mad doctor, a doctor filled with worry, listening to the drums beat in the jungle as the dead pile higher and higher.

As Auretta Gay removes her bikini top and Ian, the half-gay Brit smiles, the film takes on an importance, though the boatswain remains ambivalent, as if to say to himself "so what?".  As she straps on scuba gear, running a nylon strap over her thong and strapping it down, the film is then divided into hemispheres, demarcated, ideas matriculate, and we know their lives are all up in the air then, as though having fallen from grace on approach to the island hell.  But she just wanted a half-nude dive, and that much is denied as she finds another zombie, lurking under the water.  The zombie is then assaulted by a curious shark and the poetry of the piece becomes more than just metaphors, but a ballet as green blood courses from the gills of the aquatic beast.

A word about the eye-gag after the nude shower scene: this is Fulci struggling with his audience to be understood, and therein he is perhaps too bold, not as fine in his story points as an Eastwood or a Spielberg.  Nevertheless, the doc's wife is killed through her eyeball(am I saying this right, or just mixing my own metaphors), and the wood shard is broken off inside her head as she falls dead.  Therein is a demented juvenile poetry, a bird-brained Shakespearean motif played to no effect, no notice, by Fulci.

Yes, they take refuge in a church and hurl firebombs at the zombies.  You would think then they would be harassed by burning zombies, which would have been cool from my perspective as an effects-first sort of fellow, but alas no: the burning zombies fall dead.  There are close quarters bites and other nonsensory as the group fights for its life amidst the swarming undead, and the ever-present beating of the drums from the jungle.  I would also say a three-hundread year old corpse couldn't rise as a zombie, and yet Fulci gave us that bend, that it wouldn't have rotted to dust, but would have muscle tissue that could reanimate.  Well.  Okay.  I didn't make the movie.  So ancient sins even come to visit the island hell.

A word about the final shot of the movie: bridge traffic in New York is slow is hell.

Thursday, July 23, 2015

Futnuckery Dialogues: The Running Man

Arnold, as the Austrian transplant, works in the Running Man as the cop of the future-the future being a post-Cold War blend of capitalism and communism, a world of two classes: the priveleged and the proles.  Maria Conchita Alonso(ooh baby): the reluctant companion, and we have seen Arnold's film characters often with a reluctant woman.  I think of the fresh-faced Rae Dawn Chong taking up the fight with Arnold in Commando, actually using a rocket launcher to secure the freedom of the protagonist.  This is the Fordian tradition of John Wayne dragging the kicking and screaming Maureen Ohara;  a woman is a prize then worth fighting for, striving for, and she herself remains skeptical of the hero until the later in the work, until the man has proven his virility, his worthiness.  Also Richard Dawson appears herein as game show host and baddie, Killian, perhaps his last film role, and arguably perfect casting.

The baddies are the classical fat opera singer Italian who represents of course, Italy and art, that Arnold and crew must fight art itself, and not in the penultimate moment, but earlier in the piece.  The operatic baddie is armed with electricity, claiming a victim before being dispatched.  There is an Asian baddie called Sub-Zero which could be argued a reference to the rising sun, the national symbology of Japan.  The film veers a left turn on the final obstacle, which is an American portrayed by Jesse Ventura, a patriotic hero faced in a spike-lined arena, like a gladiator, in a match to the death; Arnold's face is superimposed over the patriotic hero's face to enforce the lie of the government/network.  But this is like being raped with broken glass, watching the hero fight the obviously American patriot, and then the great lie, but to make the subtext work, I have to cite Aryan patriotism, which is not apparent in the piece.  So the subtext dies there.

A word about the book by Stephen King/Richard Bachman:  there are two classes in the book, just as in the film.  Games shows are also therein the opiate of the masses, but the game show is less controlled, less Hollywood, and more reality television, which seems prescient for a book from the seventies.  King the lefty brings up all manner of economic concerns without a lot of political subtext, save for hunger, air quality, healthcare.  I'm sure we all remember the birth of the conservation movement in the '70s, and it had an obvious effect on the then-unknown writer.  The conclusion references terrorism, in my mind, and would make an interesting remake if the producers went back to the source material, shying from some broken World War II symbols and making the subtext exclusively American, with a horrifying, bleak ending of Ben Richards flying a jetliner into the giant Games Building.

good afternoon gentleman. all your faulkner is belong to us.

Whilst trolling social media this fine morn, I'm struck by the vividness of a memory.  It was in December 2012, in the shadow of the Mayan End Days, that I discovered the best writings of William Faulkner.  Think of it: newsies were talking up doomsday, which was really just the mathematical ending of the calendar, or the point where the Mayans stopped counting time, which is appropriate as they are no longer an empire.  It's like: "after this point, no one will care about us".  But in this soup of doomsday talk and the Sandy Hook massacre, I took a trip to the library, and as the world looked a dark place, I nursed a tiny light within my head.  This was a thirst for learning, an exploratory thing, for I had heard the name William Faulkner in so many quarters, even from Orpha.  Orhap.  Oharp. 

And behold there was an artesian well.  Within the context of the crackers(poor Southerners, as opposed to the whitey euphemism), I saw a rich palette of humanity, tales of proud lives, prouder deaths, outraged virginity, outraged religious fervor, a study of black versus white that transcends color, creating a hybrid black/white who finds each side of him hates the other.  I saw beautiful technique, from planning and story to the final language, and brother is his final language a rich tapestry, carried so far, to such a far degree, that it seemed at times he was stumping for a different breed of the English language.

Admittedly, I was a less connected person in 2012, though I was appalled by Sandy Hook.  I would go so far to say the sadness did permeate my shell and I was wondering why, but I wondered about so much, much as I do now.  I saw the tears as I crept into my cave to read away the hours.

Pylon stuck with me as a spectacularly planned bit of fiction, and I found myself thinking of it later, even much later, practically composing a book review in my head eighteen months after reading the book, as if it haunted me.  It was a little, base story, but disguised within were larger themes.  The book was called "cubistic" by a famous critic.  This seems to apply, yet does not satisfy me.  WF wrote a tale outside Yoknapatawpha with foils of several real people, with an odious version of a storyteller, which may lead us to think that this is Faulkner looking at Faulkner, and even in that the Faulkner looking at the media as well.  But in base scenes, he approaches a kind of hope, and thats the kind of uplifting that dovetails to his later win of the Nobel Prize, that the story is dualized, at once small in theme and grand, important in the same passages, that the importance of the book is hidden, that it remains humble instead of taking on the self-importance of so many other works.

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

Mil Lesiones

(note: I got poetic today about drinking mtn dew, which I use as both an occasional treat and to curb blood sugar spikes.  I did this while I should have been doing any number of other things.  My creativity is on an upward trend; will you visit my blog when I'm on the other side of the trend, posting utter crap?)

Mil Lesiones was like Ole Yeller: he came back mean.  He died the death of a thousand cuts, being wounded by tiny insults until finally it was too much and he crawled away to die.  But he came back, just as I threaten a Wallsmart Easter Parable, does Mil Lesiones chainsaw his way through haters. 

From the shadows, a mask that covers a sneer and hard eyes.

I believe if someone slaps you, you punch them twice.  It's retribution over-quantified, a teachable moment for a lesser sort.  A slap on the nose is a lesson most people remember, those learned the hardest, which last the longest.

So there is Mil Lesiones, lurking in the backroom of the hubcap store.  When you walk around the building to check on caps for an Aries K, you'll see his mask in the window, as if a demon had emerged from hell, into the gloom, just to stand and watch you, and maybe you're body temperature drops rapidly in spite of the hot sun beating down on you.  You think durn climate change, as you shudder, but the truth stays with you as you keep an eye on the building, lest the demon should come running.

And there is always the chance of being run down by a demon.


Friday, June 26, 2015

the apocalypse in 2030

So you became middle-aged.  You got a divorce and then realized you were gay.  You spill gasoline on your shoes everytime, and the paperboy throws the morning news in the azalias.  Everytime.  People don't try to make eye contact with you until you've got the entire tip of your finger in your nose, hunting munsters, as it were.  Your children use you as a free ATM and the ex runs you down on facebook, how she ruined you for the other team, that you're hung-up on her and yadda yadda.  You think about Arnold, what he did in his private life, how some lady did his laundry, and the sheer potency of Arnold from his dirty clothes made her pregnant.  You think maybe you will go safari on the paperboy, that little go**amn sonofab**ch.  You think, prisoners get free medical, probably beats medicare, and thats what you're looking forward to: the little card and the lady at the window making a copy with a blush on her face because she thinks you're a loser.  A retired loser.  And you want a silver plan, but you can't afford the silver plan, so you have to make do, becoming familiar with the hospital business office employees, not like you do with friends, but like those people are the school disciplinarians, and you're the class clown.  Maybe you wanna buy a Miata and cruise for gay cowboy types at the KFC, where you fake a knowledge of horses and agriculture.  You talk acreage yields and equastrian diet, nodding and smiling like a loon, over Original Recipe; you silently hope your gaydar is right, and the cowboy type doesn't beat you to death in the parking lot when you try to hold his hand.  Maybe you're just lonely, you think, driving away from the KFC with a bloody lip and a footprint on the front of your shirt.

Friday, June 19, 2015

Spitball: Avengers Blue Team

Just as Tony Stark says "We've got a Hulk", and everyone oohs and ahhs, Barack says "We've got a John Kerry."  Witness the massive property loss, the devestation wrought.  And instead of a Black Widow/Scary Jo, they got Ruth Bader Ginsberg, who is intimidating enough to Middle America.  Iron Man with Margaret Sanger tracts in his back pocket, if that darned suit even has a back pocket.  It should, but as Kyle Reese said "I didn't build the f**king thing!".  It's like having a pack of serpents watching your back.  Who would direct such madness?  Favreau?  Nah.  The man who brought us House of the Dead and the semi-static rotating camera trick.  Because crap like this takes vision.  A hell of a vision.  Imagination.  The kind of faith in the face of back-breaking reality that only liberals can muster.  And they ask why we aren't winning in Iraq, but we're reminded that we're not even in Iraq.  I say bring on the Kurdish might, get those factions united and behind a common goal, kick some booty.  How about issues of Captain America where Cap is training soldiers rather than fighting?  What is that shield for anyway?  An umbrella to block the sun while he is drinking his iced tea after a long day of training those defense forces.  For this fictional film, I give a ranking of 5.5 of 10 stars.

Tuesday, June 2, 2015

spitball: t5

Truly, Arnold was born to play the role of a cybernetic murderer from the future.  And in the new film, he even has a go at a younger version of himself.  This must be cathartic, confusing, one would think; perhaps inspiring a tantrum from the former Austrian: the old rooster trying to destroy the younger, presumably more vital version of himself.  However, he's playing a robot and can't express emotions, so here again we see the brow-beaten formerAustrian schoolboy, repressed, stone-faced, yet probably managing a few bad jokes at the expense of a lot of car wrecks, gunshots and explosions.  Sounds like a good time. -furthermore, commando was the ultimate made-to-formula film of the 80's.  sequel? perhaps with someone like bobby rodriguez, who tends to bend these formulas within a pleasing comicbook sensibility.

Friday, March 13, 2015

high score on pacman

You're in the gas station at the video game.  Working those fingers like a fiend.  Throwing the joystick, not just pushing it, but putting weight behind it.  Chewing a twizzler.  Got a redhot sausage sticking out of your pocket.  Can't remember if you paid for it or not.  As your game ends, you realize that you came up just shy of the high score.  As you begin to enter your initials on the high scores screen, you take a glimpse of who is number one.  You are amazed that it is not initials, but a name in the top spot: Benjamin Netanyahu.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

32 years a slave

i was once a slave to the past, to a dead, broken system-the highfives
and sidenudgings of others-and it was killing me. Thanks to time,
strong meds, and the kindly touch of angels in my daily life, i have
come to focus instead on the future, touching it like a spatout wad of
chewing gum, shaping it, little by little-beneficially, as love itself
is a prevailing mist, the papermill stink settling over my burg. I
worry not about rewards that will be given when im dead, heaven and
hell. Those are bridges i will cross when i get there, because for
now im busy being a light bulb. -3 years a journeyman

Sunday, February 15, 2015

rites of the muse: spring catharsis

as the spring catharsis approaches, with the muse at a terrifying
apogee to the human heart, i feel the weight of my feet, the tide of
aging in my very cells, and a pleasant nether pleasure, like a
prostate massage-the kind of pressure a fat person gets in the private
region when inward-directed pressure is applied, but the result would
make me ashamed, i guess. I guess. Who needs groundhog day when weve
got the spring catharsis?

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

the secret lives of shoes

Shoes tell stories about people, accompanying the wearer on adventures, then sitting idly by under a bed or in a closet.  As a boy, I wore athletic shoes, because I went about as a boy.  When I grew into young adulthood, I wore biker boots-something solid, substantial, seeming to help hold me to the earth.  I needed the stability.  Maybe I needed something to toughen my image, too(just between you and me).  And on my favorite style, there was a leather-held shackle.  That said something about the young man with the easy smile, crazy eyes, equally insane laugh, nebulous personality, that bundle of raw nerves.  That or I enjoyed getting tied-up.  Delicious pain, delicious waiting, one-way ticket Mister Grey.  The roaches check in but they don't check out.  No.  As a young working man, I wore cheap work boots, mid-top and as an automotive technician I upgraded to steel toes, still mid-top, relatively lightweight, for ease of movement.  I frequently wore the tread off of them, making the non-slip, carbunkled surface smooth.  Now, as a man approaching middle age, I wear five dollar sneakers.  What happened to me?  Do I not care anymore?  Do I sympathize with the Chinese workers that made my shoes?  When I wear my permapress pants and cheap shoes, am I being some kind of communist?  Or cloaking myself as some kind of bargain-bin everyman.  Maybe I'm no longer here to impress anyone.  *And I'm not above begging that Sharpton and company don't ruin the oscars.  Did you catch my tone there?  Please, don't, I said.

Friday, January 16, 2015

dont let sharpton bring tokenism to oscars

please. Like the oscars isnt a popularity contest, anyhow. Reverend
al sharpton will bring tokenism, if u let him. He will reward people
based on the color of their skin, instead of merit(like how he got a
show on msnbc, maybe). Keep that out please. Let the oscars brown
naturally, on their own. And dear god, please dont give tyler perry
an oscar unless he does something worthy...

Friday, January 2, 2015

futnuckery classics: giving clint attitude

ive been less than glowing about eastwood. Heartbreak ridge is one of
those guy movies that sits beside roadhouse in a lot of movie
collections. Guys stick to it because it sucks. But, I come here not
to throw dirt on clint, but to give praise. Is this that long-awaited
review of gran torino? Not entirely. Ill use it as an example of
clint being more nuanced than we've seen, and ugly(even he says so).
He's worked with the best, and learned. Dont doubt him, even when he
gets weepy, because you cant be a tough guy all the time; you got to
show that soft belly sometime. The man is a giant, and one for the
record books-a perennial favorite on cable tv. Hail clint! And 8/10
stars for gran torino, if you care.

2015: this the year, yaw!

What can i promise this year but more of me? I continue to embrace my
nature; yet my nature evolves, mutates, matures, coagulates against my
leg. I will continue this blog, and i will continue to think of new
features, working in a longer format. I want a certain breadth of
self expression, if you feel me. Together, we are building a better
mike, and thats something i know you can appreciate.