Monday, March 28, 2016

Hollywood Keyfabe: Night Filming

They use those stupid blue lights to simulate the moon.  Never worked, that I thought.

(Note: William Cuthbert Faulkner once wrote a great book, The Light In August, which was neither about light, nor particularly about any August of record.)

In some of my favorite movies, economy dictated the quality of lighting, the number and placement of lighting fixtures.  So where cost brought about the foreboding darkness, it also bleached some of the artistry, and care had to be taken in terms of audience perception.

In the original Friday the 13th, lack of light figured into the storyline, that the small production had an excuse not to drench with light even the narrow confines of its storyline.  Hence, a beneficial limitation, in which a flood light could be utilized on and off in certain sequences, including the beheading, which was absolutely drenched in harsh directed light, opposite the waters of Crystal Lake.

Not all deaths were shown in that film; a more detailed discussion of the story would reveal the motivation there.  What was shown, was often quite harsh, with realism and bloodless brutality highlighted, save for one: that of the camp owner, which was a trick of light, in which the glare of lighting hid the killer.

Bill's death had to read on film, had to be recognizable: he was impaled on a door, which swung open before the camera to reveal his dead body; we were to instantly recognize his condition.  All f*cked-up.  The tall chick died by obscuring light then, and not from the trickery of darkness: floodlights, which the killer used as effectively as John Carpenter and his Michael Myers used darkness.

There-in the trees and grass and canoes and several cabins are given to the viewer in silhouette, save for interior shots, which are harshly lit, and further for the sake of economy we are never shown the entire camp, never given a sense of any kind of layout, never afforded any kind of schedule of shots that would lend to the mapping of that rustic premises.  So we have a schizoid, economical perview of only the most necessary camera views of the setting.

The original Texas Chainsaw Massacre gave us a fade-in from darkness that simulated sunrise.  It gave the harshness of the Texas summer sun.  But then came the sister and brother making a walk to their doom with little more than a flashlight.  There was also the limitation of the film, but we are there afforded a pervading darkness that jibes perfectly with the expectation of the storyline.

Friday, March 25, 2016

Where Walks... ...the Dinkler!!(or Choose Your Own Adventure: Bathroom Edition)

The shadow knows.

One minute you're in your shorts tending the irises; the next minute your arm is rippled clean off at the shoulder.

Shoulder meat is good.

The Dinkler strikes without warning, so make sure your pants are pulled up tight, your shirt is tucked in securely, and not a scrap of undergarment is showing.

I tell you this: those that are come upon unawares will at least slow the Dinkler as he stops to destroy them, so I will have more time to get away.  And in the end, that's what matters most: that I am spared from destruction.

Stop cherry-picking polling data.  It's undignified.

Bring the wives to me that I may see which pleases me most.

The Dinkler was born as an afterthought, like the thunder that accompanies a violent strike of lightning.  Sometimes, poopoo happens, and here you want me to justify why the Dingler came into being, but I tell you, the Dinkler was born of our own flaws.

Not our fault, per se.  I am not a Western apologist(like some people).  I live in one of the very greatest places in the world, and I am proud of it.  I have an easy life.  I am overweight, well-fed, and I love television.

Yet the Dinkler was put together particle by hateful particle by our inequity, our darkness, and it is up to us as strongest and most just of the world to combat the menace.  I propose building a woman robot, with realistic feminine parts, to aid me in my pursuits, and be my companion.  I don't need a phone that eavesdrops like a Siri or the Google "sherry".  I need something with a pair of legs.

Who doesn't like legs, particularly with biscuits and coleslaw?

I'm not telling you to repent, because that would probably cut into your television time.  So calm down, right there!  We have young adults that need employment: those might be called to service to fight or at least deter the Dinkler.  For a pittance.  So you just go about your business; doing important things like playing golf, taking your Toyota to the automated carwash, and stuffing the munchkins with hamburgers and fries.

These things have a way of ironing themselves out all on their own, sometimes.

Wednesday, March 16, 2016

The Laymen's Guide To Martial Training(or Queer Eye For The Belligerent Guy)

A great actor and martial artist once espoused emotional content in blows.  This gives the mind and body a connection, an urgency, a commitment to its movements.

Also espoused was the "two-inch punch".  I advocate something similar, what I call a straight punch, punching ahead while facing an opponent, putting body weight into the blow.  While a hay-maker can be delivered by surprise from outside the opponents peripheral vision, a straight punch comes fast from a poised fist, with the hips, back, and the entirety of the arm musculature poised.  It comes fast, is the key, with no sustained wind-up like a hay-maker.

The man relying on the straight punch can deliver at least one blow before the man with the hay-maker has even committed his body to his own punch, and this thusly is surprise.

In defensive posture, the body must become as water and bend to the blows rained upon it, absorbing and moving in the same direction as the fists or feet to nullify force.  Do not tense your muscles to prove your toughness.  You will have bruises if you do that.  Be as water, envisioning in your mind a splash will blows come.

You do a "ready to grab" pose, with hands about belt high, hip high, poised so as to perhaps play a piano, with palms down, slight space between the fingers.  To slap away a blow is acceptable from this position, but there would be little force behind a slap landed as an offensive blow; no damage is done in slapping, but rather that slaps PUSH the opponents appendages away.

The feet and hands must have quickness.  Catch chickens like Rocky Balboa in that movie; it will develop a quickness, a greater dexterity in motor control.  Slip the jab; slip the jab.  Disguise a heavy, bruising jab as a half-hearted blow with no emotional content, and your enemy will wonder what hit him.

Saturday, March 12, 2016

The Cold Wind Of Liberalism and the Silence In Chicago

I ask first: do Trump supporters try to shut down Bernie and Hillary events?

No.  Because they ain't hell-bent liberals, self-righteous, outnumbered but talking up "the will of the people".  They saw something on twitter or MoveOn.Org, switched off the Netflix, fed the dog, fired-up the Prius(though they "ain't no fire in it") and went down to the center to shut up that dirty Trump and his nasty supporters.

They must be racists.

Somebody punched a black guy.

Not that the black guy was rude, or anything.

How is it racist to ask for a picture I.D. at polling places?  I need that one explained to me, because I don't see it.

The knee-jerk of righteousness is with them liberals again, as in all their ire, the righteousness of caring and doing what is best for you, whether you like it or not.

If they can't hurt Big Donald, the left will go after the supporters.  And just wait.  The media is catching onto the characterizations.  Big Donald will be galvanized now.

Because Trump supporters don't like the left, anyway.  Fanned are the flames of hatred.

A cold wind blows....

the silence in Chicago.

I really want to hear what Trump thinks of Hillary, also.  I'd pay good money to hear that little diatribe.  As much as he has ripped Ted Cruz and Marco Rubio, I feel like he would amp it up a notch against his Democrat opponent.

The middle class is disappearing.  That's okay, because the left hates the middle class, beyond marching them like communist lemmings to the local Toyota/Lexus emporium, Whole Foods, and the marijuana dispensary.

In one election, San Francisco posted two queries to voters.  One was whether or not to make Happy Meals illegal.  The other ballot item was the legalization of marijuana.  So some in that community thought weed was safer than a Happy Meal, that this was a large concern amongst the people.  I like how the football stadium is WAY OUT OF TOWN now.  Anything to get away from that rabble.  Fish heads and c*ck.  All they want.

What a hapless murmuring, still.

Speak up, McCain.  Do it for the party.

Disclaimer:  I am undecided at this point about voting at all.  I am not a Trump supporter, though I think he has the God-given and constitutionally-protected right to speak.  Also: if I rented a meeting hall, you best believe I would speak my piece, if only to get my money's worth.

the ass of you speaks again

I decided one day, after my experiences in Rockingham at Walmart Supercenter #1010, that if I'm gonna be your ass, or an ass at all, I was going to be the most proud and impertinent buttock cheeks I could be.

So here I am.

Rock you like a hurricane.

I took off the badge so I could do more damage.

Lots of guys quit the job to work the other side of the street.

I like Sportcycles, but I ain't working at Aldi(not that I have a problem with Aldi, because I don't; it just ain't my bag).

My yard stinks.  The nearby farmer has spread poopie as a fertilizer.  I'm currently soldiering through, trying to ignore the stench while having a good thought about the yield of those fields.  I do hope it does some good in the long run, despite the stench over here.  I'm serious.

What else happened?

Does any of this matter?  You're just gonna die, after all, no matter what I say here.  You got to have perspective.  A matter of philosophy for another day-preferably a day that is less pretty.

I should take naked pictures of myself, offer myself up as some kind of fat hairy phoenix, spiting the curses of the world.  Now there is a notion worth a bit of research.  My nudity digitized.  The failure of the Chumby.  A plague of milky flesh unleashed on the world, but as an afterthought, that a mere afterthought destroys the world entire.

If you took naked pics of yourself, what would you do with them?  Who is your target audience?  Is it to entice?  Or instruct, as models to artists?  Or an anthropological concern, like a guidepost on the evolutionary scale?  Or would it be a hedge against boredom, to get naked and turn on the phone and feel that little tingle in your nether regions while snapping a photo, like Kim K.?

You decide.

To Kim K: keep the naked pictures coming.  I see some of them.  Never gonna follow you on twitter or Instagram, but you get spread around, if you know what I mean.  You in the ether, bitch.

Monday, March 7, 2016

a short story about the short story.

I see the short story as a concise machine or mechanism, specializing in one movement, like the tossing of a griddle cake from the burner to the plate, steaming-the armature, catapulted by artificial means of locomotion, moving through the air in an abrupt motion, then falling back into place for another repetition of the movement.

Therein is an assemblage of elements that hopefully form something of a cohesive picture within the context of a short narrative, a picture to be understood, and barring understanding, at least to be felt or in some way enjoyed by the reader.

A slice of life.  An episode.  Often a joke, with the punchline forming the last paragraph, as the author leaves us to laugh or smile.  The last line can then have a punch, acting as the cognitive punctuation, or natural edge of the proverbial cliff or the top of the mountain, unlike pieces of music trailing into nothing, but this being more like a car crash, in which there is a abrupt stop, which itself conjures its own effect, the proceeding nothingness.

We also see stories with sandboxed vernacular can then point a story to a certain audience of experts or at best, to laymen, give a window into a specialized world through terminology to explore little crisis(es) and concerns, that this will illuminate and transport a reader into another world.

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Silent majority time comes once more.

I don't have to wait until my father dies to buy a new truck.  Whoever told you that was mistaken.  Luckily I'm here to correct this little misunderstandings.

The Dark History of the New Mutants:  Why they were just kids watching Magnum P.I. on television, having the occasional adventure, being lead also by a madman and ideologue.  But without the sexual content of the more modern iterations, what was needed was a different dramatic mechanism, found in death, the delivering of the teens over to the afterlife in bloodless death.  As trends changed, the book was originally pulled at issue one hundred, as the narrative went to paramilitary scenes of fights and macho posturing.  Even the women were macho, and the leading lady was perhaps the least sexy of all X-Femmes.

I liked the one with the Native-American woman and the werewolf.  That kicked ass.  But even the injun girl was thought dead, then returned as a villain.  She yearned for a quiet life, with an alternative lifestyle.  Lesbian.  Another one dead to me, I guess.  She taught school and drank coffee.

Good book, that.

But I'm still wondering who said this about my father.  Not that it matters, because I do what I want anyways.  I'm like a fast-moving glacier.  I cannot be stopped.

I rumble, baby.

Happy voting today for all those who choose to exercise their rights.  Walk forward with confidence, America!