Don't Drink The Water?

After a long, thirsty day I decided to perhaps free a Jackson from the nearest ATM. I was bone dry and though I was still considering l'eau du sink, I was of a certain feeling (the kind that favors water of a lesser gray persuasion). The matter would soon resolve itself for me via a lady stranger. Madame of the Lake, in a white spring dress and short, straw-blonde hair; she no sooner took the problem and sorted its pieces than I took her pieces into account without realizing what she had just done for me. That is, my savior, my clairvoyant angel, so informed of my sinful, desert tongue that held its own Ark and was much overdue for a Deluge, had left for me a resolution as clear as a plastic cup filled with ice.

Parked on top the very traffic drum I removed from the middle of the sidewalk; as if knowing of her offering, I had to set up the altar for her tithe, she left me ice in a plastic cup. From no doubt, farther a distance she had purchased a drink and in the happening of a walk and the repeated expansion of two lungs that pulled out of an orange straw, the beverage, she made her way to me. My distress sung to her ears, in melodies that warmed her to heed my call. It was the reverse relationship between sailor and siren, where the three avian women sail out to the voice of the shipwrecked Odysseus. And there it was to be, a drink for a thirsty soul.

In the sprite-ful spirit that defined the image as negligible when obedience to thirst is to be primarily considered, I knew I would pick up that cup and thank my mermaid. Cherished, Mother of Lancelot, I'd dare not refuse. I saw her from my shop window. And the ice, like diamonds in a crystal glass, hailed lustrous invitations to me. The shop was already closed so my river nymph was all but too timely. As I pulled down the gate and locked up, I noticed I am already the owner of my anonymous inheritance. I notice that no one considers the gift that could easily be as much theirs as it is my possession. However, they did not receive the affair as I had. To any other passer-by on E9th Street, that plastic cup could've been placed on that traffic drum by as much a disagreeable source as their imagination may allow. My thirst and I are of a more intimate understanding, therefore we drink.

My Jessica Christ drank something involving watermelon. That or I fancy her lips are watermelon flavored and from the straw (which I removed with the lid) the ice somehow absorbed this attractive memento. In any case, my thirst and I were closer to satisfied. My Lady Niagara had left me quenched.

If I have not mentioned that this straw-haired, aqua-philanthropist was in fact very attractive, it is only because I wanted to pay appropriate tribute to her deed before acquiring for you, impressionable, physical details. Before continuing I will now also mention my sensitivities which run quite confluent to that of the other passer-bys of E9 Street; who are without my shop window and what we, behind it, were prospectively televised. I would, like any of those passer-bys, have ignored Lilandra's Crystals had I missed the prelude. If a plastic cup filled with ice had appeared sans my knowing who placed it there, I would have taken a very parched, uptown commute. But being that she was pretty enough and I complimentarily, shallow enough, I drank.

Jessica Christ will be physically gauged by my easiness and readiness to drink from her. Wine made water and flesh made cubic congelation of that same wine. You will find me quite narrow when women are concerned. It is not any Godiva that will make a Tom of me. To say I am picky is to say champagne is liquid, it is only the initial generalization from which to begin. But perhaps it may have been influenced by the thirst as well as the excitement I usually feel at the end of a work shift that bids me a euphemistic view. I, no doubt was ecstatic of my work day's end and water was on my mind, as well as beautifying anyone who delivered any of the two. Still, I am of the opinion I got good enough a glance to know gorgeous from gorgon. And from that opinion I will attest, she was pretty enough. In fact, our heroine, the blonde Aspen Matthews was attractive enough that had she walked up to me, as a stranger and kissed me, made out with me, I'd do no more than offer very little protest. I'd accept her lips and our salivating tongues sliding off one another like two orcas in love. I'd be a hypocrite to then refuse Holy Water from this Temple on which I'd gladly prey.

Had she'd been a man, a less appealing woman, or a child, I'd have no problem with making due with my dry throat 'til a South Bronx apartment door was opened and a walk to a refrigerator provided me that overdue deluge. The horror of a child, I shutter. Children are the worse of all possibilities since they care the least, germs and hygiene are at best distractions to them, easily ignored. You'd have a harder time becoming ill washing your face with a handful of phlegm than drinking from the same plastic cup as a child. Circumstance being as welcoming as it was, I was deemed fortunate and presently, grateful.

Thus my anonymous donator is thanked most amicably. In a white spring dress and straw-blonde hair she continued on, as the evening was as young as it was blooming with distressed sailors. Will you read this, from wherever you may happen to be, if ever your reading eyes do stray across this entry, know this my darling, that I drank down to the last cube. I am yours, ever quenched.

Career: Looking "A-Head"

DYH is a "Professional Shampoo" it says so on the bottle. This means you're not dealing with any amateur when you squeeze out that ooze and entrust your hair over to it. For DYH, which is an acronym for Designing Your Hair, has long since hurdled over the initial occupation of part-time spectator and part-time participant and is now fully dedicated within a career as a shampoo. DYH is making a steady and quite comfortable income as a shampoo. I mean, it says so on the bottle, "Professional Shampoo!" Now if you want to go and continue using Head & Shoulders, Pantene Pro-V, Herbal Essence, Fructis, or whatever, be my guess. All I know is I'd think twice before handing my hair over to second-rate thugs like those, who dilly-dally without any professional training or professional degree. I mean, I'd like to fancy I have a little more respect for myself than that, I'd like to believe that so would you.


Soundtrack for a Deluge

5. Bjork - Storm (from Music from Matthew Barney's Drawing Restraint 9)

4. Deftones - Beware (from Saturday Night Wrist)

3. Thom Yorke - And It Rained All Night (from The Eraser)

2. Tool - AEnima (from AEnima)

1. Peter Gabriel - Here Comes the Flood (from Peter Gabriel 1)


The Tender Trap - (1955) Directed by Charles Walters

Starring Frank Sinatra, Debbie Reynolds, David Wayne

and Celeste Holm

Here are some Sole lyrics:


"Poor me, I dig myself holes, somebody marry me I'm getting old...I need a flamingo to put on my front lawn, I need a front lawn..."


"She pulls each string attached to vital organs with a crippling chuckle. He shrieks until its no longer worth mentioning. There's a blizzard outside the dollhouse that permits man from certain rituals. Inside its not much different, the hammer smacks his knees and he's forced to prey to the demon's insecurities. On a pathological, uni-dimensional system of devilish symbols. Which means it doesn't get more disgusting then a moaning desperate soul screaming, 'please don't go until the life is gone!' I know the lights are on I used to light cigarettes with 'em. Make a sacrifice humans are vices too, comfort is a lesser civilized form of conformity. Lets dance on pincushions birth control pills shall be your prison cell. All it wants is an engagement ring circle of fire mother devilish ceremony. She's wearing a black cloak to the wedding, and he's wearing a glue on tie to match the body cast. And every member of the family is lonely and happy, and doesn't have anything to complain about, but never shuts the fuck up 'til he's bathing in a puddle of urine; the cast beautifully fitting. 'Get well soon,' I wrote on the chest in the same shades we use to paint walls with 'til modern technology made the arms obsolete. I imagine she's standing on a toadstool built from the same family tree of broken branches. But the lovely leaves keep them from falling below. The fruits grew up rotten spoiled and spawning parasitic tendencies. My friend, I fear the juices might kill you, but I can't help you. My make pretend crew, runs thicker than fake blood in horror movies.

Man and Woman is killing babies. Man and Woman still beat each other. Man and Woman can barely rarely speak. Man and Woman is all we have and can't love."


Assassin! Assassin!!!

Today I viewed these two magnificent films. I guess the bonding element between the two would be the impressions of youth and the appearances of adulthood.

Peyton Place - (1957) Directed by Mike Robson;

Starring Lana Turner, Diane Varsi, Hope Lange

Lee Philips, Russ Tamblyn, and Arthur Kennedy

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie - (1969)

Directed by Ronald Neame; Starring Maggie Smith,

Pamela Franklin, Robert Stephens

Now if you kiddies may but excuse me, there is a gathering of clouds with blossoming promise of thunderstorms all but awaiting my audience.



While the City Sleeps - (1956) Directed by Fritz Lang;
Starring Dana Andrews, Rhonda Fleming, George Sanders

Just saw this little picture. I missed it the last time it was on. Now that I've seen it I won't mind so much missing it the next time around.

Meet Me In Fawzis!

John Goldfarb - (1965) Directed by J. Lee Thompson;

Shirley Maclaine, Peter Ustinov, Richard Crenna

This film is awful. I love hearing Shirley Maclaine's growl just as much as I enjoy harem belly dancing but this however does not make up for this tragedy. The Arab portrayals would be insulting if they weren't so over-the-top silly and if they weren't confined to just King Fawzis himself, who mutters jibberish in place of a foreign language. Its a wacky movie but not witty, the goofs come across as corny and I read somewhere that this filmed was sued by Notre Dame for associating their football team with this movie.

The Theme Song is awesome though.

Seven Magnificent Walk In Raising Hell to Lower Heaven

The Magnificent Seven - (1960) Directed by John Sturges;

Starring Yul Brynner, Steve McQueen, Eli Wallich,

James Coburn, Charles Bronson, Robert Vaughn

Saw John Sturges remake of Kurasawa's Seven Samurai (1954). Cool movie and story, it makes me regret not finishing Seven Samurai when I had the chance. From what I saw of Seven Samurai I can see why John Sturges would be so impressed he'd want to make an american version as a western.


Ingredients for a Proud Smile

Hearing two or three Lhasa songs in the film, Cold Souls and just as recently hearing an RJD2 instrumental played at each end of commercial breaks for the TV Series Madmen, makes me happier than I can say.

The Exponential Obsession for Linda Fox

I am through and through obsessed with Kylie Minogue but allow me to elaborate as to the specific realm of my obsession, as its of a special sub-categorization of reverie. My brand of admiration for the Australian Pop Star is confined to only her image; more so, the photographic, promotional image of Kylie Minogue. This is a voiceless, 2-Dimensional, android entity and it is a separate being from the personal Kylie Minogue, who is a breathing, living human being who records music and is globally popular for her hits, videos, and has her own hobbies and interests. She is not an android, she has a voice with thoughts behind those words and if you stood before her, you'd enjoy 3 full dimensions of a very attractive woman.

Yes, Kylie is attractive; but this isn't written from a chauvinist perspective that identifies her to a limited desire of carnal lust. Its not just a physical admiration inspiring a fantasy of sleeping with Kylie that sponsors my obsession. In fact, unless I were dating her, I couldn't imagine seriously having sex with her at all. And there's the deal, it is quite difficult to date a voiceless, 2-Dimensional android.

To express matters as simply as I can, I just like her in pictures and some music videos. But even this is narrowed down as I am not interested in pictures pertaining to interviews, public appearances, or personal affairs. Similarly, I don't care much for talk show appearances, film roles, or any filming that captures her in her "real life". I am glad that she is quite a private person and likes to keep that side of her life to herself, which is to say, to its rightful owner. I am only interested in media that promotes her as a star or celebrated music personae. The many shots for the singles and album artwork of her latest album "X" is a prime example of where the direction of my addiction trails. Also the many pictures and videos of her grand, glamourized live performances may additionally give one the initial basis for my infatuation.

I should also admit here that I am not a fan of Kylie's music. There are songs that I like, The One, 2 Hearts, Slow, Chocolate, Can't Get You Out of My Head, but I could not sit through an entire album, even the songs mentioned are just temporary buzzes that I forget about after a week or so of exclusive attention. I almost feel guilty about my obsession since I do not love her music, often I joke: "I wish Goldfrapp were Kylie's music". This, of course not being fair to Goldfrapp who is among one of my favorite artists, is not meant to be an insult to the beautiful Alison. I simply only wish to illustrate my desire to enjoy Kylie's music as much as I do Goldfrapp.

For you see, the thing that appeals to me is the fact that Kylie's image looks like music that I would enjoy. To me her image is a sexy, electronic, brightly lit star that omits plasma beams of neon spectrums. Appearing to me like a muse or nymph, Kylie becomes the personification of the music I would aspire to create. My Immaculate Conception of sound brought to humanoid translation; a Galatea who was vividly transferred to visible presentation from, not stone but audio sound frequencies and amplifications.

Kylie is more art than artist, her image is a model who has her own ever altering soundtrack allianced by videos, calendars, posters, magazine spreads, ads, and other media supernovas as thought up and designed by modern Lautrecs. If you're thinking, "big deal, nowadays which superstar isn't marketed in that fashion?" You are right but as far as my personal inclination and preference is concerned, so far no other superstar sounds like Kylie's image when passed through my eyes and ears.

I hope I have not insulted the woman behind the image, hopefully she may find appreciation in the fact that she has inspired another, although not directly through music but nevertheless through something she has put forth for others to enjoy.


People Should Be Beautiful...In Their Thoughts and in Their Innermost Selves

Cold Souls - (2009) Directed by Sophie Barthes;

Starring Paul Giamatti, David Strathairn,

Dina Korzun, and Emily Watson

It starts with Chekhov's Uncle Vanya as recited by actor Paul Giamatti who in the film, as himself, is playing the title role. Its a very powerful opening for lo-fi sci-fi comedy/drama, Cold Souls. I am unfamiliar with Uncle Vanya so it took me a moment to realize Paul's words were that of the play and not his own. Though I feel this was intentional, as even Paul admits that he cannot separate himself from the character he's playing (Voynitsky "Vanya"), thus feeling as the character does in the play, as if his soul is weighing him down. The story was well-written and directed by Sophie Barthes who makes her full feature film debut. Both New York and Russia are beautifully represented and the consistent unfocusing of the camera lens throughout the film gave one the impression of lost perspective, of a reality blur that at one lovely shot of an almost translucent Dina Korzon walking through a New York Night, she became as Aldous Huxley's Denis once wrote of the soul, "pale, tenuous membrane." The film is cold and lonely with a sense of solidarity between the characters, who are each convincing under such fantastic premises as soul extraction and soul trafficking, (which I promise you, if the first were possible, the latter would be sadly but most definitely inevitable).

I add this literal "soul searcher" film to such films as Stranger Than Fiction, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Being John Malkovich, and others I might have missed or are yet to come, where realistic drama is introduced to an incredible plot drive whose technical function isn't really explained and such an explanation remains unessential to the core of the story which is mainly focused on how the characters deal out their problems through this plot device (i.e., a soul extracting machine, a memory erasing clinic, a narrator who narrates your life, a portal into John Malkovich's mind).

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind's Lacuna Inc. and Cold Souls' Soul Storage were vehicles for temporarily stripping the main characters' problem through an immediate, unrealistic solution that only brought forth more problems for the protagonists. Of the films I mentioned, Eternal Sunshine is the one most related to Cold Souls.

These stories remind me of the science fiction of author, Philip K. Dick, who spent more time on the people in his stories than the machinery of the future they usually occupy. The main characters in his novels were typically the little guy, the person at the bottom who didn't have anything to gain from the world he lived in. Its rather a shame or crime that most of the films adapted from Dick's work fails to capture the same human feeling when compared to any of the films mentioned above. Paul GIamatti has been mentioned to portray Philip K. Dick in a possible bio-pic but I hope someone has enough sense to get someone with at least half the imagination of Charlie Kaufman, Sophie Barthes, or Dick himself to handle the story.

(note to self: read Uncle Vanya)

I Don't Think We Can Really Be Friends

I just got into a fight with a Now or Later. Human vs. Taffy. Seriously I was under the impression I could enjoy a Now or Later under two circumstances of time, those being "now" or "later." The choice would always be mine and I wouldn't be punished for choosing one over the other.

But it would appear that there is a limit to how late "later" can be. It would appear that after being on hold for a variable amount of time, a certain quadrangular piece of stubborn, green taffy has practiced enough patience, has experienced enough neglect, that she shall not go slighted a single, solitary, second longer. She decides there and then that I am not serious. She decides to make a run for it and to leave me for someone with a sweeter tooth through which sweeter words could be influenced and spoken. Someone who will act on an earlier "now" or on a just as early "later;" she wants to be taken "then" and "there." She should surely consider changing her name to Then and There, it would prove more authentic to her actions and desires.

The Taffy jumped off my bedroom table and onto the floor. With the help of some of the hottest days and nights August has exhibited, she melts. Good riddance, right? Yes, I suppose, only its on my floor that she melts. Right through her little green paper-wrap dress, she poured out as if trying to nake her body, perhaps find a hold of the nearest piece of paper to disguise herself from me. Of course, she doesn't. She doesn't move from where she fell, Now or Later won't alter her position by her power or control, for at that point she has none. It is only when I accidentally step on her that I later notice my sandals making a sticky sound. Funny enough, its a similar enough sound to that a mouth plays when sucking on a Now or Later.

She gives me a big "fuck you" and I half or whole deserve it. I scrape her body off the floor with a painting blade, saying goodbye as the open mouth of the trash bin swallows her down.

To my credit, I am not as bad as all that. I did intend to eventually eat her, but at the moment we met I felt I had enough candy. As much as I did neglect her, I never slighted her, I never meant to intentionally play any ill or malice towards either her, her ego or integrity. Taffy, I have learned can become a regretful subject to neglect. If done over, would I do anything different? Perhaps no. I would never know whether I would want some candy, one can never tell. I am only sorry that she ended up in the trash and not in another mouth, one with appreciative salivary glands in which she could truly come alive. If anything, this fight has left me with sticky sandals and a second thought that is set to go off whenever I desire a Now or Later that leans more for Later than Now.

(I just looked up a picture to use for this blog and realized the candy is not called Now or Later but actually Now and Later, which changes everything. I don't think I'm fond of a candy that demands such an attention. I don't take anything back.)


But You're Singing Sinatra Again

I knew a girl who made me write out an essay for her friend, she used me but I went along because I liked her, the essay was already written but her friend wasn't good at grammar so my job was more that of an editor. I spoke to the girl I liked that same day and told her I liked her, well, not really...I told her to look in the mirror and there she'll find the kind of girl I was looking for. This was back in the spring/summer of 2001, I was 19 and met her at my first job. I worked in a Duane Reade in her neighborhood on the mid-westside of Manhattan, coincidentally enough, she worked in the high school she had just graduated from, South Bronx High School, which was just down the block from my home. I'll call her B for the first letter of her name. She was a silly girl who I would've had very little in common with, who would've annoyed me, who had a boyfriend and ignored my half-confession when half-confessed, she thought me cute and would sit in the aisles of Duane Reade with me while I priced pet food and Quaker Oats Rice Cakes that inspired a nausea through me, awaiting medicine for her mother. I saw less and less of her and eventually one day I walked out on Duane Reade and the summer ended, releasing her from her summer job as she prepared for her first semester at BMCC.

I ran into her once on a commute to the city and never again. I can't really remember what she looked like, at least not exactly. But today she came into my thoughts, I've been listening to a song by Anthony Green of Circa Survive, titled Califone. i don't know what the connection is between Green's song and B, the song wasn't around when B was around, in fact I would have never listened to anything like Anthony Green when I was 19. You may also remove the idea that anything in the lyrics of the song designates reminiscence. There's nothing particular about Califone's words to remind me of B. Not "coalesce", "Sinatra", roses that have "lost their glow", nor weak "soldiers", or over-welcomed nocturnal bands that "play for too long" have any apparent bridge that stretches back to that spring of 2001; to her glasses on her slender face and jeans that never quite fit her skinny legs, to her forgotten voice and accent, to her friend and her essay and its forgotten topic reworked in my capitalized handwriting which would be once again, rewritten down to a horrible chicken scratch penmanship. No, I can't really determine a link at all other than the "califone" itself.

I did own a califone, probably two, and I at that time mostly listened to cassettes and when I wrote rhymes I did it to beats played on a califone. I never used the califone for anything related to B, nor have I ever written about her in a song or story. Nevertheless, and though I have been obsessed with the song for the past few days, at least 2 before attaching B; the song recalls, that silly girl I liked for no other reason than she was straight forward and slightly interested in me.

So here's to you B, like a califone you were around for a small portion of my past. Thank you for taking a moment to sit with me.

Lions and Louts

Out of Africa - (1985) Directed by Sydney Pollack;

Starring Meyrl Streep and Robert Redford

Beautifully acted and filmed. I haven't much to say

other than I loved it.

I also just saw this on TCM.

All Fall Down - (1962) Directed by John Frankenheimer;

Starring Warren Beatty, Angela Lansbury, and Eva Marie Saint

Young Warren Beatty as an asshole who can't help but be self-destructive even though it usually hurts others more than it does himself. Eva Marie Saint plays his love interest, Echo.

I've never seen Eva Marie Saint before in a film, for some reason I mistook her for Mia Farrow whom I've only seen in Allen's Broadway Danny Rose. Brandon De Wilde plays yet again the younger brother to the jerk as he does to Paul Newman in his next film, Hud.

Warren Beatty's character, Berry-Berry Willart, is an angry young man, its never really explained why though, I almost wonder if the story was in response to the british movement of "angry young men" films. Frankenheimer is good as a director but I'm not too fond of the script which was adapted by William Inge from the novel by James Leo Herlihy. I could see this story work in a book where, with words, Berry-Berry could be explored with more depth, Beatty provides this for the character but it would've been nice to have some sort of reason for rhyme, even though Beatty had plenty of rhyme.


Confessions of a Crap Artist: Monetary Diet

I should get another job. Something that I could use to pay rent with or pay for a plane ticket or some synths and midi controllers. But I can't stand the idea of dressing up a resume or the nerve sucking anxiety of the commute to an interview, the pretense, the forced smile that sticks in place like a stiff neck, I don't know how to convince someone that I want a job when I actually really don't.

"So what would you contribute to

this company to help it grow."

I don't care about any job, I just want the money and I'll gladly pretend or at the very least keep my thoughts to myself and refrain from any difficulty towards allowing my employers to get out of me what they want in exchange for what I want in return. But I can't say that in an interview and its getting really hard to keep my mouth shut, trapped tight within in a smile.

"I won't bring anything to the table, I'll just do whatever job

it is I'm applying for and I'll do it well. I really don't care for

it but it pays decent enough that I could do the things I

want on my off time and forget I work here."

Son, Whatever You Do, Don't Sell That Cow!

Bonnie and Clyde - (1967) Directed by Arthur Penn;

Starring Warren Beatty, Faye Dunaway, Michael J. Pollard,

and Gene Hackman.

Watched Bonnie and Clyde yesterday night. I need a

Bonnie Parker, if Faye Dunaway's portrayal was any

bit close to the approximation of truth then its clear

why I'm single. I haven't found a Bonnie to rob banks

with. Thats all a life could be, even though it'll be a

short lived life. And if we can't rob banks, if the banks

have become too powerful, too protected then there is

something to take into account there, something about

how little power we truly have allowed ourselves to possess.

The Trail's End

poem by Bonnie Parker

You've heard the story of Jesse James

Of how he lived and died

If you're still in need

Of something to read

Here's the story of Bonnie and Clyde.

Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang

I'm sure you all have read

How they rob and steal

And those who squeal

Are usually found dyin' or dead.

They call them cold-hearted killers

They say they are heartless and mean

But I say this with pride

That I once knew Clyde

When he was honest and upright and clean.

But the laws fooled around

Kept takin' him down

And lockin' him up in a cell

Till he said to me: "I'll never be free

So I'll meet a few of them in Hell."

If a policeman is killed in Dallas

And they have no clue to guide

If they can't find a fiend

They just wipe their slate clean

And hang it on Bonnie and Clyde

If they try to act like citizens

And rent them a nice little flat

About the third night

They're invited to fight

By a sub-guns' rat-a-tat-tat.

Some day, they'll go down together

They'll bury them side by side

To a few, it'll be grief

To the law, a relief

But it's death for Bonnie and Clyde.


Treasure in The Garden

Charade - (1963) Directed by Stanley Donen;

Starring Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant.

Today I finally saw Charade, thus completing my Donen Directs Hepburn list.

Even if this film consisted of only the first 5 minutes, I'd be enchanted. Two of my favorite stars and one of my favorite directors. Cary Grant really was one if not the best, of hollywood's leading men. Two things I love seeing Audrey Hepburn do on screen 1. Get surprised or excited, and 2. Get hungry.

3. and this:


If My Mind Has Been On My Phone All Day And My Phone Is Lost Then My Mind...

So I've misplaced my cellphone today. Its in my apartment because I haven't left the front door today until about 15 minutes ago for a breath of less steamy air, which is apparently all thats available in my apartment. I noticed that the cellphone was misplaced sometime this afternoon, it is now 10:18 PM. I remember waking and unplugging the little cretin from the charger, resurrecting the mini-christ from the death that disconnected me from my friend the night before. I remember reading the text sent by that friend asking about my disappearance, as I went stealth, a crucified silence. I got up at about 11:12 AM, my first trip to the bathroom was met by failure as it was occupied so I visited my niece in another room before heading back to the direction of the living room and distracting myself in some form of thought. I may or may not have relocated my copy of the novel I'm currently reading; this may or may not be a clue to reproduce that mysterious strand of memory that is giggling in some dark recess of cranium.

I'm upset. Much less at the possibility of a missed call or text or desire to, myself, text or call someone. I'm sure there were no calls as I'm sure there is no one I'm in any particular need of contacting. In the case that I would really worry about either, I could easily email or use the house phone. No, the possibility of a missed contact doesn't do much for my disposition. My issue is more about not being able to find a piece of personal property. It is my cellphone, my possession and I should know where it is, it should be in my memory which is also of my disposal to recall such information. Not being capable to do so, exhibits within me, a paranoid manifestation of self-consciousness and lack of self-control; not being able to know where your possessions are, and not being able to establish an adequate mean for retrieving these belongings.

A vexation that has taxed me all throughout the day under a scorning sun that has dismissed a sky of clouds and a ground of shade. At the end of my thinning tether with no more success than the night has had against the heat the sun left behind, I have finally decided to write about it. How frustrating to be played into a puzzle one can't ignore? For I must find my phone, especially since its misplaced location is so limited. It could only be in the apartment from which I, and the others who were approximately about at the time of the victim's disappearance, have not left. Its a simple enough crime with only a few likely suspects, that I have thoroughly interrogated with both hands and eyes, both who wore trench coats and hats with a shared, antiseptic, cold, film noir wit. However, to no avail. My room, the bathroom, and my mother's bedroom are these suspects, and apparently, I am Inspector Clousseau.

I've become tired of searching the same areas over, and all the more so angry at the discouraging result this strategy is so hurriedly committed to repeat. Regardless of my stubborn inclination to review these re-searched areas to obtain a fresh look that may now be less attached emotionally than earlier when the incident occurred, these areas insist on offering me no success. Apparently things remain missing in the same places from which they were missing, regardless of how mad you are or aren't.


And The Ever Expanding Universe...

Adam - (2009) Directed by Max Mayer;

Starring Hugh Dancy and Rose Byrne

Just saw Adam tonight at Angelika.

I hate it when I watch movies like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind or Science of Sleep in theatres and the audience laughs at the weird, awkward protagonist on the screen...I don't really hate it, it just annoys me but I can't take it too deeply since I've further noticed that the audience at theatres are usually spangled with individuals who are the unfortunate possessors of a dislocated funny bone, which causes them to cackle at any little occurrence.

I should've expected this to happen in Adam. Directed by Max Mayer and starring Hugh Dancy and Rose Byrne, Adam was a good film and introduced me to Asperger's Syndrome. The only problem is now I'm wondering if I may have some of the symptoms of Asperger's gone undiagnosed all these years. Not picking up on social cues, such as reading body language (I'm practically dyslexic), starting or maintaining a conversation, and taking turns talking. Then there's the dislike of changes in routine and lack of empathy. Preoccupation with only one or few interests (in my case music and film and they're the only topics I can really talk about). There is also heightened sensitivity and overstimulation is easily triggered by loud noises, lights, or strong tastes, scents, or textures.

Another main problem of mine is interacting with another person and not truly being able to tell what that person is trying to communicate to me, it has to be really clear for me to understand and usually when its not I pretend that it is to avoid embarrassment or awkwardness.

However here's how I know I might not have Asperger's:

Handwriting is often poor.

Internal thoughts are often verbalized.

Unable to recognize subtle differences in speech tone, pitch and accent.

Unusual facial expressions or postures (I don't know if I have this).

The film was good for its story. I wasn't at all too aware of Max Mayer as director. During the film, the only part that I felt uncomfortable with, was the cupboards that were filled with mac and cheese used as an hourglass. Adam had a healthy stock of Mac & Cheese and to indicate the passing of time Mayer would fade several boxes as a countdown in one of the earlier scenes of the film. I'm not entirely sure why this bothered me but it did. Also, I don't like mac and cheese but that had nothing to do with it.


Keep it Reel, Son!: Introduction and Review

I've been watching a lot of films lately. In fact, every week I watch at least three films I've never seen before. It has recently been an idea of mine to log each film I view. The films can range from any era, from movies currently in theatres to 1920's silent films to everything in between; in any language from any country. This entry is a quick wrap-up of the last two weeks but from now on I will log each film I watch on the same day its viewed.

The Best Man -
(1964) Directed by Franklin J. Schaffner; Starring Henry Fonda and Cliff Robertson both as presidential candidates. Uncle Ben Parker wasn't using his great powers responsibly in this morality film, he was really intense actually. Its a good film about corruption in politics and how the best man is often over-looked due to his image. Hmm. Ron Paul.

The Wrong Man -
(1956) Directed by Alfred Hitchcock; Starring Henry Fonda and Vera Miles as a married couple that undergoes trouble when his identity is mistaken and he is arrested for a crime he is innocent of. Hitchcock, so its suspenseful but its also based on a true story so I get really touchy when the cops foul-up. When Manny (Henry Fonda) gets arrested and they don't allow him to tell his wife even though he's right outside his home, I nearly wanted to blow up a precinct.

Barton Fink -
(1991) Directed by Joel Coen; Starring John Turturro and John Goodman in this dark film about an intellectual new york playwright in hollywood who undergoes events that may very well be over his head but incidently what he was looking for in the first place. I feel like this and Miller's Crossing which I viewed for the first time only last month, are two secret masterpieces by The Coen Brothers. Both films are dark and quiet, Barton Fink is a bit more exploring and uses symbolism to further illustrate the protagonist's mind and perhaps its deterioration.

Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House -
(1948) Directed by H.C. Potter; Starring Cary Grant and Myrna Loy. Cary Grant in a screw ball comedy about a city family that moves out to the suburbs. Cary Grant as victim and butt of the jokes much like in Bringing Up Baby and I Was a Male War Bride. I however, did not enjoy this film as much as the other two aforementioned comedies, it wasn't as mature as the gags that fell upon both David Huxley via Katherine Hepburn or Capt. Henri Rochard via Ann Sheridan. The script isn't as rich either. I understand its a comedy and meant to be fun but I don't think it aged too well, I guess thats why Bringing Up Baby bombed when it made its debut in theatres but is now regarded as a classic of comedies.

The Americanization of Emily -
(1964) Directed by Arthur Hiller; Starring James Garner and Julie Andrews. A war picture thats not on the warfield for 95 percent of the film and follows the religiously cowardice enterprise of Lt. Cmdr. Charles Edward Madison played by Garner. I can't help but like James Garner and this is the first film I've seen Julie Andrews in. It might come across as too preachy but its well rounded and I felt everyone got a word in, it wasn't just one view shoved down your throat. Also all the points were valid and still are, especially about war and the glory of patriotism.

Mister 880 -
(1950) Directed by Edmund Goulding; Starring Burt Lancaster and Dorothy McGuire. NY Secret Agent, Steve Buchanan (Lancaster) Tracks a counterfeiter, Mister 880. I wasn't too crazy about this film but Burt Lancaster is always fun to watch. Also Skipper is how I'm most likely going to end up in about 40 years.

The Seven-Ups -
(1973) Directed by Philip D'Antoni; Starring Roy Schieder. Were the 70's action movies all about car chases? This action crime movie had a really good car chase, pretty long and epic, one got the impression the entire movie was only an excuse for that one scene. It was also great to see NY in the 70's, some of the locations were grimey. Oh, and I removed the color from my TV set just to watch this movie in B/W which as far as I'm concerned is the only way to watch it.

So Long At The Fair -
(1950) Directed by Antony Damborough and Terence Fisher; Starring Jean Simmons and Dirk Bogarde. Mystery/Suspense set in 1890's Paris. A young Dirk Bogarde. I can't get over his life-long resemblence to author, Aldous Huxley. I kept imagining Crome Yellow's Denis or Walter Bidlake whenever George Hathaway (Bogarde) was on screen. The film was decent enough but I found myself ultimately not a fan. The suspense was good and the mystery kind of disappointing.

Notorious -
(1946) Directed by Alfred Hitchcock; Starring Ingrid Bergman and Cary Grant. Cary Grant is a U.S. agent who falls in love with a woman who has been assigned to spy on a group of Nazi friends in South America. Alicia Huberman (Bergman) goes as far as marrying an old friend to report information obtained by her position as his wife, although Huberman loves Agent Devlin (Grant). Tensions rise between the two and so does Hitchcock's suspense as the mission grows more and more dangerous for Bergman's Garbo-esque leading lady. I think this is the first serious role I've seen Cary Grant in. Though, To Catch a Thief is not a comedy, Grant is still charming and suave, in Notorious he is stern and bitingly cold, a side I've never seen before from Grant, need-less-to-say I enjoyed it muchly!

Crisis -
(1950) Directed by Richard Brooks; Starring Cary Grant and Jose Ferrer. Cary Grant as a brain surgeon on a holiday with his wife when they get abducted and forcefully volunteer Dr. Eugene Norland Ferguson (Grant) to perform brain surgery on dictator Raoul Farrago (Ferrer) to save the tyrant's life. I love the music in this film and of course Jose Ferrer but other than that I wasn't too into it. I heard the studio decided to change the script so that Grant could have a love interest, originally Dr. Ferguson was set to be on holiday with his daughter which to me, may've been more interesting. This being Richard Brooks' first film he went along with the studio.

Mr. Lucky -
(1943) Directed by H.C. Potter; Starring Cary Grant and Laraine Day. Comedy with Cary Grant. Same director from Mr. Blandings with a better script. Here Grant plays a fast talking, street-wise hustler who evades the war draft and tries to raise money to get his gambling boat racket off the harbor. How does he do this? Well, he not only tries to con a war relief charity group and partially succeeds by throwing a fund raising, gambling boat party but he also falls in love with one of the directors who slowly begins to trust him. Not to mention that he does all this under the presumed identity of a dead gangster. I really enjoyed this film, here Grant is the charming scoundrel which is quite similar to his mischievous gentleman roles he sometimes played (examples: The Philadelphia Story and The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer). except he uses slang and mannerisms that draw the viewer ever so on the side of the happy-go lucky swindler who happens to carry a "Lady from Bristol." My only complaint, and its not a big one, is the ending. I could have done the end one scene before the actual end but its a romantic comedy and I admit I was happy to see all end well.

The Unforgiven -
(1960) Directed by John Huston; Starring Burt Lancaster and Audrey Hepburn. Hepburn is an adopted kid sister to Lancaster who turns out to be of native american blood in this western drama. It was alright. Like I said, I can watch Burt Lancaster in anything, this was even better because Audrey Hepburn is always good to watch as well and as a secret springle of magnificence, Joseph Wiseman has a minor but key role as Abe Kelsey or the "crazy old man" who reveals Hepburn's origin. Joseph Wiseman is so good, I've only seen him in A Detective Story until now. I'd like to see more of his characters.

The Children's Hour -
(1961) Directed by William Wyler; Starring Audrey Hepburn, Shirley Maclaine, and James Garner. I hate kids and this film makes me even less fond of them. Karen (Hepburn) should've punched Mary's stupid little face in. I'm a huge fan of angry Shirley Maclaine, when she yells or cries I instantly feel like apologizing. Karen and Martha (Hepburn and Maclaine) are two teachers who start an all girls' boarding school and have their lives and reputations compromised when a troublesome student spreads a controversial lie about them.


Terminator Salvation: Morning Drill

My Monthly Aresian Horoscope

March 21 - April 19

and so begins

man vs. machine

Aries, today they were drilling your neighbor's drive way and sidewalk. And you, Aries, do you not sleep towards the front of the apartment? Wasn't it true that here the noise was at its proudest volume? In the dining room, for this is where you sleep, is it not Aries? In this dining room that keeps the living room company at the front of the apartment through a doorless threshold, like two mouths opened at the connection of a kiss, at this border, was not the drilling a tad, let us say, unpleasant? Did not these mischievous immigrants of sound hop this border to pursue countless vocations to sustain the divorce between yourself and Madame Rest.

In fact let us be honest Aries, was not the drilling impressionably close? Impressionably crass and rude, or impressionably insulting. Surely it was, was it not, impressionably perverted against innocent Silence in her Evangelical skirts. Could not the drilling be said to almost be in the apartment? Audibly, it was! Audibly it was practically paying rent with a hole torn right through the lease where the drilling signed its name. Might as well! While we're here Aries, lets add to the "might-as-wells." The drilling might as well have used your bathroom and called you honey, might as well have fixed up a fine mess of a breakfast plate and on the seldom utilized dining table, commented on the weather while enjoying waffles and a morning fruit shake. Yes Aries, Drill would say this and more, all with the same hard stutter, rolling that same "R" 'til Kingdom Come; rolling far into the applications of infinity.

August Heart Beats for Tracyanne Campbell

She makes my shoulders go up, my head back and into a Garbo self-embrace I remain as all the love cells in my blood slip out their vessels and hang on my nerves like fruit.

Marquis De Sade's Lover's Rock

Hang You Up From the Heavens
by The Dead Weather
from the album Horehound
released 14-July, 2009

I never know how to treat you
You say I love you but it ain't true
I'm walking away now
One step forward and back two

I like to grab you by the hair
And hang you up from the heavens

I don't know how to let you go
Or if I should keep you
I don't know how to let you know
I really don't got a reason

I like to grab you by the hair
And drag you to the devil

I never know why I push you
Trash you just to confuse you
I make a hole just to see how
See through clean I can cut you

I like to grab you by the hair
and hang you up from the heavens

I like to grab you by the hair
And sell you off to the devil

I never know what mood you be
Be mine, be kind, but be cruel to me
I'm walking away now
One step forward and back three

I never know what I'm gonna do
I say I'm leaving but it ain't true
I got a lot I could do to you
Nothing you can do to stop it

I like to grab you by the hair
I like to grab you by the hair
I like to grab you by the hair
And hang you up from the heavens