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Peace, empathy, love and hate,
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Tuesday, August 28, 2001 0009:00 a.m.
Well, if I'm putting up links to these stupid things, then I obviously think they are of some quality to which sharing would be justifiable. On the contrary, I had nothing remotely interesting to blog today [do I ever?] besides stupid movie reviews. Pathetic, on my part and I apologize. Actually it's a mystery as to why I'm even sitting here doing this, considering that after August 23 I was going to cancel my pitas account.
If shorelined.pitas.com is gone anytime soon, don't be surprised.
Monday, August 27, 2001 0010:16 a.m.
Now all we have left is this. February is so far away...
Sunday, August 26, 2001 0006:14 p.m.
It is a low day in the music industry.
Sunday, August 26, 2001 0012:50 p.m.
C'est la vie...
Saturday, August 25, 2001 0006:32 p.m.
Ghosts of Mars was pretty goddamn stupid. Dialogue barely on a 3rd grade level. Oh, so they're African Martian tribal bad guys that decapitate. [For one fucking second I thought
All right....correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't the end of Total Recall have a blue sky?
And Collateral Damage might be good. EXCEPT I read today in some celebrity-wreaked magazine that his character is not an "expert" in outdoorsmanship, but an average Joe "who gets by on his fireman skills." Uh...what the hell? So he's basically self-sufficiently retarded but gets stuck in the Colombian jungles and learns along the way?? Considering he has to drag some kid and a woman around with him, how violent is it gonna be? I just hope it won't be some fluffed-up family shishkabobbed shitfest trying to brainwash some sort of basis for moral obligation [God forbid] into our divorce-plagued nation. Ah, fuck.
It comes out in October -- we'll just have to wait and see.
Friday, August 24, 2001 0010:15 a.m.
The tall man walked into the open. His shortened breath palpitated to the closing mouth under his Greek nose. Two long, purple lines incestuously beckoned across his left iris. One small, pink scar countered with retaliation right over the Athens portion of his nose, like a lone raft floating on the ocean of skin.
Legs applying all the laws of mechanics - fulcrum of bone, pulley of jumbled joint with weighted axle, human strings. Minister Walk carefully repented to the gravity of God. Little children playing with full-toothed smiles, lined up according to size, under the shell of a leather that once grazed upon grass in beautiful country and enchanting side. The playful foot and rigid shoe; the man forms the triangle of air between straightened, outstretched legs and just as immediately, collapses it upon its own shell before it shrinks to disappear. Seconds later, a fresh triangle is born - between leg, leg and ground, as if a descendant of his father. These generations of triangles form and evolve until the man stops their succession -- he ends the voyage carrying his internal organs and suspended fluid from the two ends of his destination, and stops.
He has but walked 30 steps (30 triangles), but the air is invisible to where he tore through it with his body. Now nothing could be proven. There was only his consciousness of his own action; not even the turf was soft enough to allow the evidence of a footprint. Was only him and his idea. His theory of existence and what it omitted from admitting (or dreamed of that wasn't). The man. His distance. The displacement. The violated air in between.
A Mediterranean Sea formed, but sanguine in taste and effect. Pouring slowly, then as if suddenly hit by a turbulent hurricane - the Mediterranean uprooted through the monsters Loch Nessed in forms of two "fingers" (which were nothing but bones covered with muscle meat, flowing red rivers in rubbery veins and encased in a shelling of shedding skin scales). The spine of the finger bent at one of its three corners and dipped in the Mediterranean (now a gushing red Fountain of Youth). The man (owner of it all) rotated the purple lines of his left iris so they faced the stained fingertips of his hand.
"My nose is bleeding again," he contemplated. The seasick travelers inside the floating raft on his nose looked on with feigned interest, but said nothing. The man sighed with annoyance and rubbed the Mediterranean Sea dry, then proceeded to walk. As the once drowned freckles there were now resurrected, the triangles reappeared and continued with their legacy of distance, death and rebirth...in the greatest of silences.
Thursday, August 23, 2001 0010:35 a.m.
There's the anti-social loners (oh, if only Prozac could be digitized and emailed), the happy-go-lucky egotist who pumps up his/her blog with thousands of links about absolutely nothing worth knowing, the anime groupies who end everything with "san" or "chan" and whose blogs ultimately make no sense, the foreign blogs, the "list" blogs [for the record, if you gave 2001: A Space Odyssey only 3 stars then you're a fucking idiot and therefore have no credibility] and, lastly, the regular old folk with entries such as:
Loners - get some friends. Egotists - you're much more boring than you realize. Anime groupies - get a life. Foreigners - learn to blog in English. List blogs - get a website like everyone else. Regular old folk - your dad is an idiot, grandma wreaks of cough syrup and vomit, don't say anything if you've got nothing to say and your b-f is prolly down in the garage fucking the prom queen.
I won't even mention the exhibitionist bloggers (who don't impress me and never will), jargon-talkers, the assholes who party and engage in ménage-à-trois with Mr Bud and Mrs Weiser routinely, the "personality test" fanatics (nobody fucking cares what you ended up as), [Radiohead] conformists, goth morons, preachers (whether it be politics or philosophy), people who have this stupid idea that we would find intrigue in what they found intriguing, the insecure nobodies and.....prolly shitloads more but you get the gist. And if you're intelligent then you'll understand the point I'm trying to make.
-feor (from the anti-social loner column)
ps. And let's face it dear reader -- if we actually have a weblog to begin with, then we never actually had very much of a life. We're all losers, and the pitas.com owner is the biggest genius of all by exploiting and even making some money off of us.
Wednesday, August 22, 2001 0011:15 a.m.
Wednesday, August 22, 2001 0010:59 a.m.
I need to get out of this sewer and move to Calipornia if I know what's good for me. Apparently greyhound can take me there for $159.00 -- do I dare???????????????????
Tuesday, August 21, 2001 0011:07 a.m.
And how come on Too Dark Park, shore lined poison is spelt wrong? In the lyrics section they spell it "shore line poison," without the d. (Now I don't feel so bad about my own spelling error.) And Ninjai just put up Chapter 5 -- thought you should know.
that's all from the land of milk and technology,
Monday, August 20, 2001 0012:50 p.m.
And in case you were wondering, all of the quotes from the last entry are taken from Quills (starring Geoffrey Rush, Joaquin Phoenix, Kate Winslet and Kate Winslet's massive boob). Actually, tho, it was pretty entertaining. (Does that book really exist?)
And Ghosts of Mars opens NEXT weekend (feor, you stupid fuck). Not that I care but Cameron is making a Mars movie, so I think he'd go and see it, for the comparison factor. (I'm such a copy catter.) I think if Cameron jumped off a bridge, I would too =P
-feor the unoriginal
&ps. I don't know who the hell this guy is, but he's going to completely ruin Terminator 3.
Saturday, August 18, 2001 0004:25 p.m.
In ode to all Christians everywhere, I give you two delicious quotes to savor:
"Boring a son from an immaculate virgin - an entire religion based on an oxymoron."
"If God strings his own son out like a slab of veal, I hate to think of what he'd do to me."
Brought to you in part by:
Friday, August 17, 2001 0005:37 p.m.
The thing is so hard-up on not explaining anything, that you just can't judge it the first time around. So like a good movie minion, I watched again...and it completely won me over. (Even Hauer on the roof with that stupid bird symbolism.) But Leon Kowalski was still the best...
have a better one,
Friday, August 17, 2001 0006:45 a.m.
Either way, either way. Apparently, today my friend is coming to sleep over. Which is funny, because (the last time I checked) I wasn't in junior high. [Do adult, non-lesbian women have sleepovers??] Whatever. Here's our non-lesbian itinerary: go buy subs at
Blade Runner. First of all, I have no fucking clue where they say "Haujobb" because
And that's the end. The ludicrous, un-exciting, stinking end.
And somebody tell Vosloo to lay off the donuts.
Thursday, August 16, 2001 0011:17 a.m.
An oversimplification, reverberation, Kubrickization of Nabokov's novel. Like a maturely kinky, pseudo-60's subcultural comedy sketch resonation with dry smoke and soft focus of the little nymphet herself. Mostly a series of the Stanley™ long vignettes, most all of them fading to black after an amusingly personal conclusion completely summing up the parts of which established it. Overall, good natured and inspirationally comedic....and was that even slap-stick I saw in the hotel room?? Amazing.
There was the quite expected pump-up of the villain, i.e. Mr Quilty [of which I'm sure was only named so because it rhymed with "Guilty"]. The avenue they dominate in making him the repeated tormentor of Humbert makes for a great thickness that basically, does all fuse itself into a formidable conclusion.
Sellers was his usual transformic self. ((I've always loved Clouseau; I've seen all of them.)) So here, how amusing he be as the beatnik mind-trapping deviant....and so damn OBNOXIOUS. Despite the censorship factor, Quilty was creepier than even today's villains; you know, those "comic book" bad dudes with the evil frown slash glare slash distemper surgically implanted into their chemically reproduced, antagonist, Screen Actor's Guild cookie-cutter character molds. (I have such vile contempt for today's filmmakers.) At least we'll always have vintage Kubrick. *sigh*
"Pink-rimmed glasses" don't go well in black-and-white. Favorite moments: Lo in her costume, Hum in the bathtub while that 60's song plays in the back and everybody just barges into his house and walks into the bathroom (Jean, you dog...you better close your eyes) and Quilty with the Egyptian sphinx staring at each other behind the newspaper, waiting for Hum to leave and hoping he doesn't see them, at the Hotel.
I had a good time. (And that's basically what it should always boil down to.)
-Feor
And yes, this internet wench loses her Blade Runner virginity today. And to the Director's Cut, to boot [alas, I'm beginning to think that all DVDs are director's cuts]. Harrison Ford is just a walking enterprise (Indiana, Han AND Rick Deckard??]. Whosever soul he sold to get these great gigs, I can only imagine....but those carpenters sure do make nice space cowboys ;)
Wednesday, August 15, 2001 0009:26 a.m.
Craig Burton: I don't think it was a dream.
Psychiatrist: When you were put back, back the way you were when it all started, making love, was everything exactly the same?
Craig Burton: Yes.
Psychiatrist: Did you still have an erection?
Craig Burton: Yes.
Psychiatrist: ...For two hours? Arnold Vosloo is divine to look at, but the man is as dumb as an ox (with the acting ability of that same animal). But I'd rather see his fine ass over Julia Roberts' enlarged Mexican horse mouth. [Can't fucking stand her.] Anyway. I have better things to do with my time than be on the internet all day. Time to get out of this house.
Lolita plays tonight....need I say more?
Wednesday, August 15, 2001 0008:50 a.m.
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