Book Covers: The Rum Diary

Book Covers: A Collection of Essays by George Orwell

Book Covers: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Book Covers: Slaughterhouse-Five

The Drive Home From Work

My reactions are delayed, dulled, like my brain and my hands are fighting parents passing messages through the children. I don’t mind it. What I’ve really been trying to do is regain control. While every thing else is a mess, at least I can not care about near misses on the shiny wet highway as I cruise along somewhere between sixty and one hundred miles per hour. That twang of instant sweat when one becomes intimate with danger is supposed to be a natural reaction.

I’m listening to music- well, listening isn’t the right word- it’s more like hearing the way you smell. The accompaniment is something I’m aware of, but only in an underneath-way, like an old lover rubbing your back while you tell a story you’ve both heard a million times. This song affects my mood as the sound-version of fresh baked cookies. The type of reaction I sometimes have to remind myself to acknowledge. So I bob my head and sing along. Some old song I never particularly liked or disliked, one of those songs I am simply aware of.

It’s dark and all you can see is bright light shining through colored plastic skins. The headlights coming at you white, the break-lights coming at you red as you breeze by. The occasional bone-head maneuver reminds me that there are people inside of the cars. Blurry people each with their unique back stories, stockpiling frustrations. Sometimes they make me livid, but not now. I could care less about these people. I let them stay nothing but sliding sets of red lights. I imagine I’m a space-custodian sent to do some important cleanup amongst the machines, the endless looping machines.

I’m not paying attention to the road like I should. It takes me too long to flip through the radio stations. Little insignificant details strike me as interesting. My shifter, which I thought was becoming worn out is actually just filthy, the ashtray is leaking black water, the dual cup holders are too close together to hold anything but straight, Tom Collins glasses, I have seven different thermoses on the passenger seat and floor, though I only remember having one. The backseat holds piles of sweatshirts that I never wore when I lived in California..

I know it’s dangerous only because of what I know can and does often happen on these slick endless bands of concrete. I know all about the twisted car-like or truck-like heaps and the greedy gasoline fires and the rip of the windshield and the blood and the guts and all of the horror that a moment’s carelessness can bring. I’ve seen the flipped vehicles and the dazed bloody passengers staring off as if seeing things through someone else’s eyes. Maybe there were others back in the wrecks some mash-up mock of what they were just a few moments earlier. It’s strange to think of dead people stuck within these chewed up steel-miracles as you pass them, perfectly safe within your car with your pre-set radio stations and ass-groove. These are things I never dwell on for long, not while I’m driving. It doesn’t interest me, counting the cars in a pile up or stopping to see if anyone’s dead.

When I’m in my car I don’t have to care about anything outside of wherever my mind wanders. I think some people find this mental-state while jogging, or sewing, or humming with crossed legs and o-forming fingers, or fucking. I find it while driving. Just as fast as the red lights ahead of me will allow. It gets harder for me everyday to not push that little needle as far as it can go, forcing my car to its limits like I was hiding inside of some unstoppable primeval beast. I’m not in any rush to get where I’m going. I just like passing the others. Something about making good time than them makes my head tingle a bit. I think bliss would be an endless road of yellow lights. At first you might think seeing green after green would fill you with joy, but the yellow holds something better. Being allowed to continue on when others must halt is fulfilling.

So I press down the go-button when the music hits its climax, for some reason believing my slow reactions will keep me safe, that is to say, it keeps me from over-reacting. I know I wont crash, I’m not saying I’m a great driver, I just know I wont crash. I can’t explain it, but I’ve always felt that way, even during near misses that would have likely torn my vision of the world to tattered scraps. It’s during those blown out slow-moments of surreal captured speed and violent proximity that I am most comfortable. It’s like I’m in the hands of some God, feeling no need for guilt or anxiety. There’s no point in being scared about things like that, there’s plenty to be scared of outside your car.

Random Drawings

Book Covers: The Official Superman Quiz Book

Book Covers: Cronopios and Famas

Screen Grabs: In the Mood for Love

Screen Grabs: Un Prophèt

10 More Movies You Should See

1. Mother, Jugs and Speed (1976) - changes the way you see Bill Cosby

2. Bad Lieutenant : Port of Call New Orleans (2009) - maybe changes the way you see Nic Cage. A film by Werner Herzog that I cannot believe was made.

3. In the Mood for Love (200) - most interesting shot-style of any movies I've ever seen. A restrained love story that will hook you.

4. Once upon a Time in America (1984) - one of my favorite final shots.

5. The Road Warrior (1981) - also known as Mad Max 2. best action movie ever made

6. Bronson (2008) - you love prison fights

7. Let the Right One In (2008) - more than a vampire movie. one of the best settings for a suspense movie ever.

8. The Brood (1979) - the rage-babies are going to get you

9. Me and You and Everyone We Know (2005) - quirky done right

10. The Aura (2005) - an epileptic taxidermist that has a photographic memory... that's right and it's awesome

Screen Grabs: The Counterfeiters

Social Studies #5

Screen Grabs: The Conformist

Screen Grabs: The Wild Bunch

Screen Grabs: Bronson

Screen Grabs: The Big Lebowski

Movie Review: First Half of Boondock Saints 2: All Saints Day

Then:

Now:

(Whatever happened to Sean Patrick Flannery's face is a perfect visual representation of what became of Boondock Saints 2: All Saints Day)

Okay, let me start by saying I loved the first Boondock Saints when I was sixteen (just like you did) and upon revisiting again recently I found that I still enjoyed it and was willing to forgive its shortcomings, like a handicapable cousin who always says something spot-on hillarious but occasionally snatches people's glasses right off their face and snaps them, laughing uncontrollably. I was waiting for so many years for this sequel, until I saw the documentary Overnight which essentially makes Saints director Troy Duffy look like a bonehead, racist, homophobic, chain-smoking infant and if nothing else a bit of a bridge-burner. Though I don't know what I was expecting from a man named Troy Duffy, from South Boston, whose only movie totally tells it like it is.

So here's my review, although some of the details are murky, there are currently millions of white blood cells attacking the existence of this movie in my brain. I assumed from the trailer and the cast list that he was going for the old One-Up method of making a sequel, which is like eating something out of the microwave that you normally cook in the oven. Satisfying and warm but too soft and without that properly cooked center. As this film tumbled into my face I began to see that I was wrong and that Mr. Duffy went in another direction altogether. He opted for the One-Down technique. This screenplay represents a scene-by-scene prison rape of the original. At this point I have to acknowledge what I feel are the only possible excuses for this fucking script:

1. He wrote it while biblically hungover with a gun pointed at his head, a 25 minute time limit and wholly without the use of a backspace key.

2. He paid the first teenage boy that walked by his apartment building to write the script for him (provided the boy was under the same restrictions detailed in option #1)

I knew from watching Overnight that Troy had a tendency to be blinded by the pure sunshine that shoots from his sausage fingers, but I refuse to believe even he didn't know that this script would make my handicapable cousin cringe in disbelief. One theory I've been playing with is that at some point Troy overheard some respected movie reviewer say about his first film, "If that was tongue-in-cheek it was brilliant, if that guy really thought that was as baddass as the slow motion and music choices would imply, he's a punch-drunk gorilla that's never touched a girl's bare breast." With this information Duffy decided he would go cheesy-on-purpose style, though that is likely me giving him too much credit. I can just see him sitting in the editing lab slapping the back of some editor who has mastered the art of feigning excitement and going on long rants about how he makes Tarantino look like a "spic-faggot". That brings us to the section of the review dedicated to the dialogue in the film (no, not film, movie). See, I've always had this problem where I can't tell exactly what race someone is in a movie, and that drives me nuts! That's where our friend Troy comes in. His interpretation of Italian-American dialogue is an anthropological study in itself. Death from alcohol poisoning has led several renowned fraternities to cease all use of the Boondock Saints 2: All Saints Day Drinking Game in which you take a shot every time someone says something racist, sexist, or homophobic. After the first few you would swear he would have noticed the little green light informing him he left the Epithet-Lock key on. The new Rocco-character is a guy you'd recognize from many other films (Capote, the Last Castle, the drug dealer from The Rules of Attraction) and in this movie he pisses on all that by playing a confused "Mexican" who seems to think he's a rootin-tootin-redneck. You'll notice I'm not going much into the storyline here, there's no point to that. Just watch the first one while coming down on mushrooms.

Now for the real reason I'm writhing all this. WHAT IN THE FUCK HAPPENED TO SEAN PATRICK FLANNERY"S FACE!?! We have a right to know! If he was just a touch more famous it would be all over Access Hollywood and I could sleep at night. Some of you might say something like: "It's been ten years since the first film, give the guy a break." I would love to do that, but I can not. Where dealing with either extremely ill advised surgery of a severe reaction to raspberries or something. If he is allergic to time itself than your theory might hold water. I spent the entire movie saying out loud, "He looks so fucking rough!" And even the internet has no real answers for me. He looks like he performed cunnilingus on a poisonous puffer fish. So in summation, rent this movie if you've done something detestable and you feel that you deserve a good waterboarding.

Screen Grabs: Once upon a time in the West

Two Girls

We’re sitting too close to the screen

The images are distorted, threatening to tip onto us

On the way out two girls approach us

One blonde with glasses and one brunette with long curly hair

The one with glasses is adorable, hard not to look at

She has that pull that makes me sweat

The other is asking me for a cigarette

Tommy gives her one

She’s proud of her interesting accent

The blonde just smiles away

The brunette is asking us about the movie

It was all right, we say

She says she’s from Tel Aviv

I can tell Tommy doesn’t know quite where it is either

She says she’s visiting

She asks if we smoke weed

She asks if we want to go back to a place they have

I’m picturing an apartment that has little in common with the real one

She says this to me while the little blonde smiles at Tommy

The two of them kicking phantom rocks

He looks at me and his face says the decision is mine

He has a girlfriend

I can’t make fast decisions

I’m still stoned

She’s looking at me, expecting a yes

No, we’ve got to get back to Brooklyn

And the joy drops from the air like a single sheet of rain, already drying

We’re all disappointed in me

Well, thanks for the cigarette

Tommy and I walk off

He says they were holding hands on the way in

And that he was surprised I turned them down

I say it just happened too fast

But really I just couldn’t stand to watch

As he grabbed another one right out of the air in front of me

Screen Grabs: Where the Buffalo Roam

LIFE UPDATE!!

I have no internet. I am almost finished writing my first book. The Neti Pot has changed my life. I still love you. (No, not you)

-Ryan

Rainy Days

It better stop raining soon.

This is getting out of hand. It started on St. Patrick’s day. Twenty weeks later, it hasn't stopped. This is like Vietnam, except there's nothing to do. I don't have my buddy’s brains in my lap or anything, it's not like that, but it is still a type of warfare. It's an internal conflict. Both sides are on break waiting for the rain to stop, using only propaganda to fight for the cause. Every morning is a continuation of this dreary, drowsy experiment. I'm becoming like a vampire with the flu. Like Letterman delivering jokes that he knows are trash, content with mediocrity since his surgery. Never seeing the sun and never willing to do anything more than eat cereal out of the box and watch the rain. I have the cereal because my mother is crazy and she has a problem. She sends me packages. It's been going on for years. It's either cereal or barbeque sauce or the latest Disney release, filling my walk-in closet. It used to make me angry but now Honey Nut Cheerios are keeping me alive. The mail stopped once the water started creeping up the buildings. It's like this everywhere. TV stopped a few days ago. I've seen the Lion King more times than I care to estimate. I keep picturing my cigarettes inside of the truck, but since I never got my back window fixed they're ruined. I barely even want them anymore. If I'd kept my setup from my trip to Long Boat Key, I could be snorkeling all over the place seeing how interesting things look submerged as opposed to not-submerged. Treasure hunting, that type of thing. There probably aren't any cigarettes anywhere by now. Most people left a long time ago. Many that stayed starved or sunk and bobbed. For a while I was talking, or I guess screaming, with this girl across the street on the second floor, but one day she wasn't there anymore. I guess she left too. All I do now is sit on my balcony and watch the Abercorn Street River. Like the fool who ruled the abandoned city. I watch the rain drops kurplunk, kurplunk, kurplunk, and think about nothing at all.

I hope it never stops.

Victor Waldo is David Dishman

(ON THE SET OF THE NEW RUSTY CAITES ACTION FLICK, WITH THE FAMOUS METHOD ACTOR VICTOR WALDO AND THE CREW OF MONEY MAKES IT BETTER)

VICTOR: "I've been DAVID FUCKING DISHMAN FOR THE LAST NINE AND A HALF MONTHS, go back to your little chair. I've got it, okay, I'VE got it. Me."

RUSTY: "That's it, that's exactly the intensity I was talking about. Run it!

TOM: "Roll sound."

MORGAN: "Speed."

TOM: "Roll camera."

JIMMY: Camera Speed.

STACEY: "Scene 27, 55 apple, money makes, take 26"

RUSTY: "ACTION!"

VICTOR: "Listen Piscatelli, I want my fucking money and I want it NOW. Not when the dog's fed, NOW! Understood?"

JOE: "Okay, Mr. Dishman, calm down I'm, I-I mean we've-"

VICTOR: "You, you mean you've nothing. Don't ever tell me to calm down. Money NOW Goddamnit! Make your call."

JOE: "Okay, I'm sorry."

VICTOR: "Don't."

JOE: "Hello, yes. It's Piscatelli, Mr Dishman is here and he would like the, the, um...Yes. Okay I'm sorry, No I know, I mean okay sir I'm, I'll do that then. Yes, thank you sir. Here is your money Mr. Dishman. Sorry for any, um, inconveniences. Sorries all around actually."

VICTOR: "Well it's too bad for you sorries can't make you bulletproof."

JOE: "Oh NO PLEASE SIR DON"T-"

GUN: BANG!

RUSTY: "Yes! Cut! That's a print people. Vicky I love you. Jimmy, I take it all back, don't kill yourself."

JOE: "Goddamnit. Rusty that fuckin blood went in my eyes again!"

RUSTY: "Sorry baby."

JOE: "Oh you think that's funny?"

RUSTY: "Sorry baby."

VICTOR: "I'm leaving. That's it, right? I'm done now? Rusty? I'm done?"

RUSTY: "Yes darling. Done for now. Loved that, "before the dog's fed". Get some sleep, I'll see you mahnyahnah. People, bid a sweet farewell to our beloved Mr. Dishman!"

EVERYONE: "GOODBYE MR DISHMAN!"

VICTOR: "Fuck You All."

(IN THE YELLOW CAB OF AMBROSE WILLINGHAM. THE WINDSHIELD WIPERS LAYING DOWN A STEADY BEAT LIKE DUEL PENDULUMS)

AMBROSE: "Where to pal?"

VICTOR: "Downtown. (GOOD ADDRESS) Take the parkway."

AMBROSE: "You mind if I smoke?"

VICTOR: "What brand."

AMBROSE: "Reds."

VICTOR: "Can I bum one, I'm without for the moment."

AMBROSE: "No problem pal. Here you go."

VICTOR: "Thanks."

AMBROSE: "You need a light?"

VICTOR: "No I've got it."

AMBROSE: "Hey don't I know you?"

VICTOR: "I don't know."

AMBROSE: "Yeah you were in that one with Michael Keaton."

VICTOR: "No I wasn't."

AMBROSE: "Yeah, yeah, yes you were. The one were his wife was a cop and she killed a bunch of guys, because he used to beat her and she kept seeing his face, you know, like, on their faces. There were Michael Keatons walking around all over the place."

VICTOR: "You mean Multiplicity?"

AMBROSE: "No not that shit. Not that one, it was the one with that killer bitch. The killer bitch cop. Come on, you were the therapist. The gay therapist with the glasses."

VICTOR: "Oh you mean Mind Trigger, that was years ago. And it wasn't Michael Keaton, it was Gary Sinise."

AMBROSE: "Oh okay, yeah you're right. Oh yeah alright, I always confuse those two. Gary Sinise was Batman right?"

VICTOR: "Wait a minute did you say I played a gay therapist?"

AMBROSE: "So that was you? Yeah you were the fag with the glasses. The guy who spilled the grape-juice and it led to that secret room. You remember it. You guys heard it dripping, like in the Goonies, but then you needed-"

VICTOR: "No, look, I remember the film, but I wasn't gay. The character wasn't gay."

AMBROSE: "Look I'm not saying you're gay or anything."

VICTOR: "I know, I'm just saying Dr. Noyes, my character, wasn't gay."

AMBROSE: "Whatever you say pal."

VICTOR: "I'm telling you he wasn't gay. I wasn't gay."

AMBROSE: "Then how come you didn't bang that broad."

VICTOR: "What? Which one?"

AMBROSE: "The killer cop bitch. Who was it? Uma Thurman?"

VICTOR: "No it was Patricia Arquete."

AMBROSE: "Yeah? What's she like?"

VICTOR: "Nice. Sweet girl."

AMBROSE: "Yeah, how about that? Patricia Arquete. Yeah she's hot, so that's what I'm saying, she's a fucking foxy broad, why didn't you bang her if you weren't a fag then?"

VICTOR: "She was a serial killer."

AMBROSE: "Yeah I know, but what about that one scene, where you were both all covered in paint. She was all tied up and covered in that paint. That was that one right?"

VICTOR: "It wasn't really up to me."

AMBROSE: "You couldn't what-do-you-call-it? Improv that shit? What would happen if you just im-improved that shit?"

VICTOR: "I don't know."

AMBROSE: "That would be great right? Getting to bang Uma Thurman like that?"

VICTOR: "I don't think my wife would approve. But, yeah it would be great."

AMBROSE: "Wow, what's your name again? I mean, if you don't mind me asking?"

VICTOR: "I don't mind. Victor Waldo. I was Hawk-Man. You might remember me as Hawk-Man."

AMBROSE: "Never saw that one. So what are you doing now?"

VICTOR: "It's called "Money Makes it Better" It's supposed to be out next summer."

AMBROSE: "Do you play another faggot? Just kidding pal."

VICTOR: "I play David Dishman, he's a FBI undercover in too deep who gets involved with the Mafia. It's a thriller"

AMBROSE: "Sounds like fun. Sounds like Donnie Brasco."

VICTOR: "It isn't. It's a right coming up here, before the Banana Republic. I mean it isn't fun, it is just like Donnie Brasco. Then it's that first building on the left. You know people just forget. You can get away with making the same film every few years. People are stupid."

AMBROSE: "You're telling me. I deal with people all day long. Well, here we are Mr. Victor Waldo. How about that? Victor Waldo."

VICTOR: "Keep the change. Thanks for the ride. What's you name?"

AMBROSE: "Ambrose."

VICTOR: "Have a good night Ambrose."

AMBROSE: "You too Mr Waldo. Victor fucking Waldo."

(INSIDE THE FLAT. MARBLE FLOORS, A LITTLE WHITE BITCH WITH A DIAMOND COLLAR SLEEPING ON A FIVE HUNDRED DOLLAR PILLOW. TARA WALDO TURNS OFF THE TELEVISION AS SHE HEARS HER HUSBAND'S FOOTSTEPS)

TARA: "Hello dear."

VICTOR: "Hello."

TARA: "How was it?"

VICTOR: "How do you think it was? How could it be anything but torture with Rusty?"

TARA: "Victor, I was just trying to help. David, David, I was just trying to help. Don't look at me like that, I remembered. I'm sorry that I have interest in your day."

VICTOR: "Well don't."

TARA: "Sorry."

VICTOR: "Don't."

TARA: "Did you take a cab back?"

VICTOR: "Did you make my smoothie?"

TARA: "Did you take a cab back or did they send a car?"

VICTOR: "Listen, I want my fucking smoothie and my fucking sandwich and I want it NOW. Not when the dog's fed, NOW! Understood?"

TARA: "I can't wait until this ones over."

VICTOR: "Me neither."

TARA: "Next movie you're not going to play such an asshole."

VICTOR: "Agreed."

Social Studies #4

Random Drawings

Random Drawings