if she cheats on you, you need to understand that you lacked something that made her cheat, so instead of leaving her for another person, find out that error in yourself, correct yourself, apologize to her and be a better person. she’s innocent. pic.twitter.com/c6rnXBeA7O
— andi (@fIipfone) July 19, 2019
I rely miss her she was my best frend and, one of the most live people ill ever know.. RIP Kayleighn we, will always love you #BFF #luvugurl #blessup #neverforgetu #pizzasisters4lyfe
- At least six cans of pineapple
- Some cake
- Get some cake
- Make it out of pineapple
Chill, serve and enjoy, you fucking cretin.
That I’m to review Romek’s turgid Tess within the fortnight is onus enough, but YouTube’s recommended apposition is especially awful:
Very nice. Next.
…if only to counter that preceding post’s vacuities…
“Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.”
–Alfred Hitchcock, Picture Parade, 1960.7.5
“Practice the precept: find without seeking.”
“I think the big mistake in schools is trying to teach children anything, and by using fear as the basic motivation. Fear of getting failing grades, fear of not staying with your class, etc. Interest can produce learning on a scale compared to fear as a nuclear explosion to a firecracker.”
“[T]here was always a conflict between my policy of not being too emotional and being true to the fact, without being cold and not reaching the audience. […] I have always insisted that I would never tell lies in my movies, to only tell the truth. This is a big principle for me.”
–Shohei Imamura, Japanese film director Shohei Imamura speaks to the World Socialist Web Site, 2000.9.19
“I think that high art reposes on popular art; without one there cannot be the other.”
“The function of the flashback is Freudian. […] The Americans had been using it in a very closed way, too rigorously and literally. This was a mistake; you have to let it wander like the imagination, or like a dream.”
“Before, you dealt with the studio. It had one or two persons and now you have masses of executives who have to justify their existence and write so-called “creative notes” and have creative meetings. They obsess about the word creative probably because they aren’t.”
–Roman Polanski interviewed by Taylor Montague
“When I make a film, I never stop uncovering mysteries, making discoveries. When I’m writing, filming, editing, even doing promotional work, I discover new things about the film, about myself, and about others. That is what I’m subconsciously looking for when shooting a film: to glimpse the enigmas of life, even if I don’t resolve them, but at least to uncover them. Cinema is curiosity in the most intense meaning of the word.”
“We can see loss as something missing, but that missing space can be filled with something else, and that creates healing.”
“I hate even the idea of a synopsis. When stories are really working, when you’re providing subtextual exploration and things that are deeply layered, you’re obligated to not say things out loud.”
…as a chick lays eggs…
“I love almost all of Stanley Kubrick, there’s almost no Stanley Kubrick I don’t love. I love Lolita, I love Dr. Strangelove. I love A Clockwork Orange, obviously. I even like a lot of Barry Lyndon (laughs). And early stuff, like The Killing and Paths of Glory. […] It’s ridiculous. Look, he made the best comedy ever, he may have made one of the best science fiction movies ever, he made the best horror movie ever. I couldn’t watch the end of The Shining. I went through half The Shining for years before I could finish, because I’m a writer and as soon as he starts writing “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” I had to turn it off.”
–Gary Ross, 2012
“Well, it’s not an ending […] It’s a Come Back Next Week, or in three years. And that upsets me. I go to movies expecting to have a whole experience. If I want a movie that doesn’t end, I’ll go to a French movie. That’s a betrayal of trust to me. A movie has to be complete within itself, it can’t just build off the first one or play variations.”
–Joss Whedon on The Empire Strikes Back, 2013
“Loving a film is like falling in love with a woman or with a man like you never expect it. It it’s not the one you think you will be in love with, you know. You think always that he will be with a beard, and black, and big and finally he’s Chinese and you know it’s the same thing.”
“I think video games and that stuff should be as violent as possible, but age-appropriate. It should be realistic. When it’s not realistic you run into kids running around shooting people and not realizing the consequences.”
“Everybody knows that the industrialized nations are the worst offenders.”
“Making films has got to be one of the hardest endeavors known to humankind.”
“Stop…stop, that’s the next generation of fans. […] How dare you pass judgment on those 12-year-old girls who like vampires! They need to be encouraged because in six years they’ll be 18-year-old girls who like vampires and are into all sorts of goth-permissive and whatnot. Don’t Poo-poo it. There’s a plan, and it’s working.”
“More than anything, there are more images in evil. Evil is based far more on the visual, whereas good has no good images at all.”
–Lars von Trier
“It’s not easy to strap yourself down to a desk and bash on a keyboard when you know you can direct lots of films, because directing films is fun and interactive and gregarious. Writing isn’t.”
“I’m so from the Woody Allen/Spike Lee school.”
–M. Night Shyamalan
Your head’s adorned with gay little wings. Shush.
This is exactly how I behave whenever I appropriate a kazoo.
Enjoy this frosted treat before the police arrive, you ugly fuck.
Evidently, this kid isn’t a fan of Clark’s coverage. At least his secret’s still safe.
Oh, you poor wretch: you’re a desirously handsome devil who leads one of the planet’s premiere corps of superheroes, you’ve the power to decapitate a malefactor or topple a house at a glance, your brother stands in your shadow, allies and nemeses alike esteem you, and your ginger girlfriend is a sweaty fox whose postmortem successor is her equally fetching duplicate. Stop fretting, Scott; you read like a carping ingrate. Also, take off your god damned costume when you’re indoors. You look goofy roaming the mansion’s halls in spandex while shouting a declamatory soliloquy, you big queen.
That depends: how often will O’Neil, et al. substitute cheap shocks for plot to sell issues?
If this were a gibbeted J. Todd, coeval readers’ unanimous response would likely be, “Who gives a screaming shit?”
You tell him, Keenan Wynn! Get the fuck off his lawn, you masked twit.
“I guess your cape entirely shrouded my peripheral sight! What?”
The Wonder is that this Woman can be bothered to oppose crime anytime she could titivate herself.
This is the most realistic of all these excerpts.
THE CURE: Disintegration (Elektra)
With the transmutation of junk a species of junk itself, an evasion available to any charlatan or nincompoop, it’s tempting to ignore this patent arena move altogether. But by pumping his bad faith and bad relationship into depressing moderato play-loud keyb anthems far more tedious than his endless vamps, Robert Smith does actually confront a life contradiction. Not the splintered relationship, needless to say, although the title tune is a suitably grotesque breakup song among unsuitably grotesque breakup songs. As with so many stars, even “private” ones who make a big deal of their “integrity,” Smith’s demon lover is his audience, now somehow swollen well beyond his ability to comprehend, much less control. Hence the huge scale of these gothic cliches. And watch out, you mass, ’cause if you don’t accept this propitiation he just may start contemplating suicide again. Or take his money and go home. C PLUS
Obviously, this album is a classic; like The Pixies and Depeche Mode, Robert Smith’s mutable outfit contemporaneously enjoyed a concurrence of of artistic and commercial apotheosis. Christgau almost fathoms cynical marketing, but seldom music, hence this momentary meditation on Smith’s presumed careerism. The album? Who knows. Speaking of the boys from Basildon…
Violator [Sire/Reprise, 1990]
Fearing the loss of their silly grip on America’s angst-ridden teens, who they’re old enough to know are a fickle lot, they forge on toward the rap market by rhyming “drug” and “thug.” And for the U.K.’s ecstasy-riding teens, who God knows are even more fickle, there’s the techno-perfect synth/guitar sigh/moan that punctuates the easily rescinded “Policy of Truth.” C-
Somebody’s pettish dad heard a few lyrics during a strictly perfunctory spin and clumsily supposed something about “the hip-hop.” Policy of Truth is so unequivocally disposable that it was a radio staple and concert favorite for fifteen years, and nearly three decades later, oldies stations from the rancid northeast through the ‘murkun midwest to the left coast persist to broadcast it.
The Mix [Elektra, 1991]
best-of with the bass boosted–very funktional, meine Herren (“Pocket Calculator,” “The Robots”) ***
Can you imagine receipt of a paycheck for the indolent authorship of an unfunny sentence? Note that scamsters like Boesky or Madoff were actually punished. That’s a not a review. It isn’t an epigram.
Loveless [Sire/Warner Bros., 1991]
If you believe the true sound of life on planet earth is now worse than bombs bursting midair or runaway trains–more in the direction of scalpel against bone, or the proverbial giant piece of chalk and accoutrements–this CD transfigures the music of our sphere. Some may cringe at the grotesque distortions they extract from their guitars, others at the soprano murmurs that provide theoretical relief. I didn’t much go for either myself. But after suitable suffering and peer support, I learned. In the destructive elements immerse. A-
Nota bene: this maladroit fustian was penned by a man who constantly censures pop acts for their pretensions. One might surmise that it’s easier than apprehending MBV’s musicianship. As for (very little about) noise…
Daydream Nation [Enigma/Blast First, 1988]
At a historical juncture we can only hope isn’t a fissure, a time when no sentient rock and roller could mistake extremism in the defense of liberty for a vice, the anarchic doomshows of Our Antiheroes’ static youth look moderately prophetic and sound better than they used to. But they don’t sound anywhere near as good as the happy-go-lucky careerism and four-on-the-floor maturity Our Heroes are indulging now. Whatever exactly their lyrics are saying–not that I can’t make them out, just that catch-phrases like “You’ve got it” and “Just say yes” and “It’s total trash” and “You’re so soft you make me hard” are all I need to know–their discordant never-let-up is a philosophical triumph. They’re not peering into the fissure, they’re barreling down the turnpike like the fissure ain’t there. And maybe they’re right–they were the first time. A
Moore oughtn’t have fretted about Christgau; at least he was amusing when he slammed Sonic Youth, whereas this uninstructive, sophomoric, logorrheic claptrap beggars belief for a middle-aged man. He’s never worse than when he agonizes with all his little might and fails to wax profoundly florid. Whenever I read something tolerable from Christgau, my integrity itself recalls “a philosophical triumph,” and I giggle.
Heart in Motion [A&M, 1991]
Xian Xover queen: “What’s the difference between a PMS’ing woman and a bulldog? Lipstick! See, only a woman can tell that joke.” Don’t be so sure, lady. And note Hits‘s gnostic riposte: “What do you get when you cross an atheist with a dyslexic? Somebody who doesn’t believe in dogs!” C
He might’ve been generous enough to warn her fans that amid all the catchy, snappily produced hits, Hats is among the worst clunkers she’s ever recorded. Of course, the Village Voice was far too kewl and edgy to accommodate a Christer with a review, even if this consistently popular bestseller circulated far more successfully than the paper. Do consider Christgau’s recycled irreverence if you notice that year after year and album after album, he actually takes Kanye West seriously.
The Final Cut [Columbia, 1983]
Though I wish this rewarded close listening like John Williams, Fripp & Eno, or the Archies, it’s a comfort to encounter antiwar rock that has the weight of years of self-pity behind it–tends to add both literary and political resonance. With this band, aural resonance is a given. C+
I’m a Floyd fan who’s dismissed this album for decades, and terse adversion to its burden doesn’t consititute a review.
Cosmic Wheels [Epic, 1973]
Yellow Jell-O, or: didn’t you always know he’d go bananas? C-
Everyone who’s heard three to thirty-eight minutes of this knows it’s heinous, but this gibber isn’t clever.
The Bends [Capitol, 1995]
Admired by Britcrits, who can’t tell whether they’re “pop” or “rock,” and their record company, which pushed (and shoved) this follow-up until it went gold Stateside, they try to prove “Creep” wasn’t a one-shot by pretending that it wasn’t a joke. Not that there’s anything deeply phony about Thom Yorke’s angst–it’s just a social given, a mindset that comes as naturally to a ’90s guy as the skilled guitar noises that frame it. Thus the words achieve precisely the same pitch of aesthetic necessity as the music, which is none at all. C
It could be the last great sensitively posturing rock album, not that Christgau noticed — like any teenage quidnunc, he’s primarily concerned with industry scuttlebutt; whatever residual allusion to The Product he might tender results from whatever was heard in dereliction during routine playback in an adjoining room.
The Very Best of the Doors [Elektra, 2001]
Shaman, poet, lizard king–believe that guff and you’ll miss a great pop band. Ass man, schlockmeister, cosmic slimeball–that’s where Jim Morrison’s originality lies, and he’s never been better represented. Right beneath the back-door macho resides a weak-willed whine as El Lay as Jackson Browne’s, and the struggle between the two would have landed him in Vegas if he hadn’t achieved oblivion in Paris first. Compelling in part because he’s revolting, Jimbo reminds us that some assholes actually do live with demons. His three sidemen rocked almost as good as the Stones. Without him they were nothing. A
As an encapsulation of Jimbo’s act, it’s at least adequate, but he might’ve mentioned something about this (sixth? seventh?) studio compilation’s particular transposition. Even capsule reviewers aren’t paid to blithely expect, “They’ve heard it all, so they pretty much know what they’re getting, I guess.”
Imagine, if you will…
…this portrait of a puerile, etiolated manchild. Weaned on soy formula and redigested popular culture, Breighdyn bears every peculiarity of the “soy-boy”: the hypersensitive and effusive disposition, receding hairline, patchy beard, ponderous spectacles and a rictus agape in every photograph for which he postures. Tonight, Breighdyn feels secure in the society of his fellow sub-nerds, in attendance at a screening of the latest cinematic spectacular adapting for the silver screen a Marvel comic published during his infancy.
What he doesn’t expect is that at this particular showing, Breighdyn alone will bear witness to an event of unprecedented, toxic masculinity and its repercussions, which may well shake the very foundations of his convictions and psyche, here in the the most offensive recesses…
…of The Twilight Zone.
A comprehensive reference of popular music featuring orchestration titled Orchestral Pop! is published as a trade paperback, boasting a cover wherein a conductor turned to his orchestra is irreverently habilitated in Converse sneakers and grinning smugly at us over his shoulder. Maybe he’s flanked by guitarists in regalia conformable to that of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. A chapter therein dedicated to progressive rock spans no fewer than 300 pages. Within its first month of publication, over 200,000 boomers (nearly half of whom are still subscribed to Rolling Stone in 1988) purchase copies of the book. It was compiled by some asshole named Lifschitz who shaves his back every week.