The book’s complete title will be Generation whY: Plumbing the Enigmas, Pathologies and Catastrophies of Millennial Sociopolitical, Socioeconomic and Mental Retardation. Much of it will be penned in a deliberately inane, outraged, beleaguered, ultimately fatuous manner to ensure that I can juice some of those succulent, residual Boomerbux scooped from dwindling 401(k)s by provoking smug satisfaction (the graying cohort’s summum bonum), as though they didn’t literally and figuratively beget this country’s worst generational joke.
I almost can’t believe that I haven’t yet seen footage of a fat Trekkie reciting Kirk’s eulogy for Spock (from Wrath of Khan‘s conclusion) at the funeral of a friend, parent or other relative, perhaps as a segment in a cringe compilation.
That I haven’t located it means nothing.
For all I know, Shane Carruth’s and Amy Seimetz’s recriminations are just tendentiously selective portions of the same story. Peradventure The Auteur really did flip his wig and throttle his quondam leading lady after discovering that she was cheating on him, and maybe all of his evidently insane emails and DMs to her are no worse than whatever she may have transmitted to him, other than that famous, unspecified STD.
My own conjecture is that Seimetz, eventually weary of her annual drudgery that entailed performances in two to ten features and series of limited distribution for emolument that barely paid her rent, advanced her career by bedding influential men during her engagement to Carruth. Either before or after she infected him with an venereal disease that she contracted in the course of her infidelity, maybe he berated her, slapped her around, even strangled her as she’s alleged. His deranged correspondence doesn’t indicate whether his abuse was provoked on multiple occasions by possible repeated assignations, or if it was ever even physical. However, this may be entirely wrong; however unlikely, one or both of them are in this scenario villains or liars.
Naturally, those few notables based in Hollywood (amusingly termed “the film community” by the commentariat) who’ve bespoken her allegations are predictably, prejudicially united in support of Seimetz, now a famous actress and directress after transitioning successfully from a prolific career in independent pictures to mainstream visibility during the past eight years. Carruth’s retired, a genuine independent and male, so he won’t be afforded any benefit of anyone’s doubt. Ever conformable, numerous baizuo who profess themselves “former fans” have also turned on him like Greek waiters without considering his (erratically related) account. This bias is readily evident in the forced outrage tweeted in response to his facetious, peripheral, photographic divulgence of her restraining order:
Probably somewhere. My good friend from high school sent me this today. I didn't have a copy myself. pic.twitter.com/GqlGQt4BBJ
— Upstream Color (@UpstreamColor) July 10, 2020
That no such furor was inflamed by his claim that she’s paid an agent to messily disseminate these in his neighborhood once again demonstrates the simple hypocrisy that defines the progressive ethos. They must #believeher; no other options exist.
Withal, a sensible man would’ve controverted Seimetz’s accusations by publishing a detailed disaffirmation, or photos that he claims image wounds she inflicted on him, rather than arguing with pissant nonentities on Twitter. The Auteur is not that man.
Anyone who’s seen Primer or Upstream Color knows that Carruth’s a multidisciplinary genius, and whoever’s read more than a few posts of his Twitter account is familiar with his mordancy, faunal preoccupations and profoundly autistic incapacity for perspicuity. Shane’s communicative opacity is often almost cryptic.
My abhorrence for Twitter is so ardent that I won’t even deign to register a trolling account there, but if I did, its username would be ShaveCarruth. Why should we shave him? Because (as declared in the account’s profile), he’s barbate ‘n’ crazed!!
Obviously, there’s only one rational application for such an account: to make the online life of Amy Seimetz’s personal assistant a living hell by tweeting and retweeting Carruth’s countercharges, parodies of his psychotic, veiled death threats, and video clips of numerous scenes in which Seimetz’s characters have been tortured and murdered to her account, which said subaltern is authorized to operate.
@amy_seimetz No way you’re living without me. Remember what you said. Maybe vice versa. At least our lives aren’t dull.
@amy_seimetz One of us has photos. The other doesn’t. Think about that.
@amy_seimetz Watched this tonight. Saw it years ago. Remember? It makes way more sense to me now. That third act is hilarious, and has a few great ideas. @Simon_Barrett @ajbowen @joeswanberg
@amy_seimetz I emptied half a bottle of Stoli tonight. Jealous? Maybe you can lie as well in AA as you do to everyone else.
@amy_seimetz You should sprint more often. You know, when you’re not falling down drunk and blaming the bruises on me. Maybe life should imitate art. @Simon_Barrett @joeswanberg @Ti_West @ajbowen
Replying to @amy_seimetz and @foxesinfiction
You’re finished. You just don’t know it yet because you’re in league with the devils of Loudun, you cunt whore.
@amy_seimetz Don’t think I don’t know where you live now. @applebees down the block from you is serving Irresist-A-Bowls. Pretty long drive, so I needed one.
@amy_seimetz No way you’re invited to the reunion screening after that last court call. You’re fucking crazy. @drafthouse
Replying to @amy_seimetz
Cops can’t respond to every single fake call, especially now that their operators know the sound of your voice. I’m in your driveway. Cut the shit and come out.
Replying to @ALM_means_BLM and @foxesinfiction
Can not believe. Just shot myself in the leg, right here in my car. In Amy’s driveway. Relax. Just a BB. Can’t find it yet.
Replying to @ALM_means_BLM @foxesinfiction and 2 others
It’s probably in my sock. Doesn’t matter. I can wait out here all night.
Replying to @darqfybre
At least I’m doing something with my life, brah. Never mind. Want to get a bite tomorrow? I’m buying. Or you are. Whatever.
Wow. Kind of can’t believe that the cops came.
Replying to @When_in_Rome
She looked and sounded like a psycho, right there in front of the house. Blotto and screaming. Now the cops have a glimpse of what I lived with.
Replying to @orlandocinephile @DanBilzerian and 3 others
No charges filed. Weird, though. You’ll have to drive further than me to show me “what you can do,” Orlando.
Replying to @orlandocinephile @darqfybre and 24 others
Never happened. None of it did in the first place. Whatever. Maybe you can sit in on the next court call.
@amy_seimetz Of course you haven’t blocked me. You can’t.
Replying to @ZingularDay and 13 others
Maybe when she stops littering dockets with bullshit ROs.
You get the idea. Of course, the secondary function is to encourage Carruth to Shave:
@harrys Actually looking forward to shaving every few days. Not bad.
Replying to @masterofdisgust @ZingularDay and 6 others
I love to shave. Every day. Almost as good as new pets that just wander in.
If this were successful, Shane would shear those whiskers regularly, and we’d all enjoy that sweet, fresh-faced boy we knew and loved!
Also, I might somehow convince him to surcease this footling dissipation of his time on adolescent tiffs with losers via social media (like every fifth anglophone under 50), and finally shoot A Topiary. Grow up and follow your calling, Shane.
A punk band acronymously denominated KMMK (Kellie Martin’s Muddy Kunt) performs weekly for hundreds of fervently adoring, shirtless fans. A B&W printout measuring 7’x7′ of Kellie Martin’s face (see below) is suspended on a metal frame during each set’s first fifteen minutes, then savagely socked, shredded, and thrown to the audience by the band’s frontman at the climax of their hit single, Punchr Fukn Fasin.
Shreds of each show’s printout retained by members of the audience who didn’t flee while doused with excrement egested by the band between sets will be signed by them in exchange for fellatio afterward.
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.