mars & venus
dunno whether i cannot relate to Donna Tartts male narrators because im too dim to appreciate some literary strategy or because im just too fucking male. the fun irony is ive read no other writer who better describes women i have immediate and forever crushes on.
3:29 pm • 31 August 2014
“You can’t stamp on a man’s corns when he’s got his feet cut off.”
— the killer inside me, jim thompson
11:23 am • 30 June 2014
any chance for me to suspend disbelief was shot to shit when our hero with his Perfectly Sculpted Three Day Scruff (and dopey indeterminate accent) looked more like a stripper in a cop costume than a cop on a three-year bender. i love the premise of a series based on intense melancholy but Perfectly Sculpted Three Day Scruff drives me fucking nuts; that shit works for abc, it should not work for a drama serieux.
10:54 am • 30 June 2014
sparkys gathering dust
when that girl was shot in the back of the head on The Walking Dead i asked out loud whether she was the first child killed in cold blood on primetime tv. no one knew but everyone said she had to die because she murdered her sister and she was crazy and that was that. no one mentioned humans are as capable as any zombie of barbarism; the difference being of course we do so with a free and rational fucking mind. i thought of this as i read about the State of Georgia executing a man last night: “None of the media witnesses reported seeing anything unusual, other than a guard fainting.”
9:47 am • 18 June 2014
there is melancholy in David Gordon Greens silliest stuff, but it is in his more serious movies of course where the melancholy is most profound. someone somewhere coined the term New Mannerists to describe Sophia Coppola and Wes Anderson, directors who evoke melancholy through small, precise and very real moments. Green was not mentioned. an oversight. he is, to me, as affecting, if not more so, because his movies are the most insecurely male.
3:03 pm • 9 June 2014
“The only words I’ve said today are beer and thank you”
— bill callahan, the sing
11:52 am • 5 June 2014 • 1 note
there were no cool older kids to serve as cultural guides, i was a typical eldest sibling autodidact, so i aint ever a snob over lapses in knowledge, especially since i seem to learn about Some Seminal Shit once a fucking week, but when im sitting in a pristine new bar in Greenpoint across the street from where i once lived and the only other patron asks the owner/bartender whether hes heard the “reggae cover” of Police & Thieves and the owner/bartender says he didnt know there was another version i come to the somewhat surprising realization that i had just bought drinks in a Fudruckers
10:30 am • 21 May 2014
ive been so taken with Fargo i spent the last 30 minutes walking up and down 34th street hoping some barker would ask something like Do you want to go to the top of the Empire State Building just so i can say Do I look like I want to go to the top of the Empire State Building? anyway, no one did, so i went into Staples and bought the kids pencil sharpeners.
2:44 pm • 15 May 2014 • 1 note
“One night you played a track you’d made for me. An ice cream truck overlaid with the sound of gulls at Coney Island and the Wonder Wheel spinning.”
— jenny offill, dept. of speculation
3:33 pm • 14 May 2014
Dons “niece,” that house, Megan as Sharon Tate; the Manson vibe was a scythe-swinging motherfucker last night.
10:46 am • 12 May 2014 • 1 note
“I find the sun has a forlorn truth before noon”
— cormac mccarthy
10:55 am • 1 April 2014 • 3 notes
“It used to be a perfectly ordinary day but now it sticks up on the calendar like a rusty nail.”
— donna tartt, the goldfinch
10:10 am • 7 March 2014