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Films Seen in 2013 Round-Up: #125-130

lexdexter:

top 10. for life.

Originally posted on Cinema Enthusiast:

Friends of Eddie Coyle
#125. The Friends of Eddie Coyle (1973, Yates)

Relentlessly melancholic film where chess pieces are moved through quiet back-dealings and dialogue exchanges infused with ever-maneuvering fatalism. Peter Yates’ camera gets deep into the grubby everydayness parts of Boston and its surrounding towns. Having lived in Boston during graduate school, seeing and recognizing the location work here was a high point. The camera acts as eavesdropper, always cautiously close to the proceedings. We see all relevant players and how they connect to each other and we’re never given a true access point. Because of this the film took a while to get into. But as it progressed, I found myself engaged. Robert Mitchum does some of his best work but my personal favorite was Steven Keats as gunrunner Jackie Brown (obviously Tarantino is a fan), with his neon green ride and considerable street instinct.

The Driver
#126. The Driver (1978, Hill)

Walter Hill…

View original 1,867 more words

207 Bond Noms

Please!!!!! Please? What do you like/dislike/wanna veto? Be BROOTAL JUICE. BE BROOTAL TRUTH.

1    Nite Vibe

2    Bad Spills
    3    Sequin Twins
    4    New Tints
    5    Loose Grease
    6    Loose Teeth
    7    Loose Dirt
    8    Loose Blood
    9    Gloves
    10    Easy Free
    11    Pastor Pastel
    12    Muddy Chives
    13    Red Gas
    14    Wet Gas
    15    Spilled Silt
    16    Breeze and Brush
    17    Proud Glad
    18    Wet Lettuce
    19    Oaths
    20    Wet Bags
    21    Bad Booth
    22    Brown Bubbles
    23    New Brine
    24    Church Brine
    25    Red Lobby
    26    Red Wedge
    27    Brunette Pen
    28    Bland Pen
    29    Blonde Pen
    30    Brunette Pen
    31    Birth Death Pen
    32    End Pen
    33    Burst Grease
    34    Tinted Lobby
    35    Red Median
    36    Church Red
    37    Median Mode
    38    Red Crest
    39    Red Booth
    40    Medium Booth
    41    Boat Brush
    42    Bent Pen
    43    Bent Breeze
    44    Fountain Bend
    45    Fountain Band
    46    Red Code
    47    Sequin Series
    48    Burst Church
    49    Bent Church
    50    Tinted Church
    51    Church Pen
    52    Kneeler
    53    Church Gloves
    54    Slit Screen
    55    Scream Slit
    56    Slit Church
    57    Slit Bags
    58    Bent Slits
    59    Split Crest
    60    Medium Mode
    61    Church Mode
    62    Shady Red
    63    Dented Mode
    64    Tinted Bed
    65    Tinted Bet
    66    Old Stilts
    67    Marina Mode
    68    Breeze Bag
    69    Breeze Bags
    70    Marina Breeze
    71    Tinted Foam
    72    Red Phones
    73    Foam Phone
    74    Phone Mode
    75    Tinted Dented
    76    Dented Tinted
    77    Dented Slit
    78    Rinsed Cans
    79    Bag of Cans
    80    Wet Cans
    81    Marina Cans
    82    Booth Cans
    83    Nite Cans
    84    Placeholder Boats
    85    Fresh Tines
    86    Dented Cans
    87    Men’s Studies
    88    Men’s Studies Group
    89    Fenced Cans
    90    Dented Fenced
    91    Fountain Fence
    92    Church Fence
    93    Lattice Fence
    94    Tinted Fence
    95    Panic Fence
    96    Fence Rinse
    97    Burst Fence
    98    Loose Fence
    99    Fence Risk
    100    Slat Wash
    101    Church Slats
    102    Chuch Slits
    103    Slit Slats
    104    Slats
    105    Wet Slats
    106    Fountain Slats
    107    Tinted Slats
    108    Taunted Slats
    109    Tainted Slates
    110    Risky Slats
    111    Brunette Slats
    112    Sib Rise
    113    Sin Men
    114    Slit Splits
    115    Red Wash
    116    Breeze Wah
    117    Foam Wash
    118    Brine Wash
    119    Phone Rinse
    120    Red Rinse
    121    Loose Ritz
    122    Red Ritz
    123    Medium Ritz
    124    Medium Foam
    125    Glass Rinse
    126    Night Rinse
    127    Dusk Rinse
    128    Musk Rinse
    129    Slit Rash
    130    Slit Salt
    131    Silt Rash
    132    Risk Rash
    133    Marina Risk
    134    Boat Wash
    135    Risk Watch
    136    Panic Breeze
    137    Panic Risk
    138    Foam Panic
    139    Slit Risk
    140    Risk Slit
    141    Sin Risk
    142    Fist Slit
    143    Bent Risk
    144    Risk Church
    145    Dusk Risk
    146    Panic Foam
    147    Tinted Bran
    148    Bent Bran
    149    Dim Mode
    150    Risk Wash
    151    Panic Wash
    152    Rash Wash
    153    Lesion Legion
    154    Slit League
    155    Risk Legion
    156    Risk League
    157    Panic League
    158    Medium Legion
    159    Wash Squad
    160    Lattice League
    161    Silt Stage
    162    Green-Grey Risk
    163    Dice Risk
    164    Sunset List
    165    Sunset Wash
    166    Sunset Crest
    167    Nite Risk
    168    Moonliit Risk
    169    Lite Wish
    170    Light Wish
    171    Slit Mist
    172    Lite Wash
    173    Red Wish
    174    Aqua Panic
    175    Aqua Risk
    176    Mystery Risk
    177    Mist Rinse
    178    Fizz Fence
    179    Fizz Crest
    180    Bent Fizz
    181    Fizz Muck
    182    Muck Mist
    183    Silt Crest
    184    Fizz Wash
    185    Muck Crest
    186    Fizz Watch
    187    Mist Fence
    188    Missed Fence
    189    Burst Fizz
    190    Burnt Fizz
    191    Dirty Fizz
    192    Icky Derby
    193    Loose Derby
    194    Fizz League
    195    Missed Risk
    196    Tinted Fizz
    197    Fizz Tints
    198    Fence Tent
    199    Fizz Tent
    200    Missed Tense
    201    Wash Tense
    202    Medium Tense
    203    Bent Tense
    204    Burst Tense
    205    Aqua Tense
    206    Sequined Fizz
    207    Sequined Silt

In my case it has proven to be true that the only way out of a Major Depressive Episode (sic) is through a wind tunnel of panic and anxiety.  Cognitive Behavioralists tell us that acute anxiety is best confronted through immersion, which means, ironically, that one must un-ironically endure increasing, intentional confrontations with whatever’s making one go whatever over blah-blah-blah because of fuck-all. Everyday. No breaks for Pat Travers Band shows, even!

 

What does this mean for tumblr? Not even a sucked orange’s weight in aquarium gravel.

 

But it means that the truism “things will get worse before they get better” is worsening in direct proportion to bullishness about expectations and results.  Turner has reassembled his guitar and hired on with a wage-paying shame-station.  But busying one’s idle hands can actually unleash suicidal ideas if you are “far enough gone” that reintroducing oneself to scary everyday things doesn’t scare one “straight.” (That’s right, Satan: if you need something done, ask a busy person!) 

 

At the very least, all the hard-earned “structure” cements nothing so much as certainty that one will end the day running away, assured of a looming expiration agreed upon backstage but unknown to our protagonist.   One thinks of that old gun show mantra, “Sniper: You Can Run, But You’ll Only Die Tired.”

 

Tired, yes.  Tired of sleeping resembling a mugging. Terrified by the absence of comfort, oblivion, negativity and nothingness.  Getting better. One hand clapping a mesh hand.

 

We are old enough to know better.   But tomorrow even drowning could seem boring and disappointing, do you know?  Or maybe the coercive immersion arc’s back will break and we’ll buy somebody’s baby a fucking ice cream cone and surf saltines on the fucking volvo nintendo. 

Turner was voted “Replicant Least Likely To Succeed” by area Future Business Leaders and was sold for scrap by the Mondale campaign. 

Nobody knows how he knew about Tumblr.  When he mentioned it in conversation nobody knew what he was saying or thought much about it.  A lot of chaps were taking tumbling classes back then, if you know what I mean. I don’t know.

The Comeback Bid

I got like 3 compliments yesterday: my friend said I asked a good question, my wife said I asked a good question, and my friend was impressed by my having a certain lp. 

I cannot remember which record or what questions, but I am reminded of this parable from the book of GG:

Disciple: Hey GG, why are you squirting fecal semen on your penis?

GG:  It’s easy to turkey-baste semen on your penes when you know you’re never gonna get laid. [GG then maced the inquisitor, legend has it.]

Dynasty-Dynasty-TV-series-007.jpg (JPEG Image, 581 × 390 pixels)

(source)  Linda Evans is 70 today!  How old are you, now? What a spectrum of styles of looking at the camera.  They are both “in character”-seeming but also “revealing”-seeming.  You suspend disbelief and and recuse yourself to a world lived “as if.”  You subject yourself to gazing and when your subjects (don’t) gaze back it hits you like sunlight kabooming down on a migraine.

Details Make Things Elegant

Elegant disappointment: by the time we landed, checked in, farted around and made the requisite bad decisions of bad mood-ed travelers taken up in uncharacteristic sniping… we made it to the venue and Codeine was five songs in already.

Worst disappointment of my rock-life ever, only one other (unmentionable amidst this self-hate-heat and death-fire) even comes close. I was blown away by three sublime cuts (‘Loss Leader’ was unreal) before my new-found temper slithered up my spine and out my nostrils just to spit-piss in my fucking face. All. My. Fault.

Good three songs.  They were great.  I keep thinking, “it’s good the Numero Codeine Box is still sealed.”  I can sell it! But it was a gift, really.  But I want to take Codeine away from me. I had a plane ticket to an airport 30 minutes from the venue, and 3 hours later they started playing while I whatever-the-fucked. 

In my life and in capitalist society the details that matter most and burn you most consistently are money matters.  Agents and institutions will mock and moralize when you drop this or that cash-ball, and it only gets worse from there (i.e., jail or bankruptcy or poverty or insecurity.)  However, if you’re mentally ill or disposed towards art, it’s the details of production, reproduction, distribution and reception that I invest with moral, libidinal and mortal weight.  I’ve told before how I can’t sing or write or think like I used to, how my extremities swell and I “lose time” to blank stares and cyclical hate monologues.  I remembered tonight, and I won’t forget or repress again, that I can’t carry the weight of my own wants.  I’m too sick to constitute a proper audience, too fragmented to practice deliberate appreciation. 

Next goes criticism.  My wonk and my wank have watched anthropology, politics, guitars and bands and exercise and intimacy get intruded upon and carried away by fears, hatreds, self-fist-fucking and significantly the birth of an inner urge to bawl. Stifled, this drive demands attention in mostly childish or violent ways, both of which elicit laughs from intimates that make you think you know the sound of a miscarried could’ve-been’s skull.  [In a far more slapstick way, it reminds me of nothing so much as an hour spent sprinting through Dublin desperate for a toilet.]  Framing this story as funny or petty or nothing special to my in-laws in a couple of days is going to be like masturbating to post-Manson Sharon Tate pics.

I wanna throw my Codeine box in the street, or trade it in for exclusively far worse records.  Really I’m just glad to be carrying enough physical pain (in my back and my knee) that I can’t and won’t act out further.  It’s still the same old story: losers lose, and if they maintain enough composure to keep from blaming somebody else, they’ll at least succumb to forcing you into an autopsy of their failures large and small. 

All I did was miss a show tonight. All I do is fail myself, most days. All my friends, wife, family get in return is a drawn out binary code of silences and rants, gagging and mourning, which cannot help but push them towards the shelter of proportionality, humor, relativity and clarity that protects them and alienates me. Dis-embedded, diffuse and longing for earthy release among my remaining thoughts and the machine-gun judgments of others, I see how everyone gets to be alone together.  I see how it’s raining suggestions and expectations, but I can’t see the band from here. 

I can’t make distinctions that enliven signification and bind me safely away from certain Siren songs.  It makes me so angry that I force more failures.  This is one way among others to drop off and out the self-regard you require like you need a name.  When you’ve missed enough chances through accidents and incompetence, eventually you’ll die for more chances to spoil.  Eventually you’ll spoil yourself.  You’ll soil yourself, resting assured of future errors ahead: favorite art flying faster and further away.  You can buy a fucking ticket but you won’t see the show.  You can buy the records but the platters won’t play.  You can make a trade and lose on the deal, and with the subsequent ignominy ingested you can call it a day. Maybe you can writhe all night, fail and groan away the day.  Hell, you flew all this way…

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