As of this writing, Cronenburg’s A History of Violence looks to be a both an accessible and artistic triumph for the writer/director, and in tribute/anticipation of its viewing, I give you a capsular blow-by-blow of the degree and style of violence featured in each of Cronenburg’s early films. I love the early stuff, from Shivers on through The Dead Zone, love Dead Ringers, indifferent about The Fly remake, don’t ever need to see Naked Lunch (
Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men
Twice, in public, “others” (as we’ll call them) pointed at this book (as I ate with it for a week or so) and said, “I heard that’s not so good, not like the early stuff, it’s supposed to be crime fiction….” This logic, which usually comes from the hot, flapping maws of English Lit grads, is flawed, old, stupid, and on par with this statement: (Proudly stated) “I don’t own a TV.”
TV and worthy Modern Crime Fiction are both good for you. Great for you. Tell me otherwise, and after I use choice and funny words to put you in your (small, and small-minded) place, I will hog tie you with lamp cord, pepper spray your lie-spewing mouth, and make you eat the contents of a tackle box at gun point.
I finished and enjoyed that book. It’s great, actually. Violent, dead end noir from the first five pages on. Really violent, and I don’t normally stomach violence with ease. Best motel sequences of any recent read.
Oh, J.T. Leroy and anyone that enjoys his writing can GO GET FUCKED! His forced, affected dialectical abominations are defiling an area of the country in which I live and love. Plus, he’s not even real. As I previously exposed, SCOOPED, he is really the pen name of a middle-aged lesbian. Please spread that rumor. And his writing is not real criticism. Unwavering garbage.
I finished The Swimmer, the 1968 commercial failure starring Burt Lancaster as, well, you’ll just have to rent this wonderful oddity. Burt wears only a pair of tight swimming trunks throughout the entire movie. Interesting early jab at surburbia. Much more engaging than anything Todd Solondz, John Waters, or whatever pretentious assbasket directed American Beauty (looking him up on IMDB is not worth the energy). You must rent The Swimmer. NOW!
Making sure that I hadn’t used a particular “funny phrase” somewhere, another funny phrase, namely “Andrew Earles,” was just googled. THIS WAS THE FOURTH RESULT. Don’t believe me? Try it. I’m not sure exactly why, at this juncture….
Here’s a one-minute preview transcription of “Loder’s Run” – a prank call that will appear on Just Farr Another Laugh: More of the Greatest Prank Calls Ever.
Yes, hello, it’s Kurt Loder from MTV News.Who am I talking to?
This is Joan ______.
Hey Joan, how’re you doing?
I’ve invented a new reality show called “Loder’s Run: The Quickening.” It was conceived of back stage at last year’s Lilith Fair. We’re looking for a, uh, either a laser tag center or a bowling alley in the New York area. Let me just tell you the concept of this game show, to see if you’re interested, ok?
Basically, we have two teams, alright? The first is led by my son Sirroco, which means “desert wind,” also on that team is Ron Reagan Jr., his lover, and their adopted son. To fill out the six man team, are two women, we call ‘em the “banger sisters”….ha ha….
….and that’s Michelle Shocked and Elaine Boosler. Ok, that’s the first team, which is called “Scorched Earth Policy.” They’re competing against another team called “The Day After.” That team consists of the Beaver Brown Band without John Cafferty, but in his place is Dave Pirner of Soul Asylum.
THE INSANITY GROWS!! YOU’LL JUST HAVE TO WAIT AND SEE (HEAR).
I’m guessing that on Sunday, and I’m guessing that somewhere in my apartment, I was bitten by a Brown Recluse on the heel of my right foot. For two days, things began mild enough. I wore shoes, I walked in slight pain, I believed that whatever this was, it would pass. I had recently allowed a new pair of shoes to tear my feet apart, and incorrectly assumed that the trouble spot was an infected blister. The blister had healed two weeks ago, leaving a rough area. When, on Monday morning, the rough area had calloused and started to swell, I was very confused. By Tuesday night, I was limping, unable to wear any shoe, and the pain was beginning to reach an excruciating level…even as I sat or lay down. Not realizing that the first stage of a Recluse bite is hardening/callusing, I went to have the “infection” lanced or drained at a local clinic known as The Church Health Center. This establishment provides general medical services to Memphis residents lacking health bennies. As such, the wait is long, the treatment sometimes questionable (keep reading), and the environment is consistent with the discomfort experienced at any chain-operated, urban doc-in-a-box. The doctor or doctor-in-training that examined my foot found no signs of infection, and did not identify the sore as a spider bite. She nonetheless gave me a free round of antibiotics “in case an infection occurs.” The next night (Thursday), the swelling had increased so that it looked as though there was something about the size of a B-cup underneath my skin, and the pain was brutal. The bite itself was not draining, but would do so if I prodded close by or contorted my foot in different positions. I simply freaked out. The vein areas leading up my leg, right above my ankle, were sore to the touch, and this is a sign of minor blood problems, such as what occurs if you poison yourself by scratching too many mosquito bites. Fearing the worst, I went to the ER. The nurse that checked me in, taking my blood pressure and temp, said, “Yep, that’s a bite.” I took two Lortabs and waited for five hours until, with four parties still in ahead of me, I left at two in the morning. I planned to revisit the Church Health Center at 7:30AM. A few hours of sleep was essential…I had not been sleeping. Plus, upon climbing onto a bed in the ER, I was potentially signing up for a massive hospital bill. I am currently working odd jobs while once again trying to make this writing thing happen (in some context). That bill would have been issued a go-fuck-yourself-until-further-notice treatment. I awoke at 8AM to a decrease in the pain and swelling. I could walk, sort of. What this means is that the original round of antibiotics had finally kicked in. Friday, I slept a lot, did a little writing, and my foot produced A LOT of cottage cheese. The flesh around the bite has died into a dime-sized, white and black crater that continues to void itself of nastiness. At the apex, I rank the pain as some of the worst, right behind broken ribs. This can be attributed to the bite’s location, an active area – one has to try and get around. It was a mental and physical hassle that, at one point, approached a minor breakdown, probably because it hindered everything that I was trying to accomplish over a two-day period. Avoid this situation.