Galling...
Check out the second email header... Amazed that he can type in the cramped confines of his coffin, dead, in Hell, blowing Cal Jammer while simultaneously being blown by Shauna Grant, but legend has a tendency of animating more than desiccated flesh. (Not to mention the question of infernal wireless connectivity.)
I suspect Merle's hand, of course. Все хорошо...
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Actually attended a noise show last night in Tallahassee. "Woeful" doesn't quite describe the vibe (the festivities took place within the bleak confines of a darkened mom and pop gyro joint at the ass-end of a squashed strip mall which perched, forlornly, on a concrete terrace adjacent to a McDonalds!), but discontents were balanced by one luminous shard of parking lot vérité. (And a manic, ameliorative performance at 11:30 by Atlanta's Black Meat, very much in the vein of Evil Moisture, sans late-90s costuming and Andy Bolus' relevatory violations of circuitry...)
Drunken FSU co-eds and their stolid identi-dates paraded through the shop's asphalt overhang on their way to and from a disco bolted into the restaurant's bowel. Suffice it to note that each was appreciably more attractive than the 17 Pepsi swilling Taint completists huddled within the falafel emporium. (Well, one of the four chicks in attendance wasn't too noisome, and one-half of Black Meat is vegan, but most had obviously been connected to beef tallow life support for decades.) Stereotypes held fast, and hours crawled, collapsed and expired.
While a black-garbed, Caucasian nerdnik sputtered proscribed narratives inside, two white-clad African-American panhandlers got into a brief, bitter argument outside. The divide between inert figuration and despair seemed, at that torpid moment, without limit. At least Lucas Abela eats glass...
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Bought the newly-issued Apocalypse Now: The Complete Dossier DVD... Watching the second disc now. Lovely. The deleted scene illuminating the relationship between Colby (Scott Glenn, little more than a cipher in the original 1979 version) and the Photojournalist (Dennis Hopper, of course) is especially warped.
TS
I suspect Merle's hand, of course. Все хорошо...
---
Actually attended a noise show last night in Tallahassee. "Woeful" doesn't quite describe the vibe (the festivities took place within the bleak confines of a darkened mom and pop gyro joint at the ass-end of a squashed strip mall which perched, forlornly, on a concrete terrace adjacent to a McDonalds!), but discontents were balanced by one luminous shard of parking lot vérité. (And a manic, ameliorative performance at 11:30 by Atlanta's Black Meat, very much in the vein of Evil Moisture, sans late-90s costuming and Andy Bolus' relevatory violations of circuitry...)
Drunken FSU co-eds and their stolid identi-dates paraded through the shop's asphalt overhang on their way to and from a disco bolted into the restaurant's bowel. Suffice it to note that each was appreciably more attractive than the 17 Pepsi swilling Taint completists huddled within the falafel emporium. (Well, one of the four chicks in attendance wasn't too noisome, and one-half of Black Meat is vegan, but most had obviously been connected to beef tallow life support for decades.) Stereotypes held fast, and hours crawled, collapsed and expired.
While a black-garbed, Caucasian nerdnik sputtered proscribed narratives inside, two white-clad African-American panhandlers got into a brief, bitter argument outside. The divide between inert figuration and despair seemed, at that torpid moment, without limit. At least Lucas Abela eats glass...
--
Bought the newly-issued Apocalypse Now: The Complete Dossier DVD... Watching the second disc now. Lovely. The deleted scene illuminating the relationship between Colby (Scott Glenn, little more than a cipher in the original 1979 version) and the Photojournalist (Dennis Hopper, of course) is especially warped.
TS
Comments
hearts,
~pamela
So, to re-cap, two un-fugly broads, three pretty scary ones, and a shitload o' male trolls, a handful of whom weren't lard-asses. Accuracy is everything.
Yours in Hideousness,
Tom