Tuesday, September 26, 2017

About Norway by ThuleanPerspective

Writing is hard. But it’s the only valid art form. You get better when you get old. Not like the movies – $10 million in cameras; herd a bunch of weird pretty cretins around while the light fails and you lose your shot. As Mamet says, lovingly swabbing down the warty helmet of MasterCard Multinational Financial Services Corporation with his greedy old tongue, in an ad that Facebook knows to autoplay every god damn time I log in to see who’s in love, having kids, successful – AKA not me – as the esteemed dramaturge intones in his Principal McVicker voice, in the ad Facebook knows to play because I’m a “writer”: more gold… need… more… reptilian gold...

Wait – that’s not a MasterCard ad. Sorry David. What he says is: I brought my pencil. Gimme somethin’ to write on, man. He’s right.

The good news is you don’t need anything. Just decades of unsparing agony that feel like millennia. The bad news: it’s the least valued skill in the world. Whatever was left, sucked out by white people paying black people 1/100th of a cent a word to make other white people feel bad. Sponsored by MasterCard. There are no good living American writers. Someone should remedy this. I’m trying but I also have a real job.

Other good news: Gogol and fucking Catullus still sound like they have a microphone in your head. Hundreds, thousands of years later. Across half the planet. The comedians around them may have had better lives. The musicians, the actors, such as… such as… exactly. Say what you will about David Foster Wallace. He’s dead but the motherfucker’s still with us. Cuffing his own hands so he won’t yank off the noose. It’s those clever details you remember. – Delicious Tacos

Saturday, September 23, 2017

Heavy Love Affair by Marvin Gaye & John Morales

Seeing a passion project through to the end. Excelling at a personal pursuit. Mastering a hobby or skill. Closing a big deal. Earning accolades from respected peers. And, yes, seducing and fucking a cute girl on the same night you meet her. These are a few of every man’s favorite things. The world-bestriding emotions each induces in a man are incomparable. In sone ways, these feelings are better than sex because they are longer-lasting, nourishing soul as well as ego and gonads.

But the greatest feeling of them all is something that only men can experience without regret or an asterisk. You bang a girl to a dizzying state of euphoria and full body exhaustion throughout the night and then again in the morning, delivering a limb-wrapped flaparoscopy so thoroughly destructive of bounds of propriety that you lose sense of where your body ends and hers begins, and you pause just long enough for breakfast before resuming a time-lapsed reenactment of every Discovery Channel rutting caught on film. Her body is a plunderland and you’ve just left her gash ashes to scatter to the winds. She can barely muster the strength to sit up for the goodbye kiss as a long smooth leg flops languidly over the side of the bed. Admiring your ransacked treasure one more time, you grin the grin of champions and strut out her door into the painfully bright sunshine.

Outside, you feel the warm sun reflecting off the sweat and juices that have adhered to every pore. You walk with a sluggish lope, as if in slo-mo, legs more akimbo than usual because a pleasant throbbing ache pulses through your crotch and demands room to breathe and heal. Happily, you acquiesce and every step seems like you are following along on a leash attached to your rolling rollicking reverberating balls. You are a Viking Berserker, carving a swath through the world with your two-handed broadcock.

Every girl you pass on your short journey home you greet with a devious smile and perhaps a finger gun and wink. They can’t help themselves as your conqueror’s testosterone wafts like VajslayerX nerve gas and stiffens their drop-mouthed gaze in your direction. One girl at a cafe table conspicuously uncrosses her legs at the moment you glide menacingly, tail up, through the savannah grass of her placid urbanite existence. Breathe deep the masculine fumes, watch shiny babes splooge their looms.

This is the greatest feeling in the world for a man, to ride in on a storm surge of your validated sexual energy and crest with froth and fury over the mundane lives of women. They can smell it on you and see it coming a block away, and you feel it, and it feels good man, for you know in that moment you could have any one of those girls if you chose to grace them with your attention.

There is no walk of shame for men like there is for women. There is only the Walk of Triumph. – Heartiste

Friday, September 22, 2017

The Explosion of Bullshit Jobs

“I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it calls itself my home, my fatherland, or my church. I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defense the only arms I allow myself to use: silence, exile, and cunning.” ― James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Monday, September 18, 2017

Jordan Peterson on Attraction

Friday, September 15, 2017

Generation Kill: Don't Desecrate Your Mask

Inigo Montoya: You are wonderful.
Man in Black: Thank you; I've worked hard to become so.
Inigo Montoya: I admit it, you are better than I am.
Man in Black: Then why are you smiling?
Inigo Montoya: Because I know something you don't know.
Man in Black: And what is that?
Inigo Montoya: I am not left-handed.
[switches sword to his other hand]
Man in Black: You are amazing.
Inigo Montoya: I ought to be, after 20 years.
Man in Black: Oh, there's something I ought to tell you.
Inigo Montoya: Tell me.
Man in Black: I'm not left-handed either.
[switches his own sword to his other hand]
– The Princess Bride (1987)

Thursday, September 7, 2017

Nixon by Oliver Stone

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

Tommy Chong's Superbowl Ad

So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart. Trouble no one about their religion; respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people. Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide. Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and grovel to none. When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living.

If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself. Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools and robs the spirit of its vision. When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home. – Tecumseh