I had a dream about my uncle – he was the type to ask if my shit smelled better because I became a vegetarian. At Thanksgiving in the early 00's, he confronted me in his plaid, a beer resting against his belly.
When I moved to the east coast from the central time zone, it took awhile for me to accept that 10pm was prime time. The news was on at 10pm in Minnesota: 11pm is so late. You have to stay up until 11:30 to watch Letterman or The Daily Show? I remember my head nodding.
Chungking Express worked for me. Fallen Angels doesn't. The latter started as a segment in the former, but maybe the two stories in the former were enough for Wong Kar-Wai to riff on Godard. Obviously not; he made another movie. It's the night time companion to the daytime dreaming. There
With no commute I'd have time for writing, for reading. There were essays I'd planned: drafts existing in the dust-bin of the ideal internet hosting solution for nobody's witness. Eugene asks who the audience is, appealing to a narcissism about writing that must exist. Why do it, otherwise?
Is it okay for a film to ask a question and not have an answer? A stupid question, I know.
It's a funny feeling to be out of step with pop culture. I like a lot of things that are poppy. But when it happens in an egregious fashion, it gives me perspective on my taste. And the last time I recall being suckered in to to something I should
I love this movie -- It's so scary. Why? I do not know if I am prepared to answer that question. Mainly concerned with much of the same themes some of my short stories are: how does illness transform and affect generations? Does it? Assuming it does, how are we