Drag Me to Hell
SPOILERS
Sam Raimi? What the hell do I know about this guy? I hear it’s funny.
From the first few minutes, I fall completely in love with Christine, partly because Alison Lohman is one of the most beautiful actresses I’ve ever seen (Marylin Monroe’s reanimated remains can suck a choad) and also because her character’s so well written and performed as a character ripped from my sweetest, dearest dreams. I nobody could predict just how tortured I’d be to see such a vision of perfection abused by a disgusting old woman, get tossed across rooms, get facially penetrated by flies, maggots, lace handkerchiefs, and dead forearms; after seeing such a wild amount of grief destroy her life, for making a simple human mistake, nothing I’d endured so far could prepare me for her death and damnation.
I did not find the experience funny. It was terrible and painful. I’ll probably think less of you and your moral judgement if you enjoyed watching this beautiful goddess of a human being suffer so much, in the slightest.
(Nothing personal, Miss Monroe.)

Wanted
SPOILERS (I GUESS)
The comic. I hated reading the comic. The first issue was cool, with interesting visuals and a character that most of its readers can relate to. An introduction to the idea of what a superhero world is like without superheroes was an interesting bit of literature. I can’t even finish the first few pages of issue two. The main character, with whom I used to relate, had become the most heartless piece of shit. What an asshole.
How could I watch a movie based on this comic that I can’t work up the nerve to start reading again?
The film. I loved watching the film. There’s an annoying introduction, explaining shit I’ll find out halfway through the motherfucker. It didn’t include the amazing death of the Eddie Blake parody character at the beginning, a disappointment. It featured despicable John Woo slow motion moments, but to a forgivable credit, for the outrageously entertaining gun battles. There are NO elements of supervillain mafia, which has no chance of proper translation in these days of film, though it looks very possible soon, for such an expansive audience after Watchmen and Iron Man. Lex Luthor is replaced with Morgan Freeman being everything I want Morgan Freeman to be. Angelina Jolie is attractive, to me, in the first time AND she plays a sympathetic character.
It’s a great film, all around, flaws and all, and it’s one of the few I deem worthy of personally owning. (I think you can imagine the size of this list if you know my taste in film.)

Taken
TRUST ME
Everything I expected. Cut out the first few minutes and the last few minutes, and you’ll have an onscreen adrenaline rush, but unfortunately with the cautious warning toward travelers I hold so dear will be ruined. Enough people will own it, and it’ll show on television enough for me to be able to watch without worrying about buying it. (I’m watching it right now.)

Miss LeScum has an interesting style that I dig. I suppose I’m not big enough to be seen as any sort of online art connoisseur, but I feel obligated to mention her. Check out her stuff; you can find her site, here.

HELP!
Lost the information sheets for the art history projects, miraculously, though it isn’t the favorable type of miracle, and I need to snatch some copies FAST!

On an easier, calmer note:

I, again, woke on the couch, with a dead right arm. No pain to speak of, so there was no need to flail and thrash around, again. Feeling’s back, and the disorientation was incredibly brief.
And last night, I dreamed. I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever enjoy a good dream again, and I did.
It must’ve been a long one, because I seem to recall maybe two events, and I remember having many perspectives of each one. You know, looking at it cinematically, one scene from one perspective, the next in another, back to the first in a whole new perspective, back to the second… it should take a long time to accomplish this sense of omniscience.

I played a couple of roles. Think I was a commercial actor and myself, when I wasn’t watching me from outside of my own head. While filming a commercial, I was damn sure that I knew exactly how it looked, like the cameras recording played the material in my head. I was with a girl, a beautiful, talented girl, smart and funny… yeah, you know, she was a composite of the various things I find attractive in women, most notably, her subtle behaviors and basic features may be modeled after someone I know in real life. Anyway, the two of us had to perform a conversation on camera, being ourselves, and work the product into it, somehow.
My recollection of these events may be incredibly off, but I’ve tried making sense of it all.
Before waking, I knew I’d wake up, and everything was blurring out, and I stayed focused on her for as long as I could, and she knew that I’d be leaving, because I could see how panicked she was about the world disappearing. Tried keeping me asleep by attempting to delay my departure from the astral form (“the astral form” being the best term to describe the embodiment, or lack thereof, when the mind leaves the body, in meditation, or in sleep) and it didn’t work.

I’ve got friends. Some are female.
There are many ways that the bodies and minds of humans can communicate, and I’ve had the luck to follow my gut and be glad I did.
Sometimes, my gut leaves me high-and-fucking-dry and in a panic, for me to scramble things together, and it becomes the biggest, ugliest mess since last week’s total fuck-up, until next week’s total fuck-up.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what I want.

Today, for absolutely no reason, I was in a relatively good mood. And in this relatively good mood, I took it upon myself to indulge my pleasant fantasies: the most pleasant of which is to have conversation with my dear friends, with nothing else worth doing but smile and know how great such a moment is. Things used to be that way so often, and now such moments are scarce and fleeting. She has a big smile, and I’ve got my big, dumb, ugly grin, and there’s no need to talk, and I wonder why she looks at me strangely sometimes, and I always hope that maybe she’s thinking the same way I am, and the moment lasts longer than the usual half-minute or so.
And the day’s been coated in very mild sugar, and that wonderful concrete texture I love so much is everywhere, and I haven’t even left the house since… like, Tuesday, man. It’s all groovy, dude. Just can’t wait to see that bright’n shiny smile of hers.

Diet’s been for shit, again, lately.

I’m really looking forward to getting a digital recorder, to document conversations and ideas and shit. Stellar stage-show visuals playing to Daft Punk. When I get into my usually entertaining conversations, it’ll be there, to listen back to. Might possibly put together the simplest format podcast online. I can’t post things like that on this site without paying for it, so I’ll find another way to do so, when the time calls for it.
Hell, I may never get my hands on something like that. I recall the traumatic events that my few-hundred-dollar camcorder followed, before being cast away, nay lost, to the fate it might find in my cluttered and violently hazardous bedroom.

Drinking diet cola’s made my piss feel like citric acid.

Fuck the typos.

EDIT
Yeah, 1:06AM, and mom’s laughing like a fucking idiot down the hallway. Tells me something: they’re gonna fuck, tonight. Goddamn it. Can’t they, like, rent a hotel? I fucking hate being able to hear them. This always takes away my desire to do anything. They sicken me.
And yeah, I know the difference between fucking and making love, and neither of my parents are in a physical condition adhering to the requirements to fuck, and they love each other, and all that shit, but it’s quite literally the ugliest image to put into my head, having seen a grand variety of porn, civilian casualty photographs, suicide videos, harlequin babies, and brutal facial scars, all by the loving graces of the internet. My parents fucking is the ugliest thing I can imagine. (That isn’t to say that I undermine other things that are far more grotesque, I’m just telling you how bad it is from my perspective, a common theme to blogs.) Trust me when I say that I know there are some pretty bad things out there, most of which I’ll never see, nor hear about. I speak with anger.

Dad got a new DVD player, added HD channels to the cable service, to go along with the new television monitor we’ve got, now, and I can finally read texts onscreen.

I love film. I love the stage, though I want to take a long break from it. After seeking help for a possible chemical imbalance, I hope to be a better friend to the people I care about.

Looking at the way I have been acting, I would hate myself, if I were not myself.

QUICK EDIT:

Do I really hate myself? I hate the sight of me, but I’m fascinated by my appearance. I detest my own company, but I never quarrel with myself, in a thobvious sense. Do I hurt myself out of spite, or do I plead for intervention? Do I really ever hurt myself, considering?
I’ve been told that I need to embrace my flaws. I don’t really like them, though I’m aware of a few, that I can name, if I’m not mistaken in their nature. I wish there were some solid reliability I could place in my emotions and opinions, though I know that they’re all my own, which isn’t the matter in question, anyway; isn’t there anything I can do without feeling remorse or regret?
If it is true that ‘to live is to suffer’, ‘all human suffering comes from the self’, and to live and experience human life is more than exposure to only negative or only positive events and feelings, then isn’t the logical conclusion for me to stoop wondering about these things and continue doing what I want to do?
That is assuming that I am already doing what I want to do, and that I know what I want, at all. I don’t know what I want.
That isn’t true. I want to eat, occasionally, drink what I fancy, watch what I please, acquire the time and space to read at my own leisure, while listening to music fitting my various tastes, face a bitter conversation with people I behold in disdain, spend as much time as possible in folly with friends whom I love more than myself, and criticize every hypocritical moment of my pathetic, joyous, uncomfortable life.
I want nothing to change, to be in a stand-still. To get the chance to turn my accused “best years of my life” into just as I’m told it should be.
Perhaps I am excited about the things to come out of fear of what I’ll lose. I must learn to depend on myself, soon, or everything I know about the disgusting state of humanity will go to waste, and the glorious ideas of art, tranquility and love will die with me, on every wet sidewalk that nobody ever thinks to walk down.
We are all connected, but our individuality, which unites us in a natural sense, separates us emotionally, and mentally, makes me feel alone, and that nobody cares. Nobody cares.
What is it; “to care”? “to love”? “to understand”?
Does everything have to come from selfishness?

We’re all selfish.

I shouldn’t be.

What makes you so special?

I’m not. Everybody else is. They get the privilege of helping hands and harsh experience. I’m always going to want what other people have. The praise that follows everyone I’ve ever known, and the love given in return for their mastery of art, in the various forms they have steered it. It’s not good enough to be “good”. I’m not good enough to be anything, am I?
I’m never good enough, for me, therefor the world.
Why is that?

I enjoy a good laugh, but nothing is funny when a piece of shit gets treated like a freshly cracked geode. Why can’t my father respect that I treat film as individually as he does? I’ll make fun of whatever I want. He’ll enjoy whatever. Everyone’s fine, yeah?

No. Let’s go apeshit. Any excuse to take out our frustrations on our son will do just fucking fine. You steal our lives, you make existence a struggle, you take and never return, you selfish little shit, and insulting overpaid talentless teenage hacks is the last goddamn straw.

In this world, is it so terrible take pleasure in disliking? Fuck you for being so self-centered. A film doesn’t magically get spit out of a god’s anus and land in DVD boxes, father. There is an art, and it is being insulted, scarred, perhaps even destroyed, by meaningless indulgences like the “Twilight” franchise, and I couldn’t possibly live with myself if I saw all of this happening with serious eyes.

Your points of view aren’t even your own. You listen to those people on the internet talk, and you want to think just like them.

That’s a joke. It has to be. I would not be so passionate to defend the ideas of other people, would I? It breaks my heart when I hear people slander Terry Gilliam, though I actually enjoyed few of his films. My world was turned upside-down when I learned it was possible for someone to dislike “West Side Story”. I didn’t think I’d wake up the next morning, it was so terrible. When I think about the viewing habits that I’d grown up with, I stop breathing, because I know that for so long, I’d denied myself the self-respect that comes along with appreciating what empassions me. Watching mediocre comedies and Disney movies never satisfied anything. I only laughed when I thought I was supposed to laugh.
Nothing can make me angrier than thinking of what an idiot I used to be, and how my parents encouraged this delusional frame of mind.
Supposedly, this is all a false point of view inspired by the words of respectable film critics. Fuck you, dad. You think you’ve ever had an original idea in your life? because I’m pretty damn sure you wouldn’t accuse me of anything that YOU have done with your own life, out of the fucking blue. Get a therapist, you asshole.

Some stress, some strange decisions, some exciting developments, some sorrowful inner turmoil; it’s all the same, I suppose. I’ve been sluggish, so if you’re following, sort of, you know, don’t stop, because I’m not gone or done, yet. I’m just in a bit of a rut, I guess. It’s all cool, and so are you, yeah?

Check out The Tobolowsky Files.

Original Emo sits in front of his fucking Vista, thinking about someone he thought he’d gotten over, not that there’d ever been anything between them, forgetting all of the many possibilties ahead of him, listening to a Seether song, remembering that there was a time when he listened to this song while working along side her, getting all fucking depressed, and as if the past day hasn’t been lonesome enough, he logs onto his blog to bitch about it. Nobody reads, nobody cares, and nobody notices, and I’m so self-indulgent, and I want… I don’t know what I want. I never know what I want. I never know anything. What a fucking great waste of time this was for you. I hope you choke on the shit and fucking die. Maybe I’ll join you, and you can ostricize and smear shit and trickle piss on my quivering soul as you please. Bottles and rocks for everyone. Fuck you.

One of my favored possibilities for a career, reviewing movies and entertainment news, is part of an industry in crisis, and three great minds have come together in a discussion about it. Listen to the audio on Dave Chen’s site, here:

http://www.davechen.net/2009/10/conversation-on-blogging-ethics-and.html

If you’re confused, read the material Dave has set up to prepare you for the conversation. If we are to keep the internet a respectful place, we must all respect each others’ intentions.

For those of you who read and keep track of my life, as I report it, I am terribly confused about what to do when I leave high school, and online ethics are a part of that confusion. If you listen, you’ll understand why. I do not have the diction or creativity, as it turns out, to express all of these ideas on my own, if they are even in any sort of abundance at all.

October 14, 2009
sometime after 7:00AM
The Zutons are golden.

I feel lonely and useless, no matter what I do.

2:22PM
I’ve just found the words to say this, and maybe a month of experiencing:
I have been in an emotionally gray spot. So many strong feelings are rushing forth at once, without provocation, and I’m either too dull or distracted to interpret them all at once, so this mass of emotional energy is…
in between any discernible, definable, recognizable, possible extremes.
It almost feels like the gears and cogs are grinding, and the metal’s soft, and the clock has to slow down or stop, before it breaks. The sharps points and edges are beaten, ground, bent, and dulled.

8:44PM
Smith has me reading Sprout, by Dale Peck.

I do not ever feel like writing, anymore, but I’m writing, now, because Sprout put me “in the mood”.

Everything bores.
Everything depresses.
If I don’t hang out with Colt, soon, I’ll scream.

Joss Whedon and J.J. Abrams, comin' atcha!

Season 1:
Joss N’ JJ’s Excellent Adventure
Joss N’ JJ Go To the Moon
Joss N’ JJ Meet Frankenstein
Joss N’ JJ Cure Cancer
Joss N’ JJ Have A Baby
Joss N’ JJ: The Swimsuit Special
Joss N’ JJ Meet the President
Joss N’ JJ Find the Plot
Joss N’ JJ and the Dynamic Duo Kill Jeff Loeb
Joss N’ JJ Start a Band
Joss N’ JJ: The Musical
Joss N’ JJ Meet the Harlem Globetrotters
Joss N’ JJ, Awesome Show It’s Canceled!

What further adventures can we look forward to?

It’s just a momentary gag, yeah, but it’d be fun to see if anybody can some up with some real stories to go along with the idea of a buddie-time-cop series that throws references to these guys’ shows.

I’ve just seen the first episode of the second season of Dollhouse. I’m not too fond of it, but I know that these shows follow a pattern. As soon as the “ordinary circumstances” are drawn in the dirt, we can fully enjoy the thrill of it all being thrown off balance, which was every episode of the first season. Awesome. It has its terrible moments, like the pointless memory-disease episode that only served to give a little backstory to Caroline, who is not a character I sympathize with or enjoy watching, and the plot twists involving Paul’s neighbor/girlfriend was such a trivial thing for a character I passionately hate, but it’s all cool. The Alpha and Omega thing was the perfect apology for such painful moments.
I was almost hoping that it might get canceled, just so I could see a movie-length continuation of the thirteenth episode.