Archive for February, 2009

Jim Jarmusch makes movies that are paced like a death by stomach cancer, i.e. painfully slow. Don’t ask me how, but sometimes it works. In 1984, when Van Halen were getting ready to send Diamond Dave packing, Jarmusch (who’s name, incidentally, returns such suggestion from the spell check as Katuscha and Auschwitz!) released a film called Stranger Than Paradise about a girl who, after emigrating from Hungary to the U.S., gets stuck staying in New York with a cousin she’s never met.

This is a character study-ish movie, and nothing happens until the end, but it’s almost worth watching for that alone. But really you watch Jarmusch movies for the characters, which are always pretty good, though somewhat apoplectic. When they do talk they swear a lot, so at least it’s realistic. There’s a great scene where two guys sit down in the apartment and each cracks open a can of beer. Then they just sit there, nobody saying anything, and it goes on like that until you want to slash your wrists. How great is that? Anyway, I couldn’t find that clip on youtube, so here’s another scene I liked:

So there you go kids, the perfect cure for which ever variety of Sunday hangover you find yourself with.


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So, let’s see, just off the top of my head we’ve got an almost $800 billion dollar stimulus package, about which the bitch-fest has already kicked off; a $250 billion proposed foreclosure bailout; bank stress-testing; the Dow on the verge of dipping into the 6000s; increased troops in Afghanistan; still decreasing home values; Israel on the verge of attacking Iran; predator drones killing Pakistani civilians; labor strikes in France; face-ripping monkeys; peanut butter from hell…

Um, let’s see, did I forget anything? Oh yea, holy-fucking-shit! Did you hear? Michelle Obama Goes Sleeveless, Again!

You really have to applaud the New York Times’ political bloggers at The Caucus for digging in and producing these kind of mind-bogglingly-worthless puff pieces to get us through our miserable, recession ridden days. You people make me want to vomit on my shoes and then mail them to the Op-Ed department, where they will probably be published… I mean, hell, you’re still printing that crap Kristol writes!

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Dear son of a bitch ex-boss with old guy balding, liver-spotted U-shaped hairdo circa Archie Bunker and FUDA (fat upper dick area) who hired me as a dishwasher but when I showed up told me I would be a line cook which began my training regimen under stupid better-than-thou bitch don’t-remember-your-name hot dish preparer and dumbshit cold dish preparer Kief whose hushed warbling taught me more about how to imitate a retard than Radio Gump at which point I learned the ins and outs of chicken parm and turkey clubs but never knew at all how much I was making an hour and had to gather old, shitty supplies from the earth-floored rapist basement where the booze was kept and I was 16 but never had the grapes to take anything and was forced to do the bidding of bitch and Kief and spilled the deep fryer oil while changing it for my first time unsupervised at which point Herm threw a kniption fit and looked strangely like Rodney Dangerfield until one day I showed up for a Sunday morning shift fifteen minutes early to an empty parking lot save two black Lincoln’s with tinted windows parked crooked by the front door and that door was locked and I waited an hour and a half into my shift until I realized the door was not going to unlock even though it was supposed to be open and Herm probably owed money to a couple of wiseguys so I eventually left and returned only once and sent my Mom in to pick up my first and only check because I was afraid of getting whacked and it so happened that my next job a week later was right across the street and Herm bought his produce there so every time he came in the store I feared for my life and requested to take a break and watched from the two-way mirror at the top of the store to make sure his men didn’t make an attempt on my life.

I bet you’re dead.


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Or maybe he’s just a flaming idiot like everyone that elected him chairman of the RNC.

Here are a few gems MC Steele dropped to the Washington Times while describing his plans for a new hip-hop-themed public relations campaign. By the way, he and Rove don’t exactly get along. I smell a Republican rap battle coming on. (All below emphases are mine.)

“We need messengers to really capture that region – young, Hispanic, black, a cross section … We want to convey that the modern-day GOP looks like the conservative party that stands on principles. But we want to apply them to urban-surburban hip-hop settings.

“We need to uptick our image with everyone, including one-armed midgets.”

“Where we have fallen down in delivering a message is in having something to say, particularly to young people and moms of all shapes – soccer moms, hockey moms.”

And to his doubters in the RNC, he says only, “Stuff it.”

The full article, and all the unbelievable stupidity contained therein, can be found here.

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I’m sure you’ve all seen this before. But Ed sent it to me the other day and I hadn’t seen it in years and watching it I was struck with the realization – I knew about the whistle tips youtube video, and I moved here anyway. It’s pretty great, really, and I recognize most of the places the news footage was shot. Sadly, though, the whistle tips were long gone before I got to Oakland.

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Ralph Steadman

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Dear guy with the obnoxious British accent who ordered Yellow Tail Shiraz one night while I was working at Zingarella’s in Bedford, NH to pay for my pot habit while maintaining the façade of committed full time work that ordered the Diablo Shrimp even though I warned that it was spicy but ordered it anyway in a fury because we were out of Yellow Tail Shiraz and then read a book alone while looking at me every time I walked by expecting your meal when knowing full well the Diablo Shrimp takes longer than ten minutes but looked at me impatiently anyways making me feel so uncomfortable that I had to shit but felt rushed so I didn’t wipe as well as I should of and as a result had sticky cheeks when I went into the kitchen to get your Diablo Shrimp and salad that I made with my hands and who theatrically choked due to the spiciness of the meal even though was thoroughly forewarned of the nature of the dish but orderd it anyways because for some reason you weren’t listening to me because you were so mad about my inability to provide you with a glass of Yellow Tail Shiraz which is mind bending in the first place because I drank that shit in high school when I didn’t know what good wine who insisted on leaving me a two dollar tip on an eighty dollar tab,

I remember you and if I ever see you again I will kill you.

Cordially yours, Jay

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