Like an earthbound butterfly bursting out of its concrete cocoon, this is how things typically unfold when the funky citizens of my hometown begin to collectively celebrate their reverence for the sun. The ultra-colorful scenery is perhaps best described as a twilight zone of dysfunction, but still…you can’t help but love the many splendors of spring (The Scholar, It Felt Complex…)
A shot of vehicles moving on a distant bridge like objects on a conveyor belt. The terror is registered on multiple levels. Is this how we treat things, ideas and people that we deem to be “less important” and “less beautiful”, while unanimously moving towards a pointless destination? Or is this what our entire civilization, the beauty of our arts, our present culture going to be reduced to? (Seventh Art, Short Films #8)
If wrestling were more like this domestically, would it draw? I doubt it. Americans are fucking morons. That’s why our best seller lists suck, our pop charts suck, our movies are propagandistic tripe for consumerist ephemera, our women are silicone-ridden anorexics, and we’re all working shite jobs to maintain our benefits so we can get psychotropic medication. If wrestling really does die because of the current era’s excesses and shortcomings, then it might be interesting to look back at a match like this, and see what could’ve been (Death Valley Playaz, DVDR156)
I will miss Punk’d on VH1 along with Ashton Kutcher’s butchered dialogue, Rajdeep Sardesai doing absolutely no justice to Dileep Sardesai’s otherwise impeccable gene pool, Celina Jaitley bandying around like a monkey with mascara on a diet of fermented bananas hoping that someone with a falsetto poked her from behind, T. Rajendar judging one of the most unjudgeable dance shows on Zee Telugu…(Papa Bear, Off the air and back again)
The intercourse of our minds is wonderful. We stimulate one another’s thought. Otto is my master. I am his disciple! Yesterday I asked him if Hegel or Schlegel or Whegel gives the truest view of life. He said he didn’t know! My Otto! (Stephen Leacock, Sorrows of a Super Soul)
Wildness is a state of being; being wild and free. You cannot tame it. Perhaps you should just let it go (Priloza, Drifting Along)
In terms of sonic spaces locked in time, the FF of Fear Factory might as well stand for Fuck Floyd (Pink). Fuck Floyd’s frail, feeble fucking dirges apathetically bemoaning their fate in this Orwellian hell-hole we know and hurtle blindly toward. Woe is them, indeed. Much deserving of some monkey love and a little sodomy. (Cat-like, Inauguration, Lord Ganesha…)
This horror movie is an example of what might be called the New Sadism, a coldly detached concentration on the infliction of extreme pain. Not just a single, sudden incident like the eye severed by a razor in Buñuel’s Un Chien Andalou or the pot of boiling coffee thrown in Gloria Grahame’s face in The Big Heat, but a relentless succession of such events – the cutting off of fingers, the disfigurement of faces and so on. (Philip French, The Final)
