30 June 2015


Calvaire: A strangely asexual pretty-boy troubadour, whose sad love songs leave the old bags at the retirement homes wet between the legs, gets stranded on the way to a Christmas gig in an ultra-Sodomesque, all-male rural Belgian village. . .and unfortunately for the crooner, there is room for him at the village’s run-down Inn, where he undergoes a bizarre re-birth as the incarnation of the lunatic Innkeeper’s ex-wife, *Gloria.*

This perversely comic Euro horror flick is chock full of inverted Christian/Christmas imagery. . .the born-again chanteuse must suffer many things of the depraved village’s elders and chief priests. The movie’s title would be translated into English as *Calvary,* and, indeed, the hapless vocalist must suffer a crucifixion. Among other assorted mean Christian parodies, there is also a *manger scene,* in which a baby calf is introduced to the joys of human bestiality. . .

These types of films are often dismissed as vulgar expressions of sadism, meant only to sate the increasing blood-thirst of violence/torture-addicted Western masses. Yet when done with a certain degree of artistry, as is this one, they can also (whether accidentally or not) celebrate the ugliness of mankind. . .*we are all degenerates, now*. . .this is best shown in the film’s surreal tavern dance scene, in which the village’s demented übersexual males do a mad Bron-Y-Aur kind of Stomp set to hellishly discordant piano music. . .it’s an ogre’s ballet. . .and the movie can be heralded as the Art of the Damned.

27 June 2015


We don't know if Dylann Roof, the self-anointed messiah of the white people who took the lives of nine church blacks, ever helped an old woman cross a street, or ever gave some spare change to a panhandling bum. . .so of his deeds that have been discovered, we must say this is his good one:

If this were all we knew of Roof, we could declare him righteous. 

But, of course, we know more.  Including this:

Jesus told the following parable, which reveals the true state of Dylann Storm Roof:

When the unclean spirit is gone out of a man, he walketh through dry places, seeking rest, and findeth none. Then he saith, I will return into my house from whence I came out; and when he is come, he findeth it empty, swept, and garnished. Then goeth he, and taketh with himself seven other spirits more wicked than himself, and they enter in and dwell there: and the last state of that man is worse than the first.

The unclean spirit of red, white and blue AmerICKanism departed from Roof, then returned with seven other more wicked spirits. . .and truly the last state of Roof, a race murderer, was worse than the first, a white boy without a nation.

In one respect, Roof was a typical 21 year old. . .meaning he was old enough to recognize the dilemma of existence:

There is nothing to do


there is nowhere to go.

The overwhelming majority of the sheeple quickly divert themselves from this reality through what they call *living:* working, drinking, drugging, fucking.  The somewhat more refined may not find contentment solely with such base pursuits, they will seek nobility, and will sacrifice the remainder of their self on the altar of the apostate church, or the state or some other external higher power.  Through this sacrifice, the sheeple find a vicarious existence.  There is now something to do and somewhere to go.

Increasingly in AmerICKa, this vicarious existence, this *something to do,* is found in worship of the military. . .

Here is the profile of the sheeple:

If I submit to the state, and identify with the state, and the state successfully kills others, then I belong to history.  My life has meaning, and my life is not what it seemed to be, a series of neurotic behaviors to shield myself from the awful truth:

I have nothing to do


nowhere to go

The highest power in AmerICKa today is the military holy ghost, Chris Kyle, who gave the sheeple a simple creed to embrace:

Everyone I shot was evil.  They all deserved to die.

Had Dylann Roof stopped *living* after he burned the AmerICKan flag, he would have been a better man than 99% of the sheeple.  But, regrettably, he didn't stop *living.*  He had to find something to do and somewhere to go. He tried white girls, but they wouldn't have him.  

What was Dylann Roof to do with his life?

Human beings cannot simply exist in nature.  This was lost when Eve and Adam ate from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.  Their eyes opened.  They discovered selfhood.  They were paralyzed with fear.  They were cursed with the labor of *living.*  So it is with all who have followed. 

Since existence is impossible, a *life* has to be found.  In this regard, Roof was not a typical 21 year old.  He was a misfit.  There was no place for him in the *AmerICKan Way of Life.*

Roof's race murder manifesto is a slap-dash, hurried affair. Why was he in such a rush to leave his testament?

Unfortunately at the time of writing I am in a great hurry and some of my best thoughts, actually many of them have been to be left out and lost forever

Dylann Roof was a young man out of time.  He was a tenth grade dropout, who, according to his uncle, had basically spent the last 3 years of his life moping in his bedroom. For Roof,

there was nothing to do


there was nowhere to go.

After unwrapping himself from the unclean spirit of the flag of the AmerICKan Way of Life, Roof was left staring at mere existence, which leads to insanity. Those who knew Roof before his 3 year period of bedroom moping were shocked he became a race murderer. They had seen no trace of it in him.

I beheld Satan as lightning fall from Heaven. . .

The lightning bolt which struck Roof was undoubtedly the sight of a colored boy's thick lips covering the mouth of the white girl he desired (and needed for distraction from his hollow being).      

A white boy without a nation and white boy without a white girl, Roof was an empty vessel, and the unclean spirit returned with seven other more wicked spirits.  Under their influence, Roof wrapped himself in the flags of Rhodesia and South Africa. . .

I wouldn't be surprised to learn Dylann Storm Roof went to the Theatre to watch his former country's cinematic gospel, *American Sniper.*  If so, he would have judged Chris Kyle as the god who failed, murdering the wrong coloreds for the wrong flag.  But he doubtless took notice of Kyle's ministry, and how the sheeple embraced him as a god.  Roof would mimic the American Sniper's role as angel of death.  But whereas Kyle would pass over all Americans, and bring death only to foreign coloreds, Roof would seek to divide the AmerICKan kingdom, passing over only the white people, and bringing death to the AmerICKan coloreds.

That AmerICKans are congratulating themselves for condemning Dylann Roof while they simultaneously worship Chris Kyle reveals their sick double mind.  Roof and Kyle both preached freedom through murder.

As Jesus clearly stated:

Either make the tree good, and his fruit good; or else make the tree corrupt, and his fruit corrupt: for the tree is known by his fruit. . .

Under one flag, AmerICKans worship murder as the gift of god, under another flag, they recoil as from an abomination. . .

Only in the Kingdom of the Absurd is Dylann Roof judged one way, and Chris Kyle another.  But the sheeple SWEAR by it.  In their scriptures they think they have found life. . .good luck to them.

What is the answer when

there is nothing to do


there is nowhere to go? 

There is only fear and trembling, and the hope to be called into the Kingdom of God. . .but you'll have to leave your flags behind.

All flags must be burned, spat on, or torn into strips and used as toilet paper or sanitary napkins. . .

24 June 2015


Descent: Talia Lugacy, the writer/director of this inept rape drama, doesn’t seem to like white men. This feeble-minded, racially misguided AmerICKan attempt at shock cinema depicts white men as racist, latent homosexual, insecure, riddled with deep feelings of inferiority and with longings to be dominated and humiliated. . .in other words, all AmerICKan white men want to be Kelsey Grammar. . .ha ha ha. But anyway, here’s the story:

Maya (name probably reflects some embarrassing Lugacy tribute to one of her probable *inspirations:* the buffoonish *poet* Maya Angelou) is a pretty young AfrICKan-AmerICKan college girl. . .she’s the bookworm type. . .it seems important to Lugacy the audience view the colored Maya as *smart*. . .it may be, considering the abysmally condescending course this movie will take, that Lugacy is one of those very hip, clued-in New Yorkers, who drinks fancy coffee beverages with an assortment of mud people and therefore marvels at her own tolerance and thus wants to enlighten the rest of AmerICKa, which certain of the snobbish inhabitants of the Big Apple believe resembles the hills of Tennessee, circa 1867. . .

Anyway, Maya is AfrICKan-AmerICKan, pretty and smart. . .and very wary around men. . .we learn Maya is still hurting from the break-up of a recent relationship. . .so Maya is VERY GUARDED, not wanting to get burned again. . .since she is so smart, she can easily see through all the shallow men who hound her. . .then at a party, Maya meets Jared. . .a white college football player. . .he wouldn’t seem to be exactly bookworm Maya’s type. . .but Jared really works on her, giving her a lot of what Lugacy must think to be cunning romantic sophistry, but what the audience (even the boobs out in the sticks west of New York) will realize are just lame come-ons. . .but, of course, Maya falls under Jared’s weak spell. . .she goes back to his apartment, they kiss for a bit, then Jared starts to fondle her breasts and Maya says “no,” “stop,” and all that good date rape stuff. . .but Jared, who had to work real hard to convince Maya that he was worthy of her, will not take “no” for an answer. . .he proceeds to rape the poor girl, all the while hurling mean racial epithets at her (such as nigger, maggot and baboon). . .

[Here let it be noted, as per the Department of Justice’s Criminal Victimization in the United States statistics, white-on-black rape has a zero percent statistical chance of occurring. . .less than 10 sample cases out of the 36,000 cases of rape in which black women were the victims (conversely, of the 111,000 cases of rape in which white women were the victims, 33% of the rapists were black)]

Well, poor Maya is so traumatized by being the victim of not only rape, but also a hate crime, she descends into a near zombie-like state. . .she’s so damaged, she can’t even report the crime to the police. . .violated nearly to the point of inertia, Maya spends her summer vacation wandering New York in a daze. . .though she somehow manages to land a job at a trendy fashion boutique, apparently because she has great skill at folding sweaters and her near-catatonia provides lots of laughs for the rest of the staff. . .anyway, in her dazed-and-confused state, she drifts into one of New York’s many hip underground music clubs, where peoples of all races come together to degrade themselves. . .Lugacy’s club scene looks, frankly, like a very cheap imitation of Gaspar Noè’s The Rectum in Irréversible. . .at the club, Maya meets bartender/DJ/philosopher Adrian, a blatino guru for all New York’s damaged girls. . .Adrian mumbles some kind of incredibly crazy, mixed-up psycho-sexual babble that would seem ridiculous to even Mike Tyson, but SOMEHOW it strikes a chord with Maya. . .it EMPOWERS her in some vague way. . .

But not only is Adrian a guru for the lost girls of NYC, he is also the Beast Master for all the pathetic white boys who crave to be dominated and humiliated by a MAN OF COLOR. . .Descent *treats* the audience to the spectacle of a white frat boy being mocked by Adrian and then submitting to Adrian’s orders to take a drag off his cigarette, which he is holding between the toes of his feet. . .the inferiority-complexed white boy dutifully submits. . .when Maya asks him why he would do that, the white boy stupidly stammers an *aw shucks it weren’t nothing* answer. . .Maya then tells the white boy he can kiss her feet, and he leaps at the chance, clearly enjoying the opportunity to once again be submissive to a PERSON OF COLOR. . .

After her eventful summer vacation, Maya returns to college and just happens to land a teacher’s assistant gig for a class that her rapist Jared attends. . .Maya catches Jared cheating on a test. . .I guess this is meant to tell us that Jared is very very stupid, for only a very very stupid person would do what Jared does next. . .Maya confronts Jared about his cheating, invites him to her apartment, tells him how much she has missed him, and that she wants to be with him again. . .she asks him to strip. . .Jared stands nude before her, a little uncomfortable, a little unsure of himself. . .but this dumb white boy, who raped this girl a few months earlier and called her a baboon, is sure about one thing: Maya harbors no ill will toward him. . .hey, they are just playing a kinky sex game that will be lots and lots of fun! Dumb white boy Jared never protests as Maya leads him to a bed and handcuffs him. . .let’s see, Jared raped this girl last semester, called her a baboon and nigger, and he allows himself to be handcuffed to a bed? He never considers for even the briefest moment Maya might still be a little upset over the rape?

This white boy is so dumb, he seems shocked when Maya sodomizes him with a black dildo. . .but then, maybe he secretly wanted something like this to happen? Because when Maya brings in the blatino stud Adrian to sodomize him, the white boy, after initially crying in pain, begins to whimper contentedly. . .he likes it! He likes it so much, he ejaculates from the pleasure Adrian gives him.

In an interesting cinematic aside, we learn that sodomy is thirsty business, for in the middle of his long cornholing session, Adrian asks Maya for some water! I laughed out loud at that. . .he’s like some parched biker at the Tour de France, desperate to take a swig from a plastic water bottle. . .that’s art, for you. . .the thirsty sodomite! Well, Maya never gives him any water. . .she’s too busy crying. . .yes, as the torture of her rapist drags on, Maya seems less and less enthusiastic. . .is it because she’s sad her revenge leaves her feeling so empty? An almost biblical feeling that one cannot overcome evil with evil? Or is she sad because Jared seems to enjoy being Adrian’s bitch? Maybe she’s jealous? It would have been great if the lamebrain Lugacy had ended this horseshit movie with Maya crying “it wasn’t supposed to end this way!” as Jared and Adrian strode off arm-in-arm, leaving her alone in her apartment, with nothing to do but grade some papers and watch The Accused on dvd for the tenth time. . .

This is a dumb, dismal movie, devoid of any psychological realism. . .even something as simple as revenge is beyond the grasp of the moron who made this garbage (I was going to say “pretentious garbage,” but it is so badly constructed, it is impossible to determine what, if anything, this thing claims to be, other than what it is: two interracial rape fantasies sandwiched around an incoherent *coming of rage* story). I Spit On Your Grave ÷ NYU Film School.

19 June 2015


I left out one thing from Rachel Dolezal Wept:

I forgot to congratulate myself!

On 16 January 2013, I posted the following:

In the message I noted the internet's almost immediate birthing of Sandy Hook conspiracy theories, and our brave new Electronic Age's tendency to question the reality of the *physical world.* 

Here's what I concluded:   

I wonder now if anything can ever *really happen* again?

In this age where most Westerners and a fair numbered of coloreds exist mostly on the internet, can anything in the *physical world* ever be self-evident, again?   

Most Westerners and a fair number of coloreds are hooked the majority of their waking existence to some sort of electronic Media device, and participate in life most actively through something called *social media.*  This means the reality of the physical world is now instantly translated into internet applications.  The reality of the physical world is thus instantly degraded into an electronic *update* or *status* or *tweet* or *instagram* and is then further degraded by the moronic feedback (*comments*) posted by the great unwashed electronic masses.  The result is a kind of Jesus Seminar for the Real World.

The Jesus Seminar were a group of 150 *scholarly* anti-Christs, 2000 years removed from the physical reality of the Lord, who nonetheless confidently and arrogantly tweeted their uninformed theories questioning the reality of the New Testament's eyewitness accounts of the life of our Lord and Savior.  

Today we live in a world where everyone is a *Jesus Seminarian.*  Everyone is a *scholar.*  Everyone exists on the internet, and can now question the reality of the physical world.  It is the internet we all now share.  The physical world, the world of time and space, in which we dwell less and less, has now become the *virtual reality.*  The more we live in the internet, where everything appears the same to everyone, the more the physical world, which we share with only a few, becomes more and more strange. . .more and more *unreal.*  When something extra-ordinary happens in the physical world, we rush to the internet and try to make sense of *life* by rendering it in 140 text characters or less.  And then we wait to see what our electronic friends have to make of it. . .

And after the Charleston church shooting, an instant replay.  Once again, it seems nothing in the physical world can be self-evident, anymore.  Type 'charleston shooting fake' into google, and look at the electronic derangement of reality.  Here's just a tiny snippet:

In particular note the entry immediately above, which exhibits a great advancement in *electronic evidence:*

His facebook page looks like a fake one, only one picture no activity?

Thus, the physical world Charleston shooting is unreal because Dylann Roof's Facebook page seems fake!!!!!!!!!!

[Courtesy of something called *InfoWars,* here's the *scientific data* behind this new electronic evidence procedure, which will surely soon be as accepted as fingerprints or dna. . .]

Ha ha ha. . .

You see, a *real* person, living in our new Electronic Age, could not leave such a limited presence on the Internet, which is where *real* people now exist. . .

Ha ha ha. . .

Bruce Jenner is not real, Caitlyn Jenner is real.

Rachel Dolezal is not white, Rachel Dolezal is black.

Dylann Roof is not real, because he's not navel-gazing on Facebook.

AmerICKa is now wholly given over to TransReality. . .

By the way, I'm not even on Facebook, so you're not even really reading this. . .

18 June 2015

Rachel Dolezal Wept

Washington Post, 18 June 2015: Police are searching for a gunman who opened fire Wednesday night at a historic African American church in downtown Charleston, S.C. Charleston officials said nine people were killed and others were injured. “I do believe this is a hate crime,” Charleston Police Chief Greg Mullen said in a late night news conference, without explaining the basis for his conclusion. Police said the victims had gathered Wednesday night in the Mother Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in downtown Charleston for a prayer service when the shooting occurred. Police are now searching for the gunman, described as a clean-shaven white male in his early 20s, who has sandy blond hair and a small build. Police said he was wearing a gray sweatshirt, blue jeans and Timberland boots. He is believe to be the only shooter.  

Let's not rush to judgment. . .

If the shooter does turn out to be a white boy, let's wait till all the facts are in (assuming the cops don't murder him before we get a chance to discover the facts--I know, I know, that's a big assumption) before we label him a hater.

I mean, don't you find the timing of this shooting rather curious?  

Right on the heels of the black community rejecting Rachel Dolezal?

Instead of being a hater, couldn't the shooter simply be a misguided promoter of tolerance?

I mean, hasn't the Caitlyn Jenner story taught us anything?  This is AmerICKa, after all, where each person has the right to decide his/her/its own identity. . .and whatever decision he/she/it makes, the rest of us are duty-bound by our citizenship in the Greatest Country On Earth to respect that decision, as it is the inalienable right of every he/she/it to pursue whatever happiness he/she/it feels like. . .or some shit like that.

So what do we do call our Charleston church shooter if he was simply *over-reacting* a little bit to black America not accepting Rachel Dolezal's right to be a negress?  Do we call him a hater?

Only a hater of intolerance. . .  

But how can that be a crime in Trans Formation AmerICKa?  When we are told we have to smile at and wink at and pat everything on the head?

If we must fulfill our obligation as good citizens of AmerICKa by smiling at, and winking at, and patting on the head gays, trannies, abortionists, government war criminals, Wall Street usurers, Pamela Geller cartooners, then shouldn't we also smile at and wink at and pat on the head haters of intolerance?  And why not just plain old simple haters?  Can't plain old haters be whatever fucked-up person they decide is trapped inside their body, just like Caitlyn Jenner?

Go ahead and charge this white boy with murder, but in Trans Formation AmerICKa, charge him with hate at your own risk, for with what judgement ye judge, ye shall also be judged. . .

16 June 2015


Karla: Hard to believe a movie about the sin-sational Karla Homolka could be so bad. Karla was a seventeen-year-old Canadian cutie when she met twenty-three year old pretty boy Paul Bernardo, a young man of no talent--uh, that is, except for serial rape. Anyway, for some reason, Karla fell hard for Bernardo. Well, even the briefest consideration of Karla’s and Paul’s life together, in which they became Canada’s most famous rapists/murderers (at least, until pig farmer Robert Picton was pulled from British Columbia’s mud in 2002), will lead one to conclude a shared passion for sexual sadism was the reason Karla *fell in love* with Paul. But in this artless little flick, Karla is a psychological zero. Video game characters are more 3-dimensional. The only thing seeming genuine about her character is her appetite for sex. . .other than that, her participation in the rapes and murders of her little sister Tammy and two high school girls, the vicious beatings she endured from Bernardo (all mirroring the *real life facts* of the case) have the appearance of random events she just happened to chance upon, and then stayed to watch/endure/participate in out of a very morbid S&M curiosity.

The script doesn’t even suggest Karla went along with the kidnappings, tortures, rapes and murders because of the beatings Bernardo gave her (which the very few who supported her in her legal proceedings suggested). Indeed, in one scene a kidnapped schoolgirl, who has just watched Bernardo give Karla yet another pummeling, asks: “Why do you stay?” After the prerequisite *dramatic pause,* Karla sadly, wearily responds: You don’t understand. . .” Uh, that’s for sure!

At best, the movie sort of implies Karla participated in the schoolgirl rapes and murders because she really liked Paul, and since raping schoolgirls was what Paul was really into, well, she had to go along, because that’s what wives do--they support their husbands. Karla rapes and murders the way some wives watch football with their hubbies--they have no interest in the game, but they sit there politely on the sofa and say *that’s nice* when the home team scores a touchdown.

While not overly graphic, the movie is genuinely lurid, so it may provide cheap thrills to those who enjoy watching half-dressed high school girls beg and cry. . .

It must also be noted the actress playing Karla (somebody named Laura Prepon) is terrible. Apparently this Prepon person was a television sitcom *star*--which might explain why she exhibits the limited range of an amateur thespian used to playing to a laugh track.

09 June 2015

Nicole, Part I

Every now and then, on the warm days, I will drive to the park. . .

We had a nice time in the park, once.

I'd like to remember it. . .

Re-live it. . .

The drive to the park sucks. A road crew is tearing up Ellsworth.  I inhale the fumes and cracked-up concrete.  There’s a panhandler at the corner of Platt, taking advantage of the long line of cars backed up on the one open lane.  He doesn't look like a real bum.  He’s got a fresh-looking Deuter backpack at his feet.  His beard is neatly trimmed.  I give him a buck, anyway, as I drive past.  “God bless you,” he says.  “He has,” I say back. Fucking fake bum, as if I need him to put in a word for me to God.

Fucking people. . .

Fucking world. . .

It's funny, though, as I pull into the park entrance. I come here, where we had a nice time, once, and I'd like to remember it, but I don't. I remember the hospital.

As I was walking down the hall, I heard her crying.  Nicole crying.  I slowed down as I approached her room in St. Joseph’s Mercy Hospital.  I hadn’t seen her in months.  I still believe, as I sit here in my car in a shady parking space overlooking the pond at Lillie Park, I still believe I only wanted to give her my best wishes, and perhaps cheer her a bit.  I stopped just outside the door and listened to her cry.  She sounded awful.  All I knew was she had some problem with her colon.  That was what Jodi, a former co-worker of ours, had told me when I bumped into her at a gas station mini-mart.  “Did you hear Nicole’s in the hospital?”  “No.  What’s wrong with her?”  “Something with her colon, I think.”  “Is it serious?”  “Well, she’s in St. Joe’s, so. . .”  

So I was standing outside her hospital room, listening to her cry, listening to her wail.  Something with her colon.  I imagine a stabbing pain down in there.  Such an undignified malady.  But that’s our world.  The rich have heart trouble.  The poor have a pain in the ass.  I was nervous standing there by her door.  As usual, I had no idea what to say.  My whole life, I’ve never known what to say. Now I know it’s because there is nothing to say.  I was so nervous, I was light-headed as I entered.  A nurse was standing by her bed.  She was holding one of those little pleated paper medicine cups.  As soon as Nicole saw me, she stopped crying.  Instantly.  What pride!  Her face was bright red and sweaty.  The nurse looks at me.  “Uh, I’m a friend,” I say.  “Should I, uh, come back later?”  “Oh, no.  We’re done here,” she says.  She turned to Nicole.  “You should be feeling better soon.”  She patted Nicole’s hand, then left the room.

The kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant man, seeking goodly pearls, who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had, and bought it.

Wearing ripped blue jeans and a white t-shirt, her yellow-blonde hair in a ponytail, I was forever altered the moment I saw her enter the mail room at the Ann Arbor News.  Before the vision, I had always been content to be alone.  After, there was nothing but discontent.

That first time, the first time I saw her, it was a Saturday night, a little before 11 pm.  We’d be stuffing inserts into the Sunday paper. Standing on a line, newspaper bundles rolling by, we’d grab a stack, stuff in the comics and flyers, set them back on the line.  Hour after hour.  Unskilled labor at its simplest.  It was a job for parolees, immigrants, mental defectives and other assorted misfits.  I would later work at the county jail.  The jail was more cultured.  Most of the females who worked in the mail room were old and fat, with gravel voices, genuine trailer trash. What was this young hot blonde doing there?  She came in with Jodi, so I assumed this angel must have some sort of drink or drug problem.  I took a line spot opposite Jodi and Nicole.  Jodi introduced me.  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” Nicole said.  Oh, man. My heart sank.  Jodi was a chipped toothed addict, thirty years old, looking forty, and, just to amuse myself, I drunkenly flirted with her every Saturday night.  Only now did I realize error of my way.  That there could be a consequence to talking nonsense to a stumblecunt, to issuing hollow hints.  How could I have ever imagined Jodi would bring the one pearl of great price?  “I’ve heard a lot about you.”  What if Jodi had told Nicole about my drunken trifling, and Nicole thought I was interested in the repulsive Jodi?  No matter how Jodi presented me, it would not be me.  At least, that’s what I thought at the time.  But now, sitting here in my Civic twenty-five to thirty years later, I understand whatever Jodi said was true, whatever dishonest report she gave to Nicole, based on my shit talking, was true, because, at heart, I was a dishonest person.  But I didn’t see myself that way, that night, when Nicole said “I’ve heard a lot about you,” in her southern accent.

That was the night I quit drinking.  I blamed all my Jodi idle chatter on alcohol.  The job was so tedious, I’d taken to hitting the John Bar two hours before the Saturday night shift, knocking back eight or ten gin-and-grapefruit juices, then marching with pinpoint pupils into the bright and shiny mailroom and feeling like a jolly joker.

Quitting drinking did nothing for me.

There I was, twenty-three years old, intoxicated at a shit job, no ambition, barely able to pay my third of the rent on a shabby apartment I shared with two other losers.  For years, decades, I went back to that night and accused God, because I was so woefully unprepared to claim my one pearl of great price.  

Five foot three with a dancer’s body and a southern accent.  And that face.  I see it before my eyes, exactly as it was.  I had two photographs of Nicole and myself.  Her face was unrecognizable in the photos.  It was the pretty, girlish face of a nineteen year old peaches-and-cream blonde.  But it was not her face.  Not her real face.  The camera could not capture her third dimension.  In the breathing world, something degenerate shone through Nicole’s pretty, girlish face.  At the time, I could not properly identify this shining degeneracy which did not detract from Nicole’s look, but amplified it, gave it a charge which left me spellbound.  I’ve told a few people over the years of my passion for Nicole.  One suggested her peculiar allure that Saturday night was probably due to my drunken condition.  Even if that were true, even if Nicole’s appeal was exaggerated by inebriation, its effect has lasted for a forever of sobriety.  But I do not believe Nicole was just a gin genie.  In these last months, as I watch the life clock tick tock, and as I relive my sorry life, I have determined Nicole’s shine was the mark of Eve, the ancient mark of Eve, passed down through generation after generation transformed by the knowledge of good and evil. . .

So, anyway, I here sit in the park, looking at the pond, where we had a nice time, once. I remember being alone with her in the hospital room, that last day. I stood there, staring.  Her red sweaty face.  Her sticky yellow-blonde hair.  Her sick face melting into the pillow.  Her remarkable body, her dancer’s body shrouded in a wash-dull gown, and barely making an outline under the thin striped blanket.

“What are you doing here?”

What if I had answered that question correctly?  Here I sit a beat-up old man in a beat-up old car, watching a weary wind roll weak ripples across a park pond.  I will sit here for two, three hours, going back over it.  As I’ve done countless times.  

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said, in her enchanting accent, that first night, at the old Ann Arbor News.

For the first time in my life, I had ambition.

“Uh. . .well. . .uh,” I hemmed and hawed as I looked at Jodi, then Nicole.

“I bet you say that to all the girls!”

“Heh.  No.  Or. . .yeah, I guess.  I don’t know.”

Ha.  I’d known her for forty-five seconds, and I was already knocked off balance.  I’d never recover.  Never.  I was always stumbling after Nicole, never able to keep up.  

I never could talk to her, either.  I stood there that Saturday night wishing for the line to start running so I could grab some newspapers and have something to do, instead of standing there looking stupid while Nicole and Jodi giggled at me.

“That’s a pretty cool accent.  Where are you from?” I asked, the only thing I could think to say.


“Louisiana?  What are you doing up here?”

Her answer killed the next couple hours as she exhaustively supplied me with the grotesqueries of her down yonder backwater youth—and not just me, as she had to shout the lurid details to be heard over the grinds and clanks of the line.  That four or five others working near us, strangers of whom she hadn’t heard a lot about, were also privy to the scandals of her upbringing, didn’t seem to daunt her.  I would later conclude this was due to her total immersion in the confessional nature of the twelve step culture, of which she was, at age nineteen, already an unquestioning proselyte.

Nicole’s tireless revelation of the assorted assaults, molestations and self-harmings of her adolescence freed me of the difficulty of maintaining conversation.  I merely had to plant a sympathetic look on my face, nod, and offer the occasional “that’s awful” or “how terrible.”

And it was terrible.  Sitting here in my car decades later, I still marvel the most attractive woman I’ve ever seen came from such ugliness.  The regret still drains what little life is left in me.  I don’t want to be here.  I want to go back.  I want to go back and do it right.  I want to go back and give up everything for her.  

It’s quite possible my life after Nicole consisted of nothing other than trying to find a substitute.  I had no ambition before I met her, and no ambition after I left her hospital room, that last day.

Not to say I wouldn’t have failed at everything I ever attempted had I never met Nicole from Ville Platte, Louisiana.  I was born a loser.  One way or the other, I was going to end up here, sitting in an old Honda, staring at a pond, listening to the tick-tock of my life clock.  It’s hopeless trying to make sense of a life.

I can barely recall the tangle of relatives, classmates and strangers who abused Nicole.  At a certain point during Nicole’s long confessional, my mind wandered.  That’s not because I wasn’t truly sympathetic or interested, I was.  But it became sort of like a Bela Tarr movie, rain and mud, rain and mud, rain and mud, and as morbidly fascinating as it was, the monotony of it left me vulnerable to distraction: a headline on the newspaper rolling by, the swimsuit model in the K-Mart ad I stuffed over and over into the paper, the insane gleam in Chester the paroled stalker’s eyes, three spots down the line.  So I was left with gaps in Nicole’s life story.  I do know her serious woes began at age ten, when an aunt and uncle began molesting her, which led her to seek relief by sipping her alcoholic father’s vodka at age twelve, which led her to becoming an alcoholic herself by age thirteen.  Her brother, unaware of the molestation, but enraged that she was apparently following their derelict father’s path, began beating her whenever he found her drunk.  After that, I paid attention to a rape in middle school, a miscarriage in high school from a union with Curtis, an on-again, off-again boyfriend who would become a shadow enemy, a flirtation with wrist cutting, and then one final brutal beating from her brother, which left her hospitalized and forced her mother, of whom I had heard remarkably little, to contact an aunt in Michigan, who agreed to take in Nicole, and which eventually led to Nicole entering the Dawn Farm Residential Treatment Center, from which she had just been released prior to that fateful Saturday night, the Saturday night she walked into the mailroom at the Ann Arbor News with Jodi, the older Dawn Farm rat. . .

02 June 2015

Cop Hater

Man, who don't hate cops?  The way they go around killing, no, murdering people, then lying about it?

I w-w-was afeard fer m-my l-life, they blubber, like B movie actors.

Ha ha ha. . .if you believe these lyin' bastards, the cops are the biggest scaredy cats around.   Ha ha ha. . .I'm surprised they don't shoot their own shadows!

Anyways, speaking of B movies, and with Americans beginning to catch a glimpse of the truth about their po-lice state, with their militarized cops brutalizing anybody that don't lick their boots, even a friggin' grampa dothead who don't speak english, I figured it was a good time to review a mediocre old '50s film noir, COP HATER.

This 75 minute cheapie is set in the 87th precinct of an unnamed city, a big dirty city that looks (and probably smells) just like the greaseball infested New York City.  In the middle of a July heatwave (all the cops sweat like the pigs they are) two detectives are murdered, and, of course, the Lieutenant wants the case solved RIGHT NOW (wouldn't it be great to see one fucking cop movie where the Lieutenant says, listen fellas, relax, take your time, the world ain't gonna end tomorrow if we don't figure this shit out?).  The Lieutenant assigns greaseball detective Steve Carelli (played by real life greaseball Robert Loggia in his first starring role) and his hard-drinking mick partner Mike Maguire (a hard-drinking Irish cop?  Never seen that before. . .) to lead the investigation. . .which, of course, and like real life po-lice investigations, goes nowhere.  The greaseball and the mick chase one preposterous lead after another (including busting in on one poor bastard right in the middle of his wedding night), and as their frustration grows, they sweat even more profusely.

The incredibly inept investigation is interspersed with scenes of the two detectives' personal lives, featuring the only interesting characters in the movie, the detectives' love interests.  In a bizarre-but-somehow-oddly-effective touch, the greaseball Carelli is given a deaf-mute for a girlfriend, a pretty dummy with a boy's name (Teddy) and a boy's haircut.  What all this silent homo-ism is supposed to mean, I have no idea, but the pretty dummy is nicely played by an actress named Ellen Parker. Unfortunately for Ms. Parker, the role apparently did little for her career, she appeared in only one more movie (another cheapie also co-starring greaseball Robert Loggia), then disappeared from the Big Screen. 

The hard drinking mick is not nearly as lucky in love as his greaseball partner.  The mick is the ball-and-chain in his marriage to a bitter brick shithouse played by somebody named Shirley Ballard.  Here's a clip in which the mick literally cannot see the clue right under his own nose, and in which Ballard demonstrates the fine art of scenery-chewing as she makes crystal clear how repulsive she finds her own personal cop:
Even at its minimal 75 minutes, the movie seems to plod along until its not-very-shocking *shocking* conclusion, with the only attention-grabber being greaseball Robert Loggia's final scene, in which he gives the first indication he's an actor about to embark on a long-and-successful career. After sleep-walking through most of the film, the greaseball wakes up at the end, and gives a vicious beating to the cop killer, displaying the same deranged energy he will forty years later in his famous Lost Highway *tailgating* scene

And yet despite all its many limitations, COP HATER has to be recommended, for it is a curious movie that seems more timely in 2015 than it probably did in its 1958 release, when it must have been seen as a rather mediocre cop procedural, enlivened only by the two female leads.  When we watch Shirley Ballard spit out her closing lines, which must have been interpreted in 1958 as only the over-heated pot boilings of a psychotic femme fatale, they now seem a clarion call for our age (and check out the prototype Sharon Stone/Basic Instinct mini-leg uncrossing):