Tuesday Tuinal
David Milch, creator of the incoherent pile of shit called "John from Cincinnati" was recently quoted:
The important point that I'm trying to make is that storytelling has nothing, whatsoever, to do with logic. Logic is a limping stepchild of the true processes of the spirit. It's an illusion. It's a defective little parlor trick. Associations are the way that we perceive. Electrical connections caused by the juxtapositions of experience. That's the way we are really built, and storytelling takes into account that truth.
I'm pretty sure David Lynch uses the same justification. This shit is ugly, yo. And I don't want to spend my time watching ugly. Rebecca de Morney's character had a backstory that includes her jacking off her teenage son. Lovely. You lost me already. Anything that uses the sexual exploitation of a kid as a plot point? Writers - kill yourselves. Let the healing begin.
But, taking the Milch quote as a
B.A., besides being a pie-baker extraordinaire, can communicate with color coordinating accessorizing insects. Check the pocket. Natty, no?
Why is there no continuum for clad? One finds the iron-clad, and the scantily-clad. But nothing in between. Sad for the clad.. But of course, it's still one up on "festooned", which has fallen into disuse, except for ads for the Bedazzler.
The lovely Ms. McGee has gotten me hooked on "Top Chef." Damn her by all the might and terror Bejebus can muster. Hate reality shows. And reality. But I have to cop to the fact that this is one where the contestants actually have skill. The judges know what the fuck they're talking about. And Padma. Ahhhhh, Padma.
On a related note, from today's Chicago Tribune:
Grant Achatz, the 33-year-old superstar chef whose Lincoln Park restaurant, Alinea, is ranked among the very best in the world, is facing a medical challenge with a painful twist.
On Monday, Achatz announced that he has been diagnosed with Stage 4 squamous cell carcinoma of the mouth.
The cancer, which doctors believe has spread to Achatz's lymph nodes, is life-threatening. The lesions are on the chef's tongue.
If chemotherapy is successful, there remains a possibility that Achatz will lose all sense of taste.
Sad. Just. Sad.
And, rather than end on that downer, here's a pic of that King Kong movie festival poster I was talking about a while back:
Oh, and one more private message, to 1991 David Bowie, in Tin Machine II's American CD release, with the genitals of the Kouroi statues airbrushed out:
Labels: thin white dookie
This entry was posted
on Tuesday, July 24, 2007 at 11:25 AM.
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3:24 PM1) "Tuesday Tuinal" may not be the best title for this post, as I found it quite stimulating.
2) This Sunday's edisode of "John from Cincinnati" officially made me give up on the show. Too much ugliness, too little reward. Don't hate on David Milch too much, though. "Deadwood" was fucking genius.
3) B.A. + dragonfly = cuteness.
4) Barbara Eden? Really? Padma, I so understand, but Barbara Eden?
5) The news about Achatz makes me so. Sad. He's a culinary genius, and I'm not using that word lightly.
Finally, while I appreciate being called lovely, must you really damn me with both might and terror? After all, think of all the other things I might have gotten you hooked on.
3:41 PM
I am a huge fan of storytelling. I can forgive a bad singer if he writes good lyrics, for example.
If your story makes no sense and you are shocking for the sake of being shocking and nothing else, you are not a good storyteller. You can be arrogant and pretend it's the viewers' fault for not "getting it" if that makes you feel better, but that doesn't make it true.
Also, I never saw Deadwood OR John in Cincinnati (I was warned away from J in C before it could harm me) but I have no doubt Deadwood could have been genius while this is a steamy pile of shit. That happens all the time.
5:48 PM
also, B.A. is nattily clad.
6:55 PM
BA makes pie? I gotta have one of those pies!
10:01 AM
I prefer 1972 David Bowie from the Ziggy Stardust tour.
Get an eye patch, man.
7:45 AM
Incidentally, The Gods merely dislike Kansas.
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