Movie Review: Jackass 2

This is a perfect movie.

Any complaints I have are so minor, so petty I'm embarrassed to mention them.

In truth, I could use a little less Steve-O putting chugging a beer up his ass and more of Chris Pontius running around in a thong and bowtie.

If you are wondering if this movie is for you.... stop!

Stop thinking and go get it now.

This film is a triumph! It's Gen Y's middle finger to us all.

You think our president is stupid. I'll show you stupid.

It's a great comfort to me that I am able to go to the theater and watch Bam take a flying dildo up the ass in this age of encroaching repression.

The resistance is alive and well!

The fine art of tolerating pain is alive and well!

"I am in a world of shit, and I am not afraid."

This is bullshit! Part 1

Fucking hell!
George Stait played at the Tacoma Dome on Saturday and I missed it.
If you've been paying attention I posted on my adoration for G.S. last week.
It's like I knew, but I didn't know.

If I could only harness this clairvoyancy.... (is that a word?)

And why the fuck didn't anyone tell me!

In other bullshit news- I'm having to work at work today.

Good beginings

"Jewel and I come up from the field, following the path in single file. Although I am fifteen feet ahead of him, anyone watching us from the cottonhouse can see Jewel's frayed and broken straw hat a full head above my own.The path runs straight as a plumb-line, worn smooth by feet and baked brick-hard by July, between the green rows of laidby cotton, to the cottonhouse in the center of the field, where it turns and circles the cottonhouse at four soft right angles and goes on across the field again, worn so by feet in fading precision.The cottonhouse is of rough logs, from between which the chinking has long fallen. Square, with a broken roof set at a single pitch, it leans in empty and shimmering dilapidation in the sunlight, a single broad window in two opposite walls giving onto the approaches of the path. When we reach it I turn and follow the path which circles the house. Jewel, fifteen feet behind me, looking straight ahead, steps in a single stride through the window. Still staring straight ahead, his pale eyes like wood set into his wooden face, he crosses the floor in four strides with the rigid gravity of a cigar store Indian dressed in patched overalls and endued with life from the hips down, and steps in a single stride through the opposite window and into the path again just as I come around the corner. In single file and five feet apart and Jewel now in front, we go on up the path toward the foot of the bluff. Tull's wagon stands beside the spring, hitched to the rail, the reins wrapped about the seat stanchion. In the wagon bed are two chairs. Jewel stops at the spring and takes the gourd from the willow branch and drinks. I pass him and mount the path, beginning to hear Cash's saw. When I reach the top he has quit sawing. Standing in a litter of chips, he is fitting two of the boards together. Between the shadow spaces they are yellow as gold, like soft gold, bearing on their flanks in smooth undulations the marks of the adze blade: a good carpenter, Cash is. He holds the two planks on the trestle, fitted along the edges in a quarter of the finished box. He kneels and squints along the edge of them, then he lowers them and takes up the adze. A good carpenter. Addie Bundren could not want a better one, a better box to lie in. It will give her confidence and comfort. I go on to the house, followed by the Chuck. Chuck. Chuck. of the adze."

Aside from F.S.F.'s "The Great Gatsby" (which I've quoted way too often) , "As I Lay Dying" has the best opening pages of anything else I've ever read.
The title alone gives certain expectations, but the first two pages really set the tone.
Death Dirge from begining to end.
It's wonderful.
Like a black and white photo. Everything has a tinge of melancholy in black and white.
Even clowns.
Ok, that' s a bad example.
Sepia=melancholy=my opinion.

Limitations

This is a little, wooden, three-legged pig Shelly and Josh gave me on my birthday a few years ago. It is supposed to bring luck.
I put it on top of my espresso machine and it really made a difference.
But there is only so much one little pig can do.


This is a bag of bad coffee. I'm not dissing Starbucks unilaterly but this happens to be a bad bag of coffee. It was the only bag of whole bean coffee at Target. This was a bad sign and I knew it. Bottom line... I was too damn lazy to carry my ass down the street to find something better. Something worthy of the pig. And I live in Seattle and have no excuse. Now I'm stuck with my bad decision bad bag of coffee cos it's already installed in the burr grinder. Plus, it would be wasteful to toss it. And I couldn't give it to someone in good conscience. (That consideration is, of coarse, secondary at best.)
My only viable "solution" at this juncture is to get another pig.

Could it work?

God, that is a is a bad ass picture. And Kiefer is a badass mofo.
He is also a crazy sonofabitch. This is well documented.


Forcibly removed from a bar in Australia!?! You have got to be Fucked Up!
Speaking of badasses... here's Sue near the top of Whistler.

I can picture it. "STFU and make me a grilled cheese, bitch ... NOW! We're running out of time!"
And she does it.

Theoretical George

For all you ignorant sonsabitches, that there is a picture of George Strait.
Not only an extremely talented musician, but an outstanding human being as well.
He's kind, thoughtful, witty; simple yet wise. Speaks in a quiet, pleasant voice and has an easy smile.
Slow to anger, quick to laugh. Loved by many, respected by all.
He also has a nice ass. Meet theoretical George.
I believe real George possesses many if not all of the qualities listed above cos when "All my exes live in Texas" or "When did you stop loving me" is on, I actually take on this same persona, as if he were channeling through me. NOTHING bothers me. Nothing any of these fucking people do out in the world bothers me. That's cos I've got nothing to do and all day to do it. So turn left through a double yellow line while we all wait, you fucking idiot, cos I'm in no hurry. Maybe I'll go fishing.... or just sit here at the ranch and watch the dogs play. Whatever.

But inevitably, I get to where I'm going, the phone rings, the playlist ends. And the GeorgeZen state vanishes instantly. No trace. Gone. My flab-ass and hair trigger belligerence are back.
I often wonder if perhaps George Strait was always playing in the background, I might be a totally different person. Reasonable, even tempered, jolly!
If theoretical George were my "special" friend, I might even be like Sara..... bwahahahahaha!
This theory is impossible to test, however, cos so many fucking PEOPLE insist they hate country music. (This has nothing to do with the quality of music, in my opinion, and everything to do with PEOPLE being sheep and slaves to fashion--another post!)

I know what you are thinking. Dana why, why, why would you ever want to be different than you are right now?! In truth, I wouldn't. So fuck you.

And another thing... Part 1

I forgot how old I was yesterday.
Olga asked how old I'm gonna be on my birthday next week and I looked right at her like she was a total dumbass and said, "35, just like you"; in contemptuous tone even.
I mean, we've had this conversation several times. We were both born in 1971, a few months apart. And I'm supposed to be the one who's trusted with math.

I'd like to think this is just a subconcious rebellion against getting older.
But I know that's not the the truth. The truth is I'm just a dumbass who can't even remember I'm 35! I'VE BEEN TELLING PEOPLE I'M GOING TO BE 35!

This is my official correction notice... for anyone paying attention. (crickets)

Sad.