I've been in the Judge Dredd editing booth trying to wrap a cut of something, before I have to turn it in to someone else, who has to do something to it, whom then has to pass it on.  

And beside writing a million fucking death defying scripts, I just haven't had time to be consistent with updates.

So, with that said, here is a piece I did a million years ago. It's sell able.

Goons forever,


pop + trash + culture + memories.

Low culture, sometimes deemed "trash culture" is where we are.  Escapism, transfusion plus fetishizing  is the state. Pop lives in this space mostly, but, it's always had the ability to move between cultural hierarchies.  At present, it loves trash, the audience devours it, and the appetite grows because priorities have changed. 

But, can we truly call anything pop anymore?  Exceptions exist, but when history is perpetually the present, it's difficult to have a true pop culture.  Pop relies on memories.  It happens, and it was that thing, but then it goes away.  It was silly, and we loved the novelty of it.    

However,  thing's don't really go away anymore, they get continued, rebooted, or dressed in a new shiny shell.  And we don't have the options to forget.  We only have options to filter.  And boy oh boy, that net is polluted.  

gritty handheld style it is not, asshole.

After watching a recent Hollywood film lauded as one of the great achievements of the year (the year would be last), I did what I do when I can't seem to figure out the hype from the fact.  At the very least, my facts against mediocrity.

So, I turned into some reviews to hear the voice of the critic.  Now, I only do this after the movie.  Mostly, just to gauge the critical zeitgeist and maybe to pick up on points that I neglected, or tuned out possibly due to bias.  In fact, often, I want to be proved wrong.  I want to be moved to believe that the movie was a masterpiece and I was just being an asshole, or plainly, ignorant.

So, after flipping through a couple of these eloquent reviews, one phrase stood out from the rest, breathing fire into the cultural void of existence. "Gritty handheld style" was this very phrase.  

Everytime I read something so asinine, I want to stop and call out to my maker.  But the fact that this was repeated in no less then 5 reviews in back to back succession makes me think, that sometimes, people are in a haze of automation, devoid of anything critical, analytical, or imaginative.  

Gritty handheld style in this particular case was nothing at all gritty.  What the fuck does this describe?  Realism?  Well, in this particular case, not at all.  Does it describe fortitude or determination.  No.  50 million dollars with the best technical minds around making fiction never ever fucking equates to GRITTY.  Ever.  (well, actually, there are a couple cases historically.  this is not one.  and I'm assuming, the budget never crossed the 25million mark) 

What it does describe however, is that all these clowns picked up the same description from wherever the hell, like 10 years ago, and decided to use it again, and again, and again, and thus removing any descriptive quality about it, in favor of press releasing a review.  In today's language, this just fucking blows.

I call for an indefinite ban, and personal banishment for any hee-haw that uses the phrase, "gritty handheld style" to describe anything related to a film.  They can however, use it to describe their latest iphone video of there cat licking its nuts.  As long as the phone is not locked down on a tripod, and that it is in fact, gritty by definition.


What drives us forward?  In our younger development, we were propelled towards things in large part, because of a little thing called curiosity.  The shapes, the sounds, the textures, the possibilities of the world elicited a feeling of amazement, and a need to find out.  It was a world of endless wonder.  Limitless in scope and full of options.  A simple turn of the head informed of new opportunities.  

Then we grew up.  John Cassavetes has an interesting quote about MAN when he turns of age, and in his time, it was around 23.  I can't recall it of the top of my head, and instead of accuracy, I will paraphrase for affect instead.  Basically, he says that people lose interest in discovery around their early twenties.  All that music that got you moving, or art, or literature, or movies that challenged you, or where worthy of further investigation, all gone.  You grew up.  You put on your 3 piece, and got on with life.  The pattern, set in stone.

But what happened to life?  Curiosity was exchanged for order.  It was sold to dogma.  In our time, this process happens a little later.  Maybe in your late twenties, but possibly into you're early thirties.  We give up our search, usually by blaming the lack of time.  

Now, of course priorities change.  You have a baby, we get married, we have a multitude of responsibilities.  Shit, you have to provide for yourself.  Something that our 16 year old, first world self’s usually didn’t bother with, nor fathom its complexity.  But, what happened to the search for wonder, amazement?  Where does it go?

Do we just crawl to our evolutionary predisposition?  Does biology dictate that curiosity is not of value anymore.  “I AM WHAT I AM”, we love to say, as if, cemented from the beginning of time.

Isn't that a counterintuitive remnant of our past human life?  And here, I inject blatant commercialism that might resinate, since millions of dollars where spent to get you to buy something, by first associating two very different things.  "Stay thirsty my friends."

a light glistens.

a light glistens.

Terrence Malick Yo Momma

Terrence Malick is the silent type.  The myth of the artist who lives on his own terms, without the need to do interviews, photographs, premieres and anything  else having to do with the world outside of his own.  (addendum: fucking spoiled brat)

I respect that.  In a perfect world, that's what I would want.  Or, at least, that's what I thought I wanted.

We live in the extreme opposite of that world nowadays.  Everything now is about connecting.  Everything is about being honest, raw, out in the open.  Dignity separates the attention whores from the sincere.     

If you were like me, one who wished that they could get even a small slice of that Malick land, or even the Daniel Day Lewis world of compartmentalized secrecy, best of luck to you.  

Times have changed, and we don't travel to a place we once were culturally.  No, only time we do that is when we pick up pieces to throw in our post-modern potluck.  It doesn't stay, nor last.

More important however, is that it's not about Malick or Daniel Day Lewis, or anybody.  It's about you.  And your choices. You're under no obligation by some force field of protocols that you need to behave someway to be some idealized version of what YOU SHOULD BE. 

First step, kill your heroes.  Not figuratively.  But really, destroy them.  They are just like you.  They worked hard.  They got some breaks.  

Work hard.  That's what you can control.  Learn.  Do. 

Make your own rules.  (yeah, we got cheesy toward the end, but, I'm on that caffeine 101 and some pent up aggression from losing a rap battle last night)

Terrence Malick Yo Momma.

Terrence Malick Yo Momma.

Check List to Infinite

An observation that goes a little something like this -

Our "to do's" list fall mostly into two categories.  First up is "THE CHECKLIST’ER MASTURBATOR", a man/woman obsessed with the infinite busy nothings to the highest degree of pedantry, and the second, "THE BI-POLAR UP SWINGING ON A GOD COMPLEX"; a humanoid capable of all things and everything now, like right now.  

I find that on the occasions where I can find balance (center) I can get in the middle, and things generally get done at the rate and manner which is agreeable to universal laws.

A Dispatch from Mexico Seetea (or, 10 Line Items for a McNugget Breakdown of Mexico)

-Mexican food is wonderful

-Cuernavaca is a magical place; especially if you’re a foreigner and purchased a huge villa with a botanical garden, next to your tennis court.  Although, the natives I met where very proud of the city regardless of villa size.  The weather; “Eternal Spring Stylz”.

-I traveled through the Sierra Madre's, wherein it reminded me of one of my favorite John Huston classics; THE TREASURE OF THE SIERRA MADRE.  This was a real psychological comfort.  Later, I was told that what we drove through was the Sierra Madre del Sur, and that the one in the movie was the other range, know as Sierra Madre Oriental which was situated on the gulf side.  And yet still, another range north of the Sierre Madre del Sur exist’s, named the Sierra Madre Occidental.  So, count em, three Sierra Madre Mountain ranges in Mexico. Don’t ever forget it.

Mexico City - shot from ABC Hospital 

Mexico City - shot from ABC Hospital 

-The airport smelled like diarrhea from a newborn (this description was provided to me by an extremely competent Surgeon whom I was traveling with).  My report wasn't as specific, nor as nuanced.

-I stayed at an Airport Hotel one night out of scheduling necessity.  First time.  And certainly last time if I happen to visit Mexico City again.  See above for reason.

-Observed hundreds of open aired eateries throughout the city.  Like, maybe thousands.

-The majority of Mexicans I talked to believe that the drug cartel problem is mostly American propaganda.  It exits, but, "doesn't really affect regular Mexicans".

-Always take more ADVIL on trips then you think is necessary.

-A red eye flight, straight to a shoot is not as efficient as it sounds. But it is just as horrendous as it sounds. 

-Alaska Airlines has the youngest flight attendants I've found among the US airlines.  Does this have to do with union status (can I pose a question without the need to verify?)