11:14 is a 'who/why dunnit?' suspense film that keeps you guessing and engaged. If you are one of those people who dislikes the gimmick of showing the same few minutes of real time over and over again, just realize this is not some shit like: 'Vantage Point' (one of the many 'good-trailer-bad-movies', I fell victim to).
Across the Universe may be the best musical ever put on film. One prerequisite: you need to be familiar with, and not-dislike, Beatle's songs (Note: not-disliking is different than liking, in this case). The songs weave into the plot, small snippits of Beatle-lyrics jump out of the dialogue, and the whole thing is capped off by some great cameos by Salma Hayek, Eddie Izzard, Bono, and Joe Cocker.
an inconvenient truth, a documentary by Al Gore, is the only documentary that made it to this list (and I watch quite a few). If you want to learn some of the specific reasons scientists know the earth is warming because of things we've done and are doing, watch. If you already know everything because FOX news tells you about all the things the bible leaves out, don't watch.
Brick is the most unusual mix of 'young love' meets 'Sam Spade'. Joseph Gordon-Levitt can almost do no wrong in my book (and his character, here, is no exception). The dialogue requires your complete attention; not a film to watch while anything else could distract you (a friend told me it helped when she watched it with subtitles because of the constant, fast-original, slang).
Cashback is about a sketch/painter-artist (so I may be biased to include it here). It also contains dry 'British' humor and pretty naked women (two other things, which may cause me to give it preferential treatment). It has a subplot that centers around a science-fictionesque ability of the main character . . . and an SF trailer can suck me in better than most. So — with all that aside — how can this be a great film? It just is.
Children of Men is Clive Owen at his absolute best. If there is a better representation of the 'ever-weary-reluctant hero' character I have not seen it. This strong futuristic-SF/road film should be at the top of your to-see list (or your to-see again list if you've watched all of these).
Hard Candy, a small-budget revenge-film that doesn't get off-message and delivers in a chilling, thrilling way, shows that Ellen Page (Juno) has always been able to pick a great role (and was always able to nail her performance). 
No Country For Old Men is the best drama on the list. If you haven't already seen this film you must not be a film-watcher; maybe you don't watch films recommended by others, or shun films that have won awards. If so . . .there are some funny things over on U-Tube, whyn't you go check 'em out? Right now. Yea, now.
Old Boy will shock and enthrall those who don't mind subtitles (it's Korean). It was released in '05, but I didn't see it until '07. If you do any research on it, you'll have the plot-twist(s) spoiled and then it won't be a mystery, will it? Not for squeamish viewers. Strangely, this is the only subtitled film that made this list of must-see's. Since my taste runs heavily foreign (maybe as much as 30%) I'm surprised only one made my list.
Shortbus is the best quasi-porn-esque film I've ever seen. John Cameron Mitchell (Hedwig and the Angry Inch) wrote and directed this sex-story, included funny dialogue, a real plot, found good-to-OK actors and actresses, and actually got it distributed (limited release) in theaters. If you have always hated porn films (except the parts between the fast-forward's) this is for you. If you are homophobic this is not for you.
Southland Tales, one film I've, now, put on my see-again list. Mostly, because I'm certain I'd get more out of the second viewing. An SF-mystery-thriller that is confusing and a half-dark funny; it's the one you'll love or hate, understand or quit watching (with a "WTF did I just see?"). If you have to pee or if you are hungry when you watch this, you will lose the spider-silk-thread of plot. Requires 10 times more concentration than Children of Men.
Wristcutters, a love story contains a funny, one-of-a-kind plot about what the ever-after holds for suicides. This film was almost beat-out by 'Wall-E'; but because it made me laugh-out-loud, contained some sharp dialogue, and actually made me think... it stuck in my head more than the animated, cute, SF film.
I (we) chose to move to Portland, Oregon, three months ago, on not much more than: gut-instincts, a hope that serendipitous events of yesteryear were precursors not coincidence, and the urgent desire to flee the southwest. This last reason was the strongest.
an article in a Portland newspaper, which surmised that the local homeless population were possibly all members of some collective organization (like in Fritz Lang's film: M). The author said he would be more willing to provide a donation of money if he knew the scruffy guy at the stop light was not part of an organization. This idiot surmised the existence of: vans, schedules, time-clocks, supervisors, and treasury clerks. He figured it was acceptable to give the "vet" (his quotes, meaning he doubted the claim; ...oh, it's such an effective ruse) a sandwich or a bottle of water, but money would certainly only be fueling some addiction. And, he heard there were instances where "beggars" lived in nice homes with families/automobiles (...and two cats in the yard...) and that they "could be making more than the rest of us poor working slobs".
—no matter if they are a member of the 'honest, self-deprecating' chapter; the 'pity-me' chapter; or the 'most uniquely bizarre' chapter.I found him by following the flex. The flex from the standing lamp connected to an orange extension lead which connected to a white extension lead which connected to another orange extension lead...On a slightly different, but similar, note. If a story has been transliterated from another roman (or latin)-based language (e.g. Spanish, German) why are proper nouns not translated? Each time this happens, the same 'hiccup' occurs: I'm jarred out of the story (because I'm being reminded, "Hey, this is a translation. This is not the language of the author.") For obvious reasons, this is never an issue with semantic/phonetic transcriptions of cyrillic or other non-roman-based alphabets.
I found him by following the electric cord. The cord from the floor lamp connected to an orange extension cord which connected to a white extension cord which connected to another orange extension cord...
One (of many) notable moments occurred after many weeks in a cramped car, guest rooms, cheap hotels, and camps: We stopped for the night at Lake Saranac in upstate New York and rented a cottage for one evening (a splurge). Our hopes were on easing the tensions of our proximity-overload. We basked in front of a roaring fireplace; soaked in a highly-effective hot tub; ate in a kitchen where Pam made one of our favorite meals; and....received some cat love. We were missing ours. A cabin cat showed up, came in, and snuggled. To top off the night—we took a canoe out and paddled into the moonlight with the shore lights gleaming off the water.
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| Difficult Index - pen/ink - 2001 |
They claim to send a meta crawler into your entire site, select words from your blog that you use, and will print it on a shirt of your choosing.
This is the preview for snapperhead:
 | After three seconds it stops. Just like on the pier: I have no sense of touch. Need to leave! Watching each of my movements with care, I board an empty elevator. All feeling returns as I cross the lobby. Finally! Other than a man in a blue smock approaching, there is no hubbub. He says, “Mijnheer...?” I stop. “Umm, Lorber.” He hands me a paperback-sized screen and says, “de vorm seven-aught-eight-four-two-four, double-three.” I read, declare myself a non-compensated suicide facilitator, and sign with a stylus. I hand the computer back and walk out the front doors. One-sleeve’s husk is gone. |
 | Guess I should think of him as Fred Lindquist; his name, on the form. I watch two men in protective clothing with tanks on their backs rinse the pavement. I use the V-Sat, wait, and get in when the car arrives. Circling the block, I remove the pistol from under the front seat and zip it into an inside jacket pocket. The biohazard-men are gone when I pick up Holly. “Did you hear the alarm earlier?” she asks. “Yes.” “The briefer told us it’s to warn pedestrians that someone is jumping off the roof. They get a couple a day.” |
 | I say, “tell me about it,” and watch her beautiful profile as she talks. Mission is, now, almost fleshed-out. …web-word spreads about ‘new-best’ everything: woman-in-red to visit, methods, places for a last meal... How to best utilize a question? …compensation for lost revenue if an establishment temporarily becomes a ‘lemming cliff’… Ohura interrupts: construction – 32-kilometer detour – or select manual.. “Manual,” I reply. “What?” Ish’s last expression (of ‘unbranded carrier’ fear)—crosses Holly’s face. “You ever control a sled?” “Yes. Dan Ryan during Chicago rush hour.” I say as the accelerator presses my foot and steering responds to my fingertips. |
 | “Oh,” she says, relaxing and turning her attention to the in-dash screen. “I forget you’re American.” Maneuvering irregular roadway sections bordering a site containing several building-top cranes, I indicate with my chin, “unfamiliar with this.” “The epicenter, I think,” she replies. “I’ve got our kiosk results, but don’t read until you’re off manual.” Once available, I return to handicap automatic. Glancing toward the screen, Holly’s body posture grabs my attention. She kisses me; soft lips with a flick of tongue. I kiss back. Honeysuckle fills my nose and a left eye as green as a four-leaf clover fills my vision. |
 | After reading our negative results—which reflects Joe has not been tested since arriving two years ago, all but confirming his virginity—the car stops and we escape the drizzle under an awning. “Never been to this part of town, where are we headed?” she asks. “A few blocks east of the Internationaal Instituut…ahh, over there.” I point across the street at a pedestrian walkway. We hold hands. In the afternoon, with no reflected blaze of artificial lights, the massive mirror-and-chrome block looks less imposing. Holly chooses the pizza and beer joint—Best of Both Worlds—with no coaching. |
 | While selecting a table, an intoxicated, mustachioed-man—shorter than me by a few inches, lighter by a few kilos, and younger by several hundred years—bolts from the back and almost knocks us down. To prevent the collision, I hip-check him into an empty table, spilling most of my beer. As he climbs upright, I estimate the placement of a nonfatal windpipe-crushing blow. In gutter-French he stammers, “Feckin bitch-all-worthless highn’-mighty, dre-serve to die. Filth-cunt!” Spittle froths in the corners of his mouth. Silently, two waiters manhandle him away while a third apologetically brings me a fresh drink. Holly pales. |
 | “Just a drunk and he is gone,” I say. With strong shock behind her eyes and over-filling her voice, she says, “we dated. Martin-something. Haven’t seen him in years. Never did anything ‘cause he always refused a joint test and, instead, showed me dodgy private print-outs.” Her coincidence not mine. Nonetheless, I nudge the pistol. After four beers and a pizza, Holly appears relaxed. We dance a few songs. During Neunundneunzig Luftballoons the lights grow blurry streamers. Maybe just the beer? Colors fade away. No such luck. Vision closes in; disappears to gray. I pull her close and slow dance. |
 | I savor soft kisses through two more songs. Did I overlook a signal? A waiter or busboy? Slipping Holly my wallet, I tell her to pay and meet me out front. By memory, I work my way to the WC. Empty. I piss and wash without interruption. Through a side service door, I sidle in the direction of crowd noises. At the corner, near knee height, I hear the squeak of someone twist-molding a balloon and muttering in French: ‘fuck-cunt-fuck-cunt’. I smell honeysuckle. With the barrel in contact with a sweaty mustachioed skull, the retort is muffled to door-slam proportions. |
 | My vision snaps into focus on a crimson splash of hair-brains on the silver building. I pick up my wallet and help Holly to her feet. Choking, she stumbles over Martin-something’s torso. I lead us through the crowd. LΓΆsch’s guidance about Gendarmerie abilities causes me to cross the street and, after two blocks, wait for a bus-train where Holly vomits in a trash receptacle. After fifteen minutes, we get off and she gasps through tears, “you saved me, Joe.” I shush, hold her, and stroke her hair while waiting in a turnout for the car. It begins to rain. Hard. |
 | After instructing Ohura I say, “if you can, I would like to know more.” I hug her and stare through the windshield. She whispers, “he was waiting. Flying one-ought-five or something, not just drunk. I said he confused me with someone else. Then I ran. He grabbed me. I could see the shadows of people passing; none helped.” “Was he a carrier?” One down. “Wrong skin and he’d be dead already; maybe, hiding his identity? I mistakenly heard, ‘mighty oak’s never confused,’ but it was really: ‘Marty Oak’. Before—he was Ballard. I remember now.” Oak, in Spanish, is Roble. |
 | Turning to look me in the eye, Robert-not-Bob says, “Oh, annnnd…Wash Cabinet is de rigueur, but I understand Water Closet is still acceptable…” I smile at him and pick up the peppershaker to examine my warped reflection; how did I get that scar? He continues, “…told me about the SDU last month; you slick-frick! Playing stupid so she gains a faux mental edge means… Finally gonna ask her, aren’t ya?” I shrug. Grin. Memories of past conversations sidle into place—as if they just got caught out of their seats without permission. I envision Holly spread across the pallet. |
 | Interrupted—as she shoots a bowl of frothy beverage at me with a, “figured you could use this; I’ll be back with your special…” and then gives the international waitperson ‘I’ve-got-other-customers’ gesture. “You heard it. She thinks ‘you’re special’. I’d love to sit and dis-encourage you, but I’m headed over to Barbara’s…and don’t give me that eye-thing you do when you think about me getting so much when you get so little. Can you cover the check today?” I nod, waive at his departure, and fake laugh, which grabs hold of my caffeinated lack-of-sleep and becomes a giggle. |
 | “Laughing with—or at yourself?” Holly slides a plate of yellow, beige, and brown food in front of me with a garnish of red and a glass of orange; then takes a knee where Robert-not-Bob sat. Finger-clearing at the slaphappy tears I say, “I would like to go out with you.” Standing up and straightening her apron she replies, “I visit my uncle after the lunch crowd, today. He lives out by the airport in branded-housing. How about after? Tonight?” “I could take you to visit him in my loaner-car and we could go from there.” “You’ve got a sled?” |
 | “The use of one.” I nod. “Boring for you, while I hand-hold Uncle Deeter.” “I can keep occupied. Besides, this new civil-soc construct is interesting. Never been inside the new housing project.” “Ohhhh, I forgot your Social Engineering minor. Well sure then. Pick me up here at fifteen?” For the next four hours I eat and drink. Pay and over-tip. Confirm and smile-waive. Ride and zone out. Undress and Nap. Wake, shower, return (in my loaner-sled) and wait in front of Ray’s as bully-clouds threaten to suffocate the sun overhead. Holly exits. Momentarily shocked by the waitress-to-supermodel transformation, I stare. |
 | “I was less than honest, Joe,” she says, taking my arm as we walk. “I actually have to get a briefing at the Peste D'HΓ΄pital. I felt funny explaining when customers might overhear. See, they’re predicting a trend: several suicides a day—and not only in the WC’s; some kind of ‘last meal’ thing.” Holly’s sandy hair frames her face. “You look wonderful,” I say. “Thank you,” she smiles. Tugging me to a stop, “how about this kiosk?” she asks, leading us into a metal, empty, bus-stop-sized sidewalk-booth. Touching an indent, she looks at me and down at the console. |
 | I’m expected to do something! I scan buttons and read multi-language instructions. She takes my left hand, guides my finger toward the console’s other indent, pushes buttons and retrieves a receipt. We walk. “Robert said you were inexperienced,” she says as I use the V-Sat. I roll my eyes. As the car enters traffic, Holly replies to Ohura. All the windows become dark-translucent, music thumps, sandalwood fills the air. “It’s a turn-on. Are you a virgin?” She asks. How to answer? Joe is, but not me? I shrug and look out the moonroof. “That’s cool.” She smiles and holds my hand. |
 | “Do you have a handy?” I nod. She holds out her palm. Giving her LΓΆsch’s phone earns me a: “No-wonder, s’not-even-on. Men,” sigh. After a few seconds of fussing she hands it back, “Not sure how long, but I’ll call when it’s over.” The car stops. We get out. I say, “Hope you learn how to prevent people from killing themselves after eating your food.” Which earns me an explosion of full-on laughter. While laughing, Holly is stunning. I enter the elevator with a man wearing a hospital gown without one sleeve—displaying his star-shaped burn. Proud of his brand? |
 | Pressing the 12 – Park button, I glance at one-sleeve. His skin looks rough and flabby. Ish’s brand must have been under a red patch of felt! Ouch! “You ‘nterested ‘n halloween candy?” One sleeve’s English is extremely nasal. I turn. He cradles a handful of black and orange capsules and says, “You know this ’s the straight One-Oh-Five.” I squeeze off the elevator, hold it for three shuffling on, and step into a grassy, roof-park with bushes, flowerbeds, and trellises. He follows. “My family’s ‘n need. Twenty-five each?” On a bench, I take out piggyback dad’s notebook and write: Explain. |
 | “You can ‘nderstand, just can’t talk?” This is easier. I shrug and make the keep-going finger motion. As I learn about the Belgian assisted suicide program, I nod once in a while. Everyone is prescribed a 105 pill. Although one-sleeve steals unattended pills, the majority are purchased from in- or out-patients who do not intend to suicide by overdose. Recently he decided to sell and send his profits to his sister in Milwaukee. One-sleeve takes me to where he wants to eventually jump. We look down at the turnout. I tap the notebook. “Goin’ out messy’s the only plan left.” |
 | I tap. “Wanna go ou’ big. Was gonna spike somethin' with the 105’s, like tha' Tylenol guy back in the 70’s,” 1982, “in Seattle-someplace.” Chicago. I lose my balance and sit. Tap. “Couldn’t find anything tha' wasn’t tamper-resistant seven ways from fuck-me-Fred.” Nerve endings in the inner ear go first; I keep my eyes on the horizon for balance as my fingertips and feet fall asleep. “Ya gonna buy my stash?” I stand in a rush, bracing forward; arms thrust, legs pump. One-sleeve has enough time to register a shocked grimace before he disappears over the rail. A claxon blares. |
Koontz at his best. This one rivals Odd Thomas with it's wonderful combination of: story/plot, interesting protagonist(s) and antagonist(s), building and maintaining suspense, humor, and overall je ne sais quoi. I always enjoy his down-to-earth-yet-bizarre villains who coincidentally happenstance upon unique-unsung-heroes much more than any of his far-fetched supernatural-aliens, and this one cements my favoritism in place.
This one is worth purchasing in hardback and keeping for your grandkids to enjoy in the 2020's.
Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang (2005) directed by Shane Black (directorial debut, screenwriter); starring Robert Downey Jr. and Val Kilmer: Snaprating=Keeper, PROBLEM theme (Character sub-theme). Downey is wonderful in this enthralling and hilarious 'unwitting-PI, murder-mystery-gone-awry', which has the look and feel of The Pink Panther meets Jackie Brown with an Elmore Leonardesque smell and taste.
In this newest of the Sunny Randall series, the female Boston PI is further defined as rough and tough (and at-the-same-time emotionally-fragile). This quick-read develops the character while uniting her with Susan Silverman (from the Spencer series). Read Parker not for plots or characters but for fast, smooth, movement of action using mostly dialogue. Available in paperback for Parker fans, and at your library for all others.
 | Within meters of a turn out—empty at this hour—the V-Sat vibrates. It’s screen reads: Confirm ETA 225. I press the center button. The screen becomes yellow and begins counting backward. In exchange for my gray, I could experience all of Joe’s life. Definitely worth it, if measured in decades. Not so much, if I become just another Radimer. A tan, four-door, Mercedes TS1220 quietly enters the turnout. Electric power? Vibrating and flashing, the V-Sat reads: ETD 10, and counts backward. I press. It turns green and reads: Load. The driver’s door slides open. I get in. Oh. Wow. |
 | Before I have a chance to contemplate the smell of comfort—the door closes, harnesses envelop, the car begins to leave the turn out, and Lieutenant Ohura’s voice says: destination. Without thinking, I reply, “coffee.” WOooonderfully tired! Ohura says: select, and an in-dash screen—autumn trees blowing in the wind—becomes a moving photo-map with a list of coffee shops and cafΓ©’s. I say, “the nearest.” Acceleration presses me gently into soft leather as the screen returns to red-orange trees...reminiscent of Busse Woods. Wonder what the dragon-master gained from my last mission? Chicago, 1982? “Search, Chicago, Nineteen-Eighty-Two,” I say. |
 | ‘Everybody needs a little time away… I heard her say…’ “Stop.” The music cuts off. Joe is computer savvy, therefore, I am. All I need to do is refine the… Although still traveling, Ohura interrupts: fast-poured available. I read the menu (and, apparently, there are more screens if this list of thirty-six premiere coffees is insufficient). “Twelve, extra-large.” Seventeen-fifty - credit - confirm? “Twenty, with tip. Yes.” Thanks for the expensive Java, LΓΆsch. Where was I? Thinking about music? The car slows, window lowers, a man gives me a cup and a thank-you-sir; as window and speed rise, the car re-enters traffic. |
 | As I clarify my new destination with Ohura, because Joe’s flat is equidistant from two turnouts, I drink my Vanilla Latte-chino. From among the horde of bicyclists, an amazing ass stands out—forcing me to look out the rear window as I pass, to see if her ventral is as pleasant as her dorsal view. drive setting: automatic - full-manual - or - combination manual-auto available - occupying driver-seat required by… “Handicap automatic,” cuts Ohura off. Must have shifted in my seat too much, or bumped the wheel; LΓΆsch said to direct the override-setting each time I got in, but I forgot. Sooo tired. |
 | Standing in the hall outside Joe’s flat, I concentrate on the door-combination: 31-11-20-29. His own goddamn birthday? Who’s savvy? The pocket-door rolls open. A half-glance right as I u-turn into the bathroom completes a recon: pallet in the far corner, clothes on a broken rack, and a desk (actually two doors propped across four sawhorses). I sit. My pent-up-urine-burst is nearly orgasmic; defecation brings chills up my back and across my scalp. The pleasure of evacuation: another reason to consider LΓΆsch's offer. Crumpled over the drainpipe for the sink, a crusty rag reminds me of something else I forgot: masturbation! |
 | On the pallet, holding an unfamiliar, flaccid penis in my right hand, I attempt envisioning Zuella. Why is first intimacy always difficult? Squinting at the skylights, I recognize that—besides a window over the tub the size of a cribbage board—these are this flat’s sole natural-light openings. Four-meter ceilings. Emergency-egress prohibitive. When Grimy Go-between and Piggyback Dad team-up to take back the Surinam’s Ish purchased… …climb metal scaffolding… …wiggle onto roof… …attain foothold on cloud-bulletin-board… …fall. I wake-up. If I decide to keep Joe’s life, I should keep my breakfast appointment. I have an hour and a good hard-on. |
 | I exercise my cow-milking muscles. On the pier, Zuella walks towards me completely naked. The rub of fingers over my ventral ridge creates a familiar tingle-tickle sensation. She smiles like Zuella used to. My pace increases. Her nipples are erect. I enter. focus. on. one. Nipple. In. My. Mouth. ON. MY. TONGUE. I continue pawing for many long seconds beyond ejaculation. Once the spasms subside, I get up and take a shower. Stupid to return where piggyback dad discovered it is not a small world—but if I want Joe’s life, I need to keep his friends and his routines. |
 | Shaving, I notice a tiny scar on the top edge of my lip. How did I get that? Yesterday, I asked a question without thinking—did I set myself up for a deception? Robert-not-Bob said, ‘breakfast tomorrow? Ten-thirtyish?’ I think my reply was, ‘Ten-thirty’—open to interpretation and non-committal. My memory is unclear. If I said, ‘see you then’—with no intention of returning at that time—I could be back on the pier at 1031. I hurry. Wearing dark slacks and a silky, teal-and-ivory, pull-over sweater-jacket with zippered inside pockets, I approach the, now busy, turnout. V-Sat time: 1008. |
 | Once inside the car, I ask Ohura to play some smooth music. Immediately, incredible ambient overlapping melodies ease into me. I smile, even though the day is becoming cloudy. I notice a MasterPark sign and say, “Query. Vehicle parking. Locations and ordinances.” A map of the city—with dozens of blue ‘P’ indicators and a list of topics—fills the screen. In minutes, I learn about EU-mandated, underground, park-fuel structures in metropolitan areas. From the turnout, I walk a half-block. The restaurant is nearly empty. Sliding into the booth, I smile at Holly who is listening to Robert-not-Bob talk football. |
 | Speaking into his orange juice glass—just like LΓΆsch did last night—Robert-not-Bob says, “Did you hear, JoLo? Another one.” Holly finishes while he gulps, “This makes three, and still no sight of SDU. Guess this one wasn’t messy. Ray says not to touch the WC until they get here.” I shake my head, “Acronyms.” Holly shrugs, “Suicide… something-with-a-D …Unit? Anyway. Want the special? Still got some left.” I nod. She walk-skips away. We watch. “Maybe a system-glitch,” Robert-not-Bob says. “But probably, SouillΓ© DΓ©placement UnitΓ©’s directive is: Wait, someone else will clean it; if not, displace multiple soiled’s and triple-bill.” |
I honestly despise every bit and byte of the most recent revelations from the sunset stained stucco-and-concrete hued neurons in y...
