I’m concerned by the power I give to Fox News even as I oppose it. The concern leads me to work and rework my writing. Is this for watchers of Fox News? Am I trying to persuade them against a bad habit? Should I attempt philosophical arguments about those beliefs? In some versions I try this, but the arguments fall flat.
As anyone with chronic pain that keeps them up: terrible insomnia, a person who works a day and night job to make ends meet, or simply a student who must spend their late hours studying to pass their next exam, will tell you: sleep is not a necessity that everyone is entitled to, sleep is a luxury that the lucky are allowed and that the unlucky must learn to live without.
In Season 1 Episode 3 of Community, “Introduction to Film” Britta Perry (Gillian Jacobs) doesn’t paint a picture of a subject who’s painting a picture, per se. Nor does she address the viewers in any way, shape, or form. However, she does interfere with the fictional life of Abed Nadir (Danny Pudi) and it’s what causes him to dive deeper into the meta, bringing its essence to the forefront of the show’s theme and viewer outreach. This (in my simple, humble opinion) is the reason for the show’s razing: the over use of the meta that stems from a single episode.
He uncorks and places it in his mouth,
squeezes the bladder
sending air across the brown liquid
that lives in the cups,
into his mouth and lungs.
Holidays in Paris, we could pay no mind to the ossuaries
Dine with strangers and dribble ribald speech over wine
Youth was wet and sanguine
“We are simply trying to learn as much as we can about your husband’s disappearance. You must realize that the circumstances are very unusual. We’ve searched the Mendocino hotel and scoured the headland trails down to the beach.” The detective pauses. “In fact, Mrs. Douglas, no one’s reported seeing your husband since you both left the Heritage yesterday morning.”
“Hey.” I try my best to keep my voice steady. One hand curls around the joystick of my power wheelchair as the other hand rests on my lap. Normally, I would clasp my hands together, but they’re shaking so hard I want to keep them apart.
“More likely they’ll get the big city pastors to come down here and scold me,” Johnny said. “Pastor Simmons is already coming around for breakfast most days to chew me out. Although I think maybe he’s doing it a little bit for God’s eggs, too.”
When the Beaver’s finally meet Oxnard, he is exactly what every B-movie star should be—manly, action-oriented, booming voice. But unlike those stars, he is woefully uncoordinated, a complete tool, and ineffective in every way.
Shaking his head, Edmond turns to face the marina again and takes his first bite of the croissant. Flakes melt on his tongue and the buttery aroma float up the roof of his mouth but instead of the familiar solace, unease blooms in his gut.
I watched Midsommar yesterday
I liked when the guy from We’re The Millers peed on the ancestral tree
And how the Swedish lady cut off his face
For years after the Yardbirds he appeared to be a frustrated musician. This brought back recollections of the Yardbirds in Antoniono’s 1966 movie Blow Up where Beck’s Vox amp keeps feeding back, so he slams the head of his guitar against it, again and again, and then throw the guitar to the stage and destroys it with his hands and feet.
“There’s only one thing left to do,” I announce to nobody, and trudge on into the kitchen toward the cabinet under the sink. That’s where I keep all the chemicals they say we should never use but can’t clean our toilet bowls without.
And from just behind,
the arrows of yellow cabs
shoot back and forth through her heart,
shoot all the time she is singing,
and the cigarettes, out through the glass,
seem aimed right at her feet.
I pull out my phone to transcribe this conversation for Gummy Bear, when my mother appears in the doorway. She has a large sweet tea clutched in her fingers and takes a long pull from the straw before saying, “What the hell are you doing here?”
What they don't say
is how the cold weather
turns a predator desperate,
sneaking in among sleeping houses
A distinctly British creation, Jonathan Creek manages to somehow balance between horrific, comedic, and mundane in a bizarre ménage à trois that one could watch forever. It’s not pornographic; it’s art. Or at least it’s the kind of teleplay smut that your weird friend calls art.