Cloud Keeper leans back
against the Caring Meter Reader,
listens to it chime,
and lights a glowing cigarette.
Cloud Keeper leans back
against the Caring Meter Reader,
listens to it chime,
and lights a glowing cigarette.
Mr. Butterchips fends of both the virus and ignorance in the latest installment from Alex Schumacher!
In this month’s Once Upon a Time in Film Scoring, Sean explores the role of Ludwig van Beethoven’s music in the biopic Immortal Beloved.
Universal Pictures and Blumhouse Productions give a face-lift to the classic H. G. Wells tale, less science fiction and more thriller. The updated narrative follows Cecilia (Elizabeth Moss), a trauma survivor who must convince those around her that she is not insane in her belief that her abusive husband is still haunting her—despite evidence that points to his alleged suicide. Leigh Whannell effectively sustains tension through the use of long takes and suggestion. Scares in certain scenes, however, become less effective due to the revealing trailer. Overall, Cecilia’s ordeal leads to a satisfying conclusion, steeped in empathy and female empowerment.
I already thought The Turning was the worst horror film so far this year, but this pretentious slow burn supersedes it. Although directed and acted competently, The Lodge sinfully features a terrible script. Only its prologue is shocking, the rest a hodgepodge of weak dialog, empty religious symbolism, and a conceit that cannot stand on its own. Even its “twist” leaves no sympathetic characters to connect with. In fact, the film may be seen as offensive in its portrayal of mental illness, trauma victims, and religion. The Lodge is a cold film that slogs on toward its inevitably bleak conclusion.
Drunk Monkeys celebrates 100 columns of “Captain Canada’s Movie Rodeo” this month! We love you, Gabe!
And thus, we are caught in between. To be born in America is to know one has been blessed with disproportionate influence and power, to have the opportunity to manifest more change than most of the planet’s people dare to dream. Yet clinging to that promise requires active participation in a system that has insulated itself from the instinct to rebel against it. We will never acquire the money and influence necessary to pose feasible alternatives unless we play the game. And by the time we’ve won, we’re so invested in the game that it’s too late to change.
I’m not saying that under
communism I wouldn’t be
a drunk I’m saying that
under communism it
would be easier not to
drink
I’m lying. All that sky does
is disappear into the water.
Idiots call that the horizon.
I don’t want the room to work
this hard. Half-drunk
can of IPA sweating
on the windowsill, thermostat
too high.
like the tree that hosts moths
and sips sun i am pushing all of my
clear spirit out to myriad branches
until some of the world splits the yolk of me
and i run golden and glowing
It was hard to hear my own voice.
The wind often took my breath away,
and my sister’s laughs
were carried away
on its currents.
She whipped around, her backside split against his thigh, and arched backwards like a ballerina, plunging her elbow into his throat, thinking, now there’s the lever! He fell over the side of the bridge easily, too easily. She didn’t even hear a splash. She pulled her notebook from her purse, preparing to document the experience. She paused, pen attached to paper, an inky blot expanding out from the felt tip. Then she threw that in, too.
Edith was remarkably learned and sensitive, and, like me, took a daily regimen of anti-depressants. Problems only arose when she got wound up or jealous and acted like someone stole her eggs.
We had an important proposal one morning about poultry fumes and worked separately, combining our queries into one manuscript—Edith’s—which looked as if she edited the entire proposal.
I’m opening my wings like a black cormorant sunning
itself on a rock. My bill is a hotbed of fish-bodies:
What other episodes lack in cohesiveness, however, can be found in “Mistaken Identity,” which is the first to thread the needle between the show’s often brash humor and its honest engagement with serious social issues.
But a massacre had been done in the garden. Her blue geraniums lay mangled in wheel rut. She stooped and lifted damaged stems. A glint caught her eye. She parted a laurel’s branches and saw a foil packet in the dirt. “Silvertip Condom,” the printing said. “Sold for the prevention of disease.”
Mom closed her eyes, the Xanax helped her get through this day, and I knew what she was thinking-thanking the Madonna for protecting her husband, for giving him the chances to get out, for giving them thirty-five years together. Mom kissed her husband one last time. She recalled dad saying how in Hungary grieving family members would jump into the grave on top of the casket and have to be pulled back out. I then understood why. He was always so strong in spirit and body – I stood by his bedside realizing how quickly life had changed.
The petit bourgeois has stolen flight from the birds. Autumn has been replaced with falling real estate prices. Outside Quicken Loans Arena the
scalpers walk a picket line. They chant “No Lebron, No Peace!”
So the tweet continues to tell me
the translucent eight-legged water bear’s
belly glows gold because it accidentally
consumed its aragonite mouth.