But with true British phlegm, Toast continues his work, meeting with his agent Jane Plough (pronounced pluff) who assigns him to do voice over work (no job is too small for him). At the studio, Toast discovers he’ll be working opposite his archnemesis and raging homophobe, Ray “Fucking” Purchase.
But it’s not just kids versus the world that makes this show special—and this episode in particular. The drama is also internal, but I guess after being born into a climate crisis and post-capitalist society, who kissed who and how are we going to overcome a surprise pregnancy sorta just seems easy. Or they make it look that way.
FILM / I Still Haven't Watched 3:10 to Yuma, but Goddammit, I'm Going To / Michael B. Tager
I bought the movie 3:10 to Yuma because I’d heard it was good and because it was on sale for $5 and to rent it would have cost $3 anyway, so why not, you know? I had every intention of watching it that night, but I didn’t, nor did I watch it the next week, or the month after that, or anytime up to the present, which is 13 years later. I suspect I won’t watch it this year either, though I’m still keeping hope alive. We’ll see.
I listened to “Blind” five years ago during a December separation, and now I’m listening to “Blind” again during another December separation. I’m Nietzsche’s spider creeping in the moonlight. I’d been traveling towards this moment for twenty-nine years—but I’ve already been here, and I’ll be here again, over and over, forever.
They aren’t communicating. The whole movie only takes place because Carol and Mike both decide to plan surprise holiday getaways for each other. When they can’t decide where to go, they settle on forcing their children to come home for the holidays.
Sam holds down his hat with his right hand as he tramples through the snow. “Sorry, Del, let me do that for you.” He bends down to give the cord a hard pull, and as he does, his back freezes and spasms and Sam lets out a most unmanly yelp.
Boarding a near-empty Greyhound I bump my head and the Fedora falls to the deck. I stoop and pick it up, sit down and pull out a near empty pack of coffin-nails, and snap it on the armrest. A butt pops high. I catch and flip it off my thumb into my mouth. Please close cover before striking.
Like many nineteen-year-old hormone-infested introverts I had an unlimited capacity for darkness and despair – provided it was someone else’s darkness and despair, which I could check in and out of at my convenience.
A young man with a confederate flag flipped off Black protestors as his own single counter protest. I even saw a table near campus trying to recruit KKK members on Quad Day, the day where school clubs try to obtain members.
Now, I tried very hard to keep an open mind and refrain from commenting in this group—I didn’t want to get banned before my research was complete. However, after seeing a transphobic post, I couldn’t help it.
On the door is a poster of Pete Seeger. “American hero” the sign reads, but this isn’t what stops me. Inside, the musicians are running through “Someday My Prince Will Come.” They glide together through the song, and above them a violin soars. I just stand at the door and listen. It’s wonderful.
“You guys look like a couple of drowned rats!” Grace looked us up and down. She was like a den mother: “Have you eaten? Do you want a pizza?”
I sometimes wonder how we got here, to a place where it’s assumed everything’s replicable. It’s like trying to relive last year’s Cape Cod vacation by combining the same ingredients. Stir together the same family members, rental shack, date of arrival.
I put up my hands like I’d seen in movies and spoke pseudo-Latin like I’d seen in movies: many words and many waves. I knew I wasn’t breaking a curse so much as a code. I knew if I said the right made up things, he would let a real doctor help.
And yet, his youngest son Kevin (Fred Savage), curious and mystified by his father's line of work, seeks answers. The problem is: no one in his family seems to know.
The night of nuance ends as it always does: with the ceremonial get-to-the-fucking-car-and-out-of-the-congested-parking-lot. “Angel of Death” begins and much of the crowd starts speed-walking out of the amphitheater, toward their vehicles, to avoid the outpouring (onslaught?) of fans.
Every year, and there have been a lot of them, as the long hot summer nears my birthday in August, the whole Atomic Bomb thing rears its death’s head. It’s time for The Media to drum up anniversarial articles about nukes in general and, at this time of year, the specific war ender, the last two words being key. It did end the war, after all.