Three Day Drunk

From, Glengarry Glen Ross Ricky Roma: All train compartments smell vaguely of shit. It gets so you don't mind it. That's the worst thing that I can confess. You know how long it took me to get there? A long time. When you die you're going to regret the things you don't do. You think you're queer? I'm going to tell you something: we're all queer. You think you're a thief? So what? You get befuddled by a middle-class morality? Get shut of it. Shut it out. You cheat on your wife? You did it, live with it. You fuck little girls, so be it. There's an absolute morality? Maybe. And then what? If you think there is, go ahead, be that thing. Bad people go to hell? I don't think so. If you think that, act that way. A hell exists on earth? Yes. I won't live in it. That's me.

I know that this is a parody, but it's an exquisite one. http://www.landoverbaptist.org/news0905/relief.html

At my suggestion, this was included in the programme for a production of Richard III that I was involved with. It seemed just right. Ted Hughes - King of Carrion His Palace is of skulls. His crown is the last splinters Of the vessel of life. His throne is the scaffold of bones, the hanged thing's Rack and final stretcher. His robe is the black of the last blood. His kingdom is empty - The empty world, from which the last cry Flapped hugely, hopelessly away Into the blindness and dumbness and deafness of the gulf Returning, shrunk, silent To reign over silence.

I will always reserve a certain fondness for Al Franken, in that he alerted me to the existence of Bill O'Reilly's novel Those Who Trespass - The Plan Nine from Outer Space of literary fiction. My own 'swine list' is headed by Fred Phelps. The fact that his 'church' consists almost entirely of brainwashed family members does not make him one iota less despicable, the communicable disease that is Phelps' peculiar mentality should not be transferred to anyone. From the world of entertainment - and I use the term loosely - I'll throw in Toby Keith, for the crime of riding the flag all the way to the bank without any acompanying musical talent to mitigate the offense.

A thoroughly odd little book in which Ronson reports on encounters with Omar Bakri, David Icke and Ian Paisley. He also meets Rachel Weaver (of Ruby Ridge fame) and various Klan representatives - a meeting which spawned this eye-boggling nugget: It's worth a look.

You'll thank me...if you've got taste. http://www.npr.org/programs/creators/shows/2004/newman.html

I have always been rather fond of this one: Philip Larkin, The Old Fools What do they think has happened, the old fools, To make them like this? Do they somehow suppose It's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools, And you keep on pissing yourself, and can't remember Who called this morning? Or that, if they only chose, They could alter things back to when they danced all night, Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September? Or do they fancy there's really been no change, And they've always behaved as if they were crippled or tight, Or sat through days of thin continuous dreaming Watching the light move? If they don't (and they can't), it's strange; Why aren't they screaming? At death you break up: the bits that were you Start speeding away from each other for ever With no one to see. It's only oblivion, true: We had it before, but then it was going to end, And was all the time merging with a unique endeavour To bring to bloom the million-petalled flower Of being here. Next time you can't pretend There'll be anything else. And these are the first signs: Not knowing how, not hearing who, the power Of choosing gone. Their looks show that they're for it: Ash hair, toad hands, prune face dried into lines - How can they ignore it? Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms Inside your head, and people in them, acting People you know, yet can't quite name; each looms Like a deep loss restored, from known doors turning, Setting down a lamp, smiling from a stair, extracting A known book from the shelves; or sometimes only The rooms themselves, chairs and a fire burning, The blown bush at the window, or the sun's Faint friendliness on the wall some lonely Rain-ceased midsummer evening. That is where they live: Not here and now, but where all happened once. This is why they give An air of baffled absence, trying to be there Yet being here. For the rooms grow farther, leaving Incompetent cold, the constant wear and tear Of taken breath, and them crouching below Extinction's alp, the old fools, never perceiving How near it is. This must be what keeps them quiet: The peak that stays in view wherever we go For them is rising ground. Can they never tell What is dragging them back, and how it will end? Not at night? Not when the strangers come? Never, throughout The whole hideous inverted childhood? Well, We shall find out.

I suppose pop represents a pretty wide field. What I'm really looking for are personal favourites, answers beyond the obvious. Lennon/McCartney seem to top every poll on this subject, so what can we come up with? Below are some of my own nominees, and an example of their work. Randy Newman Political Science (written in the late 70's) No one likes us I don't know why. We may not be perfect But heaven knows we try. But all around even our old friends put us down. Let's drop the big one and see what happens. We give them money But are they grateful? No they're spiteful And they're hateful. They don't respect us so let's surprise them; We'll drop the big one and pulverize them. Now Asia's crowded And Europe's too old. Africa's far too hot, And Canada's too cold. And South America stole our name. Let's drop the big one; there'll be no one left to blame us. We'll save Australia; Don't wanna hurt no kangaroo. We'll build an all-American amusement park there; They've got surfing, too. Well, boom goes London, And boom Paris. More room for you And more room for me. And every city the whole world round Will just be another American town. Oh, how peaceful it'll be; We'll set everybody free; You'll have Japanese kimonos, baby, There'll be Italian shoes for me. They all hate us anyhow, So let's drop the big one now. Let's drop the big one now. Tom Waits I'll Shoot the Moon I'll shoot the moon Right out of the sky For you baby I'll be the pennies On your eyes For you baby I want to take you Out to the fair Here's a red rose Ribbon for your hair I'll shoot the moon Right out of the sky For you baby I'll shoot the moon For you A vulture circles Over your head For you baby I'll be the flowers After you're dead For you baby I want to build A nest in your hair I want to kiss you And never be there I'll shoot the moon Right out of the sky For you baby I'll shoot the moon For you Mark Eitzel Gary's Song Gary tell me why the leaves on the trees Are falling this year as early as the spring Why the leaves on the trees that are falling on us Are like the words to a song that I've lived my whole life to sing If you swim too much you'll drown If we sit here and drink enough beer We'll be two inflatable dolls in a hooker's bad dream When the storm reaches us we'll be two blind drunks Who've absorbed through the skin a whole lifetime of kerosene If you drink too much you will drown And the shame of my life is watching you Gary, I think we've worn out our welcome They're waiting for us to leave Gary, they've got a new kind of person A newer, stronger, cleaner breed And I think I just came in my pants Oh baby do you want to dance Everything collapses in, slow motion And the roots of the dance and the stain in my pants Are beyond any small man's conception If you drink too much you will drown And the shame of my life is watching you drown Paul Westerberg Crackle & Drag What’s the matter here? You'll never repair The lady’s cursed with insight You'll never fix her, with a cold stare She’s all broken inside She made a good go, like a weeping willow Her limbs clung to the ground She closed the window, and made a pillow And lay her head down And as her babies slept, she took a long deep breath Now they’re zipping her up in a bag Can you hear her blacks crackle and drag And the Cadillac’s waiting to take her away Can you hear her blacks crackle and drag Another head cold, another spirit old Mmmm, February Her hair was dirty, and she was 30 in 1963 And while her babies slept she took a long deep breath And they’re zipping her up in a bag Can you hear her blacks crackle and drag The Cadillac’s waiting to take her away Can you hear her blacks crackle and drag And drag, and drag, and drag… She made a good go, for a weeping willow She stuffed some rags on the floor She closed the window She made a pillow on the oven door And took a long deep breath While her babies slept Now they’re zipping her up in a bag Can you hear her blacks crackle and drag And the Cadillac’s waiting to take her away Can you hear her blacks crackle and drag They’re zipping her up in a bag Can you hear her blacks crackle and drag The Cadillac’s waiting to take her away Can you hear her blacks crackle and drag Hear her blacks crackle and drag

I couldn't let the references to Flogging Molly and the Dropkick Murphys pass without sticking in an oar on behalf of the Pogues. The fact that Shane MacGowan is still alive should give medical experts serious pause, the fact that the old crew have reunited is a cause for celebration. Nice to hear Fairytale of New York again (minus Kirsty MacColl, RIP.)

This was an under-the-radar classic for both men. As far as I know only three of my friends have even heard of it, let alone seen it. Below is a link to a fabulous review. Feel free to discuss. Ruthless Reviews

Or, if Oldman is unavaliable, perhaps Karl Rove could be prevailed upon.

Dear all, As a newcomer to this particular forum I have stumbled across statements which set my brain buzzing. As a result I have a question for all of you. Does the private conduct of a creative person matter in relation to their work? I have seen this subject treated with varying degrees of seriousness in various forums, with all the usual suspects in attendance - Wagner and his anti-semitism, Woody Allen's marriage to his ex-wife's adopted daughter, etc., etc., etc. As an Objectivist forum this place rightly champions reality and reason (so sayeth the banner), but what is the general opinion of people who, despite falling well short of these ideals in their own lives, still manage to produce great art? To start with a specific example - Peter Sellers. He could be superstitious, childish, petty, vindictive and utterly disloyal. He developed a pathological fear of the colour purple, believing it to be the colour of death, he cheated on and hit at least two of his wives, he double-crossed friends. Even among his friends opinion seems divided between 'a bit of a shit' and 'a lot of a shit'. Still, he remains one of the greatest comic actors to have stepped in front of a camera. What would Dr. Strangelove have been without him? Or Lolita? Having witnessed the attempts of others we already know what the Pink Panther films would have been without him, dreadful. Let us be honest, acting is not an entirely rational process. It is about worming your way into the mind of a character, becoming someone else. The very things that many an Objectivist would scorn in Sellers - his lack of identity, neurosis and rampant insecurity - were key in making him the actor he was. Kubrick was once asked, "who is Peter Sellers?"; response - "There is no such person." Dramatic perhaps, but it helped to produce great performances, without which all the technical trickery of the movie set and the editing suite amounts to nothing. There are plenty of other examples, however the above is at least a start. So, what do we think?

In an interview Depp said he played Wonka as an obsessive compulsive, horrified by dirt, disorder and people in general. This undoubtedly fuels one of my favourite moments - Wonka's response to one of the obnoxious children when he introduces himself, "I don't care". The way he pronounces the line as if he had trodden in something unpleasant cracks me up. By the by, I have resurrected your Quixote thread over in aesthetics.

Perfectly reasonable. You have explained your own position very well, we disagree. I should state once again that by defending Wolff I am not hell-bent on denigrating Rand. I agree with certain of his criticisms of her fiction as compared to Hemingway and others. This does not mean that I did not find The Fountainhead an interesting piece of work. Incidentally, if The Fountainhead film were to be re-made, would anyone else be interested in seeing Gary Oldman as Toohey?

I do take your point. Nonetheless, in terms of pure commercialism attacking Rand is not going to do much for Wolff, nor is her involvement overly pushed. L'affaire Rand occupies a handful of pages in a 195 page novel, her name is not even mentioned in the synopsis of my edition (the Bloomsbury hardback), and almost all of the press I have encountered makes it clear that he is not a fan.