'They beat him up until the teardrops start, but he can't be wounded 'cause he's got no heart' - Feverish Sunday Ruminations

My thoughts are even more scattered than normal this afternoon. Trying to get caught up on work and my brain just refuses to go there. Went out for a run this morning and again this afternoon and now feel like the flu's got me by the gonads for my troubles. Somewhere, Jim Fix is laughing. Flu in August?!?

I gotta feel better by tomorrow, as it is a day of reckoning for yours truly. I'll either be newly committed or on my way out the door. It's all up to you, Stu Iridium.

Anyway, in no particular order ...

Bravo to the Russian punks giving voice to the seemingly nonexistent voice of democracy under the iron rule of Putin. Bush saw a kindred spirit after 'looking into his soul' with those Jesus-powered peepers of his. Given his judge of character (including any self judgments), that shoulda sealed it: Putin must be evil.

Scorsese, Coppola, Lumet, Wilder, Welles, Eastwood, Cohen Brothers - these are my personal filmmaking gods and I put Quentin Tarantino in that company. Perhaps more for his writing than his directing, but he's aces at both. Which is why I'm excited about the release of his latest, 'Inglorious Basterds', at the end of the week. Many of his films have been a mess and in some ways haven't lived up to Pulp Fiction heights of expectation but even when they don't work, they are broken in original and varied ways. An interesting bad film is always better than a ho-hum good one in my book. If I had such a book.

There is also a lotta good buzz around 'District 9' so I may venture out to catch that one as well. Sci-fi as parable on race relations and dignity as a basic human right (even if you happen not to be human). Aliens that are neither malevolent or benevolent (they don't want to conquer us but don't seem to have much advanced technology we can benefit from). All of which would normally be a recipe for a steaming pile of snorefest, tv-movie-grade crap, but I hear tell it's done in a very entertaining and watchable manner, no heavy hands at work here.



I can't believe that apart from his widow's strong rebuff, nothing much more has come from the Billy Mays coke use revelation. I figured his corpse would have checked into rehab to save face, Weekend at Bernie's style. "Hey, Billy, it's time for group - look everyone, Billy's napping again! That's our Billy! Hey, man, you can't sleep through recovery - let's give him a lift ..." There may have been no personal/character closure, but there was sort of a final medical word on the drug cocktail brewing in his system at time of death, most of it courtesy of the pharmaceutical industry. He was truly a man of his time. Orange Glo, indeed.

This weekend saw the most famous hit from a pipe by a mayor since Marion Barry ... Talk about knocking down some Milwaukee's best. In the perpetrator's defense, he lives in Wisconsin.


Looky, looky, Pulp Fiction be playing on IFC - I'm in a feverish state of mind and perhaps some good conversation around Foot Massages, Green Acres and the necessary Intelligence/Cleanliness balance, Tasty Burgers in France, Clitoris Piercing, Heroin and the Pepsi Challenge, The Economics of Five dollar shakes, The Gimp, and Anal Cavity Heirlooms mixed in with
time out of mind sequencing, stylin' violence, and of course The Wolf might be just the medicine I need.

For Sure.

We happy? Vincent? We happy.