The Glass Key
The Glass Keyi is the delightful pre-war production Miller's Crossing is definitely the re-make ofii. A very convincingly demented psycho (that'll be remade by James Gandolfini fifty years later) ; a beautifully excellent party machine boss ; a... well, I don't think much at all of Veronica Lake, but whatever, a dame unwanted potato they keep passing back and forth like so much ballast... it's got everything!
As far as noir goes this is probably the best example (however befouled by the unwelcome presence of the insufferable "hero" / agricultural engineer, as well as the utterly insane tendentious fraudulenceiii at the time fashionable). The threads make sense and tie together very well, which isn't to say "like in real life". The story stands on its own terms, it checks out by the fictive algebra it itself defines -- and there's absolutely nothing wrong with this.
As far as cinematic neorealismiv goes this is probably the best offering the US ever produced. It certainly foretells, and leads, the genre (and not just in the beating of the "hero" either). Too bad this single solitary promising strand of genuine cultural production in the sad colonies got choked out by the usual crap, under the usual excusesv.
I wish people could make more films like The Glass Key. I wish people could still make films like The Glass Key. I wish there were still people ; but then... the "reform" ticket prevailed, and so...
Never again ; because that's what happens when you give in.
———1942, by Stuart Heisler, with Brian Donlevy, Veronica Lake, William Bendix, Alan Ladd, Joseph Calleia. [↩]Consciously, too, including such breadcrumbs as a direct "It's the kiss-off!" quote, not to mention seeding for the "half-smart" dialogue etcetera. [↩]Misrepresenting the "reform" ticket as anything but outright evil is evildoing in and of itself, no ifs or butts about it. [↩]You know, the Italians' stuff, La Strada and so on. [↩]"Oh, people like it..."
Bullshit. "People" like those, they "like" anything they're told to, forget about it. [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Sunday, 28 March, Year 13 d.Tr.
The Girl Can't Help It
The Girl Can't Help Iti is straightforwardly an exploitation vehicle, built out of Mansfield's bosom & waistlineii (in a thick sauce of rockabilly voices) wrapped in the silliest of slapstick scripts (which somehow manages to work unexpectedly well).
The self-obvious reason this film was made is the substantial visual cachet all the celebrity singers of the radio era enjoyed at the time. Most people had never seen any of the people audibly involved, though they had heard them, willingly and lots of times, and so they were a cinch to buy a ticket. On that logic Fox added the hottest ho on their roster as a sort of ad-hoc MC/goofster (with Tom Ewell behind her for reinforcement), transparently reasoning (I suspect judiciously) that it'll merit-wash her at least as much as she'll kavorkaiii-wash them.iv
This is why and wherefore the silly script works so well : by beating everyone to the punch it leaves little footing for effectual rejection, for which reason this humble "bad" script might in fact be the best script ever written, in the strict sense of its fitness to purpose (and the fine-ness and excellence of the definition of that purpose), thereby incidentally illustrating in the sharpest light imaginable the difference between copywriting and literature.
Watching it can't possibly hurt anything ; if you manage to make it through the whole thing without falling asleep (a challenge I failed), your mental model of the 50s will be substantially enriched.
PS. Abbey Lincoln's intervention is outright idiotic (some xtian bs), but her boob-squeezing antics quite delightful. Too bad she bought the whole pantsuit line of idiocy, she could've been a great star.
———1956, by Frank Tashlin, starring Jayne Mansfield in her fucking prime alongside pretty much all the artillery 20th C-Fox could scare up (excepting Elvis, who asked for "way too much") : Julie London, Ray Anthony, Fats Domino, The Platters, Little Richard & Band, Eddie Fontaine, Gene Vincent, Abbey Lincoln, Johnny Olenn, Nino Tempo, Eddie Cochran... even those obnoxious upstarts The [Three] Chuckles are in there. [↩]Something quite like
[↩]No, this isn't the right word. At first I had "sex" written in there, but it's not right, sex can denote either physiology or anatomy, tits or copulation, neither being the point. "Gender" is inadequate as it suggests a number of dichotomies uncontemplated in context. "Hot" (or "cool" for that matter, same difference) ain't it either, because there's many kinds of hot and we're discussing a very specific one among them. Some ad-hoc-ism, perhaps a portmanteau like successexful or w/e in that vein seems too clunky. What'd be the word you'd use to describe what I have and you wish you had here ? [↩]Early Hollywood was very much a strip club, but one that managed to build itself up, entirely through cannibalizing every show biz value they could land their hands on.
This happens to be how such things ever work, when they do in fact work (as opposed to when they fail miserably). [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Wednesday, 03 February, Year 13 d.Tr.
The General
The Generali is an excellent film, principally for managing to seamlessly avoid the utterly misstated "moral questions" and such quagmires of contemporary idiocy. Released (though not filmed) in black-and-white despite coming out in the middle of the television ageii, it manages to re-create in the evanescent medium of celluloid flicker the quaint, calm, deeply peaceful environment of the stoic man's lifeiii. It is impossible to watch and not pointedly prefer the opposition, whoever it may be, wither and fall away, to leave behind a Martin Cahill less impeded by their odorous, ultimately unwelcome, in any case pointlessly tedious presence ; but then again the film's far from accurate in numerous crucialiv details.
The score's almost Scorsese-level terrible, the cinematography tidily unremarkable. The scene where the likable gangster spitefully breaks a "gold record" in half to reveal its pewter composition's actually the director directly speaking : it was his "gold record" the genuine Cahill stole in reality. Why would anyone accept this sort of fake in this sort of circumstance but then pretend to go about all "law abiding" and shit is anyone's guess. What makes government fraud so appealing to the innately criminal element posing for "civillians", anyways ? The unanswerable question aside, the instance may well be the most accomplished example of breaking the third wall in history (though I'm more than willing to consider your own preferred occurences).
I recommend watching this film in bed, with nude women by your side who nevertheless aren't sisters, sexually intimate or otherwise. Alternatively I suppose you might have popcorn.
———1998, by John Boorman, with Brendan Gleeson, Maria Doyle, Angeline Ball. Also starring Jon Voight. [↩]For some reason television decided not to show black-and-white at some point in the 70s ; their unreasonable not to mention scandalously disproportionate over-representation in the socialist misperception of The Market made it pretty much impossible for anyone to make black-and-white films after that point (unless, of course, they were both well known already, like Boorman was, and also willing to mortgage their own house to do it, like he did). [↩]As reported by a girl named for her polymother, the man's wordview went something like
Whatever it is you say I am, I am not. Whatever it is you want from me, I will give. Whatever it is you take from me, you can take. What is it you can do to me? The worst thing you can do is kill me, after that I won't care, I am still free.
making him one of the very few notable habitants of the sad island complex in memory. [↩]For one thing, young Cahill was in fact turned down by the Navy (imagine that wonder, quite a ways they've come towards inutility since the days of impressment). For another thing, the girl and he were never neighbours ; that deeply, rumbling Ozarks ring of inbred familiarity's entirely the author's creation, unsupported by actual events. For yet another, the heroin-dealing brother Peter's wisely omitted in the film, as well as the prostitution interests of the ad-hoc criminal gang. All this'd muddy up the story, and make the color scheme quite inadequate -- which isn't an objection to the piece of art (hence "wisely"), but it is a good reason not to mistake art for life. On in this vein, the event where the isolated Guards found themselves driven out of gas may or may not have occured (it is a trivial enough fait d'armes of the 90s, I have it in my own panoply as I personally know dozens others in the same situation, it really was not hard to do), but actual Cahill's actual car was a Mercedes like I favoured, and not the tin can depicted (and this matters visually, doesn't it) ; moreover the scene where he had two hundred cars' tyres slashed like any random soccer hooligan (about half police, half neighbours') is again wisely avoided, as is the weird scene of kidnapping the head of the National Irish Bank along with his family. Trying to get over the screen the incomprehensible situation where a guy living with two women in perfect harmony and otherwise running whores out of massage parlours (state of the art for the period) couldn't come up with anyone better to be the softening agent than some inept dude (inept enough to draw child support while "kidnapped") is, I believe, beyond the ken of anyone, this author or any other. It just can't be done, which is why life can never count as art raw, there's always needed some selection at the very least, if not outright creative intervention. [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Monday, 01 February, Year 13 d.Tr.
The Eulora.Vtools.Diff discussion
It goes like so :
diana_coman am cam lamurit in sfarsit ce ma zapacea de cap acolo - in fapt mai era o bucata pitita in io.c de n-o luasem intai in calcul dar e importanta (si de altfel acum daca am luat-o ieri la puricat pana am chiar priceput ce fac ei acolo, cam stiu si de ce "vai da' nu face si drege pe wide chars"): la citirea fisierului, diff al unix face in fapt un fel de histograma ("equivalence classes" le zic ei in cod) practic pe baza unui ad-hoc hash care e calculat insa byte cu byte.
diana_coman concret, ce fac ei acolo: 1. fisierul e citit cu totul intr-o bucata 2. e tocat dupa '\n' 3. fiecare linie e luata byte cu byte pt calculul unui hash h si dupa valoarea rezultata pusa intr-un grup de "echivalenta" (direct asa, adica e in grupul h mod n_buckets, n-are nici o jena), ideea acolo fiind ca dupa aceasta procesare initiala, tot restul ce mai face se uita *doar* la acele clase de echivalenta, nicidecum la linia in sine cum ar veni
diana_coman mircea_popescu: intrebarea pt noi ar fi daca chiar vrem ori avem nevoie de exact aceasta abordare.
diana_coman la ora actuala inca nu pot zice ca am idee si de altfel eu as cam prefera sa-l construiesc pas cu pas adica nu m-as agita din start musai cu asta dar pot vedea de ce e acolo.
diana_coman in tot cazul, altminteri, acum fiind lumina prin hatisuri pe acolo, eu am inceput sa-i cam pun baza si anume am implementat frumos acel algoritm al lui Myers pt lcs (longest common sequence) chiar pastrand abordarea din diff pt ca imi pare ca se cam potriveste cu aplicatia altminteri cum ar veni. L-am facut insa Ada-style adica el e pachet generic si NU ii pasa *ce* compari ca nici nu are de ce sa-i pese: il instantiezi cu ce vrei sa fie test si ce vrei sa cheme pt un insert/delete si gata, ca algoritmul n-are treaba
diana_coman pt linistea mea si folosul ulterior, i-am scris si un test minimal, mai mult sa-l vad eu ca merge - asta o mai fi de extins da' deocamdata zic ca e ok.
diana_coman mircea_popescu: singura chestie aici si in fine, generala altminteri e ca per total limita de dimensiune imi pare ca va fi intai de toate una data de ...tipul de date pt indecsi. E cam enervant asa pt ca diverse cam forteaza sa folosesc Integer care nici macar nu e musai si intotdeauna pe 64 biti ca depinde unde rulezi - in orice caz, practic o limita clara si absoluta asa e cum ar veni asta - daca ai in fisier mai multe linii decat Integer'Last (ca e 2^32 ori 2^64, tot exista ca limita), atunci ai pus-o, adica singura chestie de-o vad ar fi sa lucreze cu fisierul pe bucati, nu prea vad ce alta (transparent pt utilizator asa la rulare, sigur, da' in fine, in principiu nu e musai la fel de transparent in rezultate,sunt niste fineturi pe acolo)
diana_coman e drept ca si 2^32 nu-i chiar putin asa da' in fine, naiba stie ce gigabytes de fisier o vrea careva sa treaca prin V
mircea_popescu sal
mircea_popescu pai tu ai o f buna solutie cu keccak acolo. ca el e chiar perfect pentru fix asta, digerat linii de cod.
mircea_popescu deci sinergiile abunda
mircea_popescu diana_coman, eu cred ca abordarea dupa hasuri e corecta, pentru ca iti ofera proprietatea valoroasa ca compari numere de aceeasi dimensiune
mircea_popescu concepte precum = au sens, ceea ce e esential; ; ai posibilitatea sa construiesti chiar si trees, pentru ca > functioneaza de asemenea. eu zic ca e un cistig.
mircea_popescu nu concep ca e util sa ai un fisier cu peste 2^64 linii ; oamenii care inca lucreaza cu integer de 32 biti is idioti.
mircea_popescu deci omul care vrea sa treaca fisier mare prin eulora.diff isi cumpara frumos un computer de 64. chiar daca nu il foloseste la altceva, is citeva sute de para. daca nu-si permite sute de para NU ARE NEVOIE de ce fisier vorbeste el. ca asa e viata.
mircea_popescu iar omul care vrea sa treace fisier mai mare de 18446744073709551616 linii prin eulora.diff construieste un computer de 128 sau citi biti vrea.
mircea_popescu costa citevs zeci de miliarde de para acolo, nimica. daca nu isi permite...
Sa v-o zic si-n engleza ?
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Category: S.MG
Tuesday, 01 June, Year 13 d.Tr.
The duchess' morning stuffing
"Good morning, your Grace!"
In the grand stately bed, not quite an acre not by much, between the massive phalansters of carved ebony, within the gowny depths of individually and particularly hand-plucked goose down (from geese grown on the Duke's own land, by women grown on the Duke's own land, or even vice-versa, perhaps), captive within plushy silken walls, so soft and yet so cool and yet so warm and yet so satin, bedecked with pillows magical in their consistency and tapestries and brocade in golden weft and stuffiesi and frills and danteleture generally the young woman stirred. "Oh.... Ooooh. Oh Mistress, please."
"Mistress Dobson."
"Oh yes, good morning Mistress Dobson."
The room was strange, and warm. Heated with everflowing steam to the precise temperature best suited for young, newborn spiders, covered in orchids, orchids everywhere, thousands upon thousands of plants -- for they were not mere cut orchids, a day's amusement like could on great occasions perhaps be seen in the hovels of the lesser peerage, such thatch-roofed cottages as mere counts inhabit, and discounts, and lowly barons even, products imaginary of recent titlage and dubious tillage as they all -- save for the Duke himself -- were or could ever hope to be. No, none of that, nothing like that ; but true and proper porphyraii such as befit the Duke's own byproduct, as soon as his grace deemed her grace ready, and worthy, and the stars alligned and who knows what else in arbitrary considerations both lofty and complex.
The woman lying in bed, apparently alseep though her position wouldn't have suggested it, of Lowenstein-Wertheim-Rosenberg originally but now of Dorset through and through, through marriage and ownership and self-abasing offering and even more than that, stirred invisibly, perceived by her maid's naked eye through experience but imperceptible to anyone else (were anyone else there with them). The maid the young duchess called so pointedly "Mistress" first reached as if to remove the leather blind from her mistress' golden curls, but stayed herself at the other's manifest (if insubstantially expressed) refusal of such relief as a return of sight might represent.
"How did your grace sleep ?"
"Mhnnnn... What day is it ?"
"Today is Girth, your grace."
"Oh god."
"Aww. But your grace so loves being stretched, and full."
"On the machines ?"
"No, today's with us.
"Oh, Mistress Batch ?"
"She'll be here momentarily, with the dongs, and the lube."
"No, not with lube. I'll make my own."
"But... it will hurt you so, your grace."
"It should. Until I learn to behave myself as befits my station it should hurt me."
Zuleika proceeded silently to remove and replace restraints, unfastening ribbons and leather binds, freeing a calf from a cuff only to cuff the ankle in another in its stead, and then the ruffles and the ribbons and the whalebone and the retractors and detractors and separators and everything else, precious wood and surgical steel and expensive fabrics and mother of pearl such as befits elaborate, civilised womanhood. For it wouldn't do, we're all agreed, it wouldn't do for nude and rude reproduction to overwhelm such fictive sheaths and fields and gauzes as might best maintain the ancient traditions of the wail.
"She has to see!" The slender girl coming in was complicatedly arrayed, her pointed hairdo trailing gauze yet her breasts about, perking bare through the brocade, nude flesh and white merletto comingling sinfully in her appetizing appearance. Her complicated skirtings fell apart in front, exposing her clean-shaven pubis and the substantial implement dangling from it, held in place as if by magic as far as the naive observer might be concerned (but otherwise held in place by its extension inserted deeply, burried within her darkest folds).
"She doesn't want to, though."
"Please, Mistress Batch. Please, may I ?"
"You know what his Grace says, your grace! Cu va cu zoppu a l'anno zuppichia."
"She doesn't want to see the spiders."
"Yesss... pleassse..." hissed the prone, bound figure central to their ministrations, in a timbre most unexpectedly frightening, low and reverberating, as if she were possessed by some unkind spirit.
The spiders in question, numerous, most active, belaboured ceaselessly to the covering of the walls and everything else in their abundant, silky offerings. They didn't seem very normal, if such can ever be properly said of spiders ; they didn't behave in ways coherent with their natural history let's say. Common everyday spiders move but little. They weave their webs and wait, icons of domestic patience, for prey ; and such webs as they weave are small, centered on them, and generally white (though some remarkable exemplars will produce honeydewed meshes of excruciating beauty). The spiders swarming all about the duchess' chamber, though larger, softer somehow than all others, a velvety squishiness about them everywhere like they were large moths rather, or maybe merely dressed as such, or perhaps just crustaceans without their shells, imphormous marine creatures bereft of natural habitat or any place in the ordered cosmos outside their own fanciful existence, seemed to lack any subjective notion of the self. The webs they weaved, of thick and very purple substance, hung like tapestries in miniature over everything ; the spiders themselves seemingly more dedicated to this one task of environmental coverage than anything else. They weren't so much trying to weave webs to trap some prey, they simply attempted to cover every square inch of wall in their purple fabric, and then every square inch of that, in turn. They moved about, rapidly, like ants, though unlike ants rectilinearly, dragging behind their precious trail of drying dusk, to intersect with myriad others and so on.
The newcomer reached out and grabbed a chunk in her fingers, spiders running away every which way. She tore it off with a sound almost audible and placed the resulting matter, of such doubtful consistency as decaying lily petals, squarely on the young duchess face, covering her from chin to nose under the purple substance. The young woman bucked, unmovingly in her restraints. She ceased breathing, she concentrated as if on the point of explosion. Wetness sparkled at the rim where her leather blind touched her cheek, and then she opened her mouth wide. The maid carefully pushed the spiderweb into her mouth, covering her tongue evenly, equally, rubbing it around to soak up all available saliva ; then with practiced, small gestures by degrees pushed it down the captive woman's throat with her own fingers, all the way.
The other maid, having prepared herself in the interval, placed the large accessory between her legs inside the young duchess' mouth firmly, and pushed it slowly, by degrees, without respite, down her throat. Once the duchess' nose touched her maid's bare belly the implement doubtless reached inside her stomach, holding her throat, and oesophagus, and larynx and pharyngeal valves and other sphyncters and everything else in its path as wide open as nature permitted, or perhaps even widerly open still than that. The tied woman tried her best to breathe through her nose, at intervals succeeding ; Mistress Batch tore more of the spider silk and, after placing it on the prone duchess' flower, by untold instruments held amply, turpiously apart, proceeded to engorge the well worked, purple womanhood upon her mighty dong. Atop the quivering form, dying time and time again, she whispered something inaudible, to which the other maid nodded, then pumped her, and then let her die, and pumped her more, extracting life's own rent out of the quivering lithe frame.
Seen from afar, the two edges of the third seemed rather like ants seeing to the needs of a becoming spider queen ; but seen from inside, seen from the dutchess' own unseeing vantage they were simply her whole world, moving in step with the pulsions and repulsions of her own heart, invaginating her margins for the world, softly, thickly, velvety. One day, one great grandiose day she'll finally be ready, and impregnated, and then her life, her new true life will begin. And until then... until then there is always the silk, the purple silk of everyday.
———Among which the celebrated Goostuffie Goostuffersson (in older source material also spelled Gustuphy Gustuphersohn). [↩]
He found her in the throes of childbirth, in the room set apart long ago for the confinement of one such as her. Our ancestors called it porphyra, hence the world-famous name.
[↩]
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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Tuesday, 12 January, Year 13 d.Tr.
The difference between me and everyone else : I haven't a sense of humour, or hahaha-lalala
A recent comment got me to thinking, and here's the thing... my first Bitcoin buy, just to try it out, amounted to a grandi. This isn't special or particular, by the way, it wasn't some special inspiration that helped me isolate Bitcoin from the vague cloud of computer games I'd throw the same sort of peanuts at, in the period.ii
Back then Bitcoin was trading around fifteen dollars a pop, and it promptly went to two-something, such that everybodyiii got to spend the whole summer ha-ha-ha-la-la-la "Oh, I can reproduce MPs exotic play on twelve cents to the dollar" la-la-la-ha-ha-ha.
They didn't, though. They didn't actually reproduce it. The hahaha-lalala was enough for them, the could have entirely satisfactory -- for them. I meanwhile spent that whole summer bringing my cost point down, to two-something. Hahaha. The whole thing brought me rather intact highschool memories, because back then also, and in the exact same way. Lalala.
The difference between me and everyone else isn't "inspiration" (be it from "science" or "wisdom" or any other goddess). It's not that I'm better at selecting the subjects of my affections. It's not that I care, deeper, better, anything in that vein.
The difference between me and everyone else is that I despise everyone else.
———And that's a grand of last decade's money, easily twice if not outright thrice the value of today's sad fiat. [↩]Sadly I didn't screenshot, but the girls did giggle at, this recent eggregious discussion whereby somebody was bemoaning "the greed" of some game developers because they'd like to actually keep the lights on, and seeing how they spend their time developing games they'd like the people enjoying those efforts to actually pay for their expenses.
So I pointed out to the guy that who the hell cares, if I go out it's at least a hundred, more like a thousand a plate, and I never go alone anyway. Thereby following the logic, a game that manages to keep my attention a coupla hours' more than entitled to the piddly twenny it's angling for ; and while the numbers might not exactly hold for everyone, the principle still does : figure out what you're worth per hour, a buck or a penny, whatever it is, and... spend that.
It resulted in some massively butthurt foreign dodo, following me around to insert his 2c worth of "well what do you know, you're insane, you throw out the thousands everywhich way you turn, I AM ON A VERY FIXED INCOME!!!" into every possible (and for that matter impossible, too, just to be "safe") conversation. Right ? Because the world totally owes him some agreeing, some empathy for his... point of view. Is it ? Is it a point of view ?
Poverty is stupidity exactly because it is a point of view. [↩]That knew me, let's not confuse the vague everybody of social acquaintances with the ignare "everyone" of your thisinternetlife, we're not in the same "Boy's Night Out (1962, with Kim Novak)" over here -- which is why you work for me, even though I don't pay you to. [↩]
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Category: Oda Superbiei
Tuesday, 25 May, Year 13 d.Tr.
The deplorable generation
Re-reading these comments it's apparent this La Medeleni thing in fact worked as a sort of period Friends. "Oh, I hate that Michael! He's so smug!" sorta... well, basic internal processing. Gotta start somewhere, as it were.
Ultimately Diana's point stands : neither has group identification anything to do with anything else, nor can there be found (projected -- yes! but found, never) meaning in its coincidental overlap with anything else. The muzzled generation, the Friends generation and the La Medeleni generation have in common merely the most bluntly banal "they're generations". There's no more literature in the endless tons of paper fashioned into "masks" than there's into the endless tons of paper fashioned into "the book" as publicly consumed, or "the sitcom", or whatever else, because there's no more meaning in group activity than there's in any other natural phenomena. Because groups aren't human.
Collections of human lives -- distinguished from the groups by the complete absence of group identity or any notion of groupitude (much like Trotsky's substitutionism, by the time the category becomes reified therefore it also becomes meaningless, not merely practically but necessarily and outright devoid of even the capacity for meaning) -- be they however large, are still as human as the individual, in the hands of the anthropologist ; so the fact that all corpses I've so far examined have a scapula does indeed give the presence of scapulae meaning, and the fact that however many peasants repeated to their children some version of the same tale does give that tale meaning, but strictly because they'd done it for their own reasons, as counterdistinct from
De foame nu dau popii ortul! Eu iarna singura-mi tes tortul, si umblu si eu cum socot ca-i portul.
which is to say "for the '''reason''' that that's what other people do, or '''it's what's done'''" or any other reformulation of female thought -- the central point of which problem being that mere recognition's no kind of cognition, and the mother's innate recognition of her offspring no kind of basis for a relationship in and of itself. People might (hilariously, and ludicrously, and everything else) get excited over hearing "the music of their youth", through the association it carries with their idealized selves in their own mind, for having coincidentally been in the background as their lives unfurled ; but there's no youth in the noise and no meaning in the association.
Obviously recognition forms some portion of cognition necessarily, and necessarily it sits at the basis of it, and were I strictly incapable of recognizing a scapula I'd therefore be strictly incapable of recognizing scapulae. Nevertheless, basic and fundamental as it might be, recognition belongs with, and must be classified with, naturalia, not idealia -- under pain of doom. My (however innate, however intrinsic, however deeply held or seemingly inseparable) observation that two instant apples are indeed both apples is part of phenomena, and outside of humanity (and therefore inescapably inadherent to meaning). It's of the nature of having a heart attack, not in the vein of writing an article (that one ; or any other).
This then yields the identification of an entirely novel type of pollution : as more and more lists are miscast as groups (aka "identity politics") the necessary correlate of meaning in human society (lists ; not groups) becomes untenable, with the predictable result of generalized loss of meaning, from social processes to individual perceptions of society. Much like people spending time spreading salt in their environment might soon discover themselves incapable of farming (generally speaking incapable, not for any clear reason but merely through the "inexplicable" failure of crops and subsequent famine -- for which no doubt more salting will be recommended by their salt god as the only possible cure & remedy) people going about trying to groupify lists of people end up with their ears caught in a yet-another replay of the collapsed empire tragedy / historical drama.
Ultimately all generations are deplorable, and for that reason specifically : they're generations.
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Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc
Saturday, 05 June, Year 13 d.Tr.
The curdle
"The Joker, you figure ?"
"Oh, I don't know. What do you think ?"
The uniformed policeman's shoulders stooped. He scratched his graying chuck. He shifted his weight and huffed. He scratched again, slightly across from the first spot, his breath heavy under all his pig fat. He shook his head, more like a concealed shudder. "They really look like they're smiling. How the hell does he do that."
"With a knife, sargeant. He does it with a knife."
"We found an exacto blade in the bathroom."
"That's not how..."
"Oh, no, no, they had the scalpels shoved up their asses alright. We didn't touch those. You'll get them from the coroner tomorrow. The knife was an extra."
"A gift."
"Something like that I guess."
"Who found them ?"
"Cute lesbian package across the hall."
"That her pawprints ?"
"Yup. We took their shoes. They're in the boxes with everything else."
"They ?"
"Oh, you should see these two. About Allison's age just about, too."
"These days..."
"Takes all kinds."
"They heard anything ?"
"No, they say they heard the cat meow, and then the door turned out to be ajar, and one thing led to the next."
"At least it saves us the stench. Usually this sort of thing's found a week old, or two. I can't even remember the last time the coroner said something about hours."
"True fact, lt."
"Anything else ?"
"Nope, nothing. Guy's got a book and he's going by it. Step by step."
"One of these days he's going to take a wrong step right into the hole."
"If you say so, lt."
"Alright, where are they ?"
"Across the hall, I've got Timmy with them."
"What are they called ?"
"The white girl's Laura. The other's Ellen. Students."
"Yeah. I bet."
"They're all students around here, lt."
The lt. waved his hand and took off, whistling the theme to Forever Young loudly enough to hear from the street. The grinning cadavers left behind shone in the May day's last sunbeams, bare, elaborately sliced, one time prior to about forty-eight hours ago pretty girls, students perhaps, about Allison's age just about. Now, so much catfood. The approximately six square feet of smoothly, uniformly dried blood in a roughly oval puddle with crumpled outline reproduced to some degree the sky above, forcibly translated to its own palette of metallic, reddish hues. A bored child watches the Christmas tree early one day, the day after the excitement of the day immediately after. The day after that. He plays with the decorations, idly. They're slowly peeling in his mind, from their abstract, purely idealized function of Christmas decorations. They're objects now, mere objects, real, concrete. No longer anything in particular besides what they actually are, which is nothing. No longer meaningful, therefore now incomprehensible, incapable of being meaningfully dismissed. Things. Round. Shiny. Reflective. He notices the potato beamed back off the round, shiny surface. It is his nose, he realises. His nose, his whole face, eyes crumpled in, an afterthought barely holding on at the edges, his chin rendered immense, overflowing beyond any possible measure, beyond Jennifer Rudolph Walsh even. That's him! Him, but not really him. A reflection, crushed, reformed. Deformed. Yet his nose doesn't hurt. How was it bent out of shape to that degree without feeling anything ? The reflection's of him, but not his, its abuse upon his parts entirely outside, perfectly alien. The globe twisted his face, turned his nose, balooned his features yet he felt nothing ; and the feeling of terror, of sheer, unmitigated terror consumes him. Years after he spends guarding, spying hypervigilantly all reflective surfaces everywhere in sight. The TV's shine often distracts him, brass knobs suspicious, a little round pocket mirror extracted from a discarded powder compact his only comfort ; in its fair, regular, predictably and reliably accurate representation his only solace. That kid's nowhere to see it ; and yet the curdled blood reflects the curdling sky in its own terms regardless. Not forever, it's true ; but regardless, nevertheless.
"And you didn't hear anything."
"No. We just... we keep to ourselves."
"Did you see anything ? Or anyone ?"
"I... I mean we... you mean over there ?"
"Yes, any visitors, deliveries, anything. Coming in and out, loitering down the hall, anything at all."
"They... they really kept to themselves. We never really met."
"So you didn't hear anything and you didn't see anyone at all, not a single soul."
"No one at all", said the blonde. "Not a single soul", repeated the other, soulfully.
"Not yesterday, or the day before. Or the day before that. Nobody whatsoever this past week altogether."
"Nobody..." they whispered, together, like from a dream.
"Alright, well, thank you for your co-operation. If anything comes back, if you remember anything, here's my card. Give me a call, day or night."
"Ok."
"Goodbye."
The man nodded and left the two holding each other, seated on the couch, their eyes enlarged with a terror unspoken, unspeakable. If they believed in God, if they read books, a reference to "There, but for the Grace of God,..." would have imposed itself ; but they didn't read books, nor did they believe in God. They believed in Science instead, which isn't really the same thing, if for no other reason then because no followers of that particular faith, no believers in Science seem to ever read any books, or recognize any references ; the world as reflected in their eyes always unspeakably distorted, incomprehensibly mangled somehow.
At length Laura stood up and, paddling barefoot to the small makeshift bar in the corner, poured two small helpings out of a shaped bottle holding a colorful liquid. Round the neck of the bottle a paper label, with the words 'DRINK ME' beautifully printed on it in large letters, was conspicuously absent.
The end.
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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Wednesday, 02 June, Year 13 d.Tr.
The Cabin in the Cotton
We've watched "The Cabin in the Cotton"i, and agreement was readily reached that the only way this story could even conceivably stand up, or play at all, is if it were re-shot as a gay porno.
The very weird hunchback leading zombie with eyeliner and lipstick (no fucking idea what they were thinking back in 1936, but honest to god they're proposing a hunchback leading man in full girly-girl make-up) could be coerced/"coerced" into blowing everyone, in all the "high pressure" scenes. First, the group of filthy, broken-through straw-hat wearing, tobacco chewing, raggedy tenants. Then he'd go out the door, kiss the waiting "poor" girly sweetly, deliver the same insipid lines of "romance" and move on... to The Big House, where it's time for Big Daddy's knob to be polished. "Gimme them books" he'd say, and Barty-mess'd get his boihood card re-issued (belt buckle stamp to the forehead, just as good), then move on seamlessly to some lovemaking (of the purely oral sort) with the "rich"ii girl, only to go on to the big showdown downtown right after. Then outside he winks to the one girl, in the buggyiii, he smiles to the other girl, in the auto-mobile, and the DA's pat lands on his back : "C'mon now boi, you've got sucking off to do!" And there they happily go, a GI man and his... ehm... ass-is-tentiv. Curtains and trumpets, the end!
Needless to say the 80-year-old original fails to deliver in any of the substantial points. The decor's all there, the setting done to perfection, just the money shots missing. But it's barely a 68 minute film, and half the scenes in there aren't needed (or even that useful) to the unfurling of the story. A coupla fifteen minute scenes in period costume and a week or so in the editing room could restore this half-assed attempt to cinema.
I personally don't care to shoot gay porn, never did, never likely will ; but if your own equipment truly floats your boat and you find yourself wishing to use this idea, why... by all means, go right ahead -- it's as much entirely yours as this certainly-by-nowv public domain production.
———1932, by Michael Curtiz, with Bette Davis and Dracula's butler's daddy back in the plantation days (inexplicably billed as "Richard Barthelmess", whatever that is). [↩]How fucking rich can she be, she's female isn't she ? [↩]Geddit ? Buggy ?
Oral-only, yes'm, butt nevertheless inunedo aplenty, just like they do it in Blowywood. [↩]Or do you spell it with an "aah" ? [↩]And don't let anyone tell you any different. [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Wednesday, 19 May, Year 13 d.Tr.
The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz
The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitzi tells the story of the post-War "New" Bureaucrat. Obviously the young shit on the make is not that new ; kids with a lot of ambition and very little anything else have been pouring out of cunt ever since it was invented, and in diluvional over-abundance. What the hell are males even for, down to the brass tacks ? Do & die, right ?
Unlike the 2018 version, the 1948 version (hey, it's been 3/4 century already!) is pretending to be interested in business, capitalism, ownership, etcetera ; but very much like the 2018 version, the 1948 version's alleged preoccupations and interests are similarly ungenuine. It's the exact same cursory preoccupation, readily obvious in its superficiality. Transparent mimmicry for ulterior interest -- then as now the exact same thing, really, the means be damned & go straight to hell. Yes those were pretending to want to make money just like these are pretending to want to "help others" ; yet such paintcoat-level distinction without the faintest actual difference underneath might not even be sufficient to fool dogs. It certainly ain't fooling me.
That said, Dreyfuss is fantastic in this role. For some incomprehensible reason the kid had wasted most of his life up to that point doing TV shits ; this film is probably the best of his career (and, ironically enough, he thought he did such a bad job he might as well give up acting as a career!). The reason is chiefly the excellent fit between the actor and the character : there's all sorts and manners of engines, and ultimately all can move a locomotive ; but there's no fit as close between the item's needs and an engine's output than what electrics provide. Exactly the same's the case here : as thin a personality, as exactly, precisely deranged an impetuosity, as intensely consummate a hollowness no other actor of that generation could produce, not the taxi driver, not the "what matters is I believe you", not "England prevails", not "once the sweat dries", not the four foot tall "liquidator", none of them. Name your own horse, why not, go for itii -- by the time you dig through the pile as deep as say Schiavelli or Shawn Wallace I'm expecting you'll surrender, humbled (and therefore gain the greatest reward for your efforts -- a clearer understanding of how little "your own opinions" matter).
Jack Warden is a major problem, because although a fine actor delivering a solid performance, he inescapably comes across the screen as utterly Irish. The whole movie I'm sitting there wondering why the hell the little Jew from Montreal was sired out of some unseen balabusta by god damned Paddy over there, it's quite distracting. But such notwithstanding the author makes every effort -- and succeeds superbly -- at re-enacting the deep, unyielding squalor of the East Coast after the war. Quite as filthy, quite as miserable, mean and gangly, quite so looked America "the great" before actually giving up on the Industrialization pipe dream. Just as it was about to, while it was yet still fighting the battle.
And then, the screenwriting is strictly superb. That scene in particular, where the facetious bitch, the dumbass making not merely the wrong but outright the evil choice asks, insanely, as they do, backwards, upside-down, whether "they betrayed him" and he lets her have it, "yes, you have", because yes they indeed have. The hemming of the young ambitious shit, ever since the dawn of time : the disloyalty of women and the disinterest of the lords.
What can you do...
———1974, by Ted Kotcheff, with Richard Dreyfuss, Jack Warden. [↩]Ever notice before, by the way, how the 1940s-born actresses outnumber the actors 3:1 ? No ?
How come. [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Friday, 18 June, Year 13 d.Tr.
Survivors of the Vault : Rules for the Endgame
Short, sweet and to the point :
The first room (immediately right of the topmost elevator) will be expanded to three spacesi and contain the highest level nondescriptsii equipped with some of the best weapons available.iii
The elevator will be extended directly downwards all the way to the bottom of the pit. All but one living quarters go thereiv, along with as many 3-space fully upgraded warehouses as you need (a half dozen really should be enough for anyone, but who am I to spoil your madness) and such a patchwork of science labs and medbaysv as you might need. These needn't be upgraded, because upgrades do not increase stimpak/radaway storage capacity.vi
Nuclear plants and coke bottlers should be placed alternatively on floors, rather than together. This is because the daily challenges do spit out Mr. Handy's (and your Wandering as well as questing yields lunchboxes which similarily can gift you one) and you don't want to find yourself in the silly position where you still have to click because there's no way to deploy the thing such that it gets both power and food/water.vii Speaking of Mr. Handy, it is superlatively retarded to send it out in the wilderness, don't do that dumb shit.
Upgrade and room joining benefits are very minimal for both Medbays and Science rooms, in no small part because you'll be spending so much of your time with full stockpiles, meaning all new production goes nowhere (and if you don't, the solution is simple : make more rooms!)viii. Meanwhile the strategic advantages incumbent in single unupgraded rooms fully occupied are significantix, so I prefer building protective belts every few levels throughout the base. Even should fires / bugs / rats manage to somehow expandx for some reason (such as unoccupancy or pregnancy, most usually), they have absolutely no chance crossing the singlet room barriers, so all disasters stay well contained.
Because you don't much care about their productivity, Medbays and Science rooms are also the perfect elephant cemetery for your legacy dwellers. All those high level nondescripts that don't have the stats to compete with late game offspring and aren't needed to man the top room can very well find a medbay to shipwreck in -- just throw a labcoat on them and call it good.xi
Male colonists just come of age will :
First, spend some time training their endurance up to 6xii. This is worth doing because it only takes a few hours and it significantly increases their lvl 50 hitpoint pool, resulting in hardy fellows that can take the worst without needing your babysitting.
Once that is complete, they are issued the standard weaponxiii and armorxiv and are allocatedxv to the bottling plant to level up.
Once they're level 20 or so, they can move on to train strength and go to work in the nuclear plant. How high you want to train strength on the first pass is up to you -- if you're short power move them into the plants ; if you're not needing any let them train.
Female colonists just come of age will :
First, be impregnated.
Then, while pregnant, go work out to train their endurance. If they lose pregnancy protection for whatever reason, they're to be re-impregnated immediately and go back to work. This ensures they don't accidentally diexvi, something that's exceedingly easy to do for a level 1 (which they must stay throughout their endurance training, so as to reap the HP benefits from their eventual high endurance).
Once they reach endurance 10 (should be about 3-4 days) they get their endurance +7 coat (you'd better have found the blueprint for this -- and held on to them globes!) and go work in the bottling plants to level up.
Once level 20 or soxvii they go train their perception, agility and luck up to 10. It's entirely up to you if you feel like doing strength and intelligence tooxviii(at the cost of an extra ~week), meaning it's probably not worth doing with the first coupla batches.
Once they're trained out, jeder grenadier kriegt 25 stimpaks and off they go! 15+ damage weapons work best on them, but this should be no problem -- you should have some pretty decent stockpiles by now.
Dwellers with stats over five are sent out to wander the Wastes, with a package of 25 stimpaks and a dozen radawaysxix. Once they've spent the last onexx they get recalled.
High level nondescripts may be sent out to do quests, if you've got nobody else (in any case three quest teams should be outxxi at all times). The logic is that quest rewards being mostly fixed, you don't depend on your own perception and luck to get loots ; high level will probably assure enough hitpoints, and a decent weapon's all you really need. Besides, if one dies... big whoop, you've got to get rid of the nondescripts somehow anyways.
Once population pressure makes itself felt (meaning, you've reached 200 and what nao), all the virgin loser malesxxii the lowest level (>1) dwellers whose endurance is less than six get booted, in that order. You're not trying for an all-10s Vault average, are you ?
Because everything works better when it's written down!
———This is traditionally a power generator room ; and because of past necessities it will be inherited into the late game fully upgraded. There's nothing wrong with tearing it down in principle, as its total value's something like 8k caps, which is a coupla hours' passive Vault income from lucky task completions. I generally don't because I prefer this first room being strength based, and tearing down a fully developped PG to replace it with a NP that either has to soak a good 60k to be fully upgraded or stay undeveloped seems pretty silly.
Strength is the only damage-reduction stat in game ; Agility comes very close in utility in a base defense context because it increases the number of shots the defenders can get out before the offender (generally, a deathclaw) can move on. Thus I prefer the first room being strength-based, so as to minimize the damage the defenders receive (and thus minimize the stimpack clicking rush required) ; then there's a two-space warehouse to the right, so the deathclaws go there and come back for another shower of fire&lead (neither raiders nor ghouls do this ; if they're cleared a room they've cleared it, they don't engage it again on the rebound). Then the second room (2nd floor, leftmost) is a diner, stacked with agility-based, well armed defenders. Ideally the first room takes care of all three deathclaws ; but just in case of any spillage...
The alternative arrangement is also perfectly workable (much easier to make sure all three deathclaws are killed if the first room's A rather than S ; however you'll have to pay much more attention whenever they show up to make sure nobody dies. Then again, in a 200-strong vault everyone's eminently replaceable.
Nothing besides the claws is worth the mention ; both raiders and feral ghouls fall where they enter the room, long before anything like crossing halfway through even (well, the raiders do keep shambling about a while after death, but whatevers). [↩]Dwellers whose attributes don't recommend them for Wasteland exploration particularly. These'd be gals an' fellows with sub-5 endurance (who therefore aren't worth further SPECIALs training) and unremarkable PAL. [↩]The absolute best weapons available belong to the Wasteland wanderers, of course ; but there's only so many of those. I like to mix and match, so there's a couple of flamethrowers, a couple plasma pistols / institute rifles etc and a couple miniguns or whatever advanced combat shotguns / enhanced sniper rifles etcetera kinetics.
The actually optimal way to play, however, is to stack all your fat men in there. This is because in actual combat missile launchers deal their damage steadily to all opponents, evenly divvied up -- meaning the whole opposing team falls over at the same time. This also means you're getting damaged by the whole enemy team the whole duration of the fight, instead of killing some early therefore reducing incoming damage, which makes missile launchers absolutely horrible weapons for wanderers. In a base defense context however all damage is applied in this manner (your total damage output is summed up and dealed DoE to the enemy team and vice-versa), making the fending off of Vault invaders the only situation in the game where missile launchers and similar aren't complete junk. [↩]I often play with two living quarters on the 3rd floor, left and right of the elevator. It's convenient for receiving long queues of incomings (such as in the morning) and sort them into the base (boys right, girls left). If you don't drag them into the base yourself but just allow them in they'll wander about randomly and it might end up taking you a while to find them again. If you don't separate the genders they'll do the dirty and you can't send pregnant females out.
In any case, it makes no sense building more than five living quarters total, because 5 * 40 = 200. [↩]Since the medbays/science rooms don't need upgrading whereas the living quarters and warehouses do, it is always best to first use them to fill the odd two-slot rooms at the end. [↩]I find a dozen or so science rooms generally suffice, about two fully built floor's worth ; contrarywise the stimpak limits have not yet been found. There's an absolute limit of 25 on Wastes wanderers. If half of these need to leave base at the same time, that's 25 * 12 = 300 stimpaks you'll need ; figuring fifty or so at a minimum left behind for the base in case of fire or something leaves us needing three dozen rooms or about four floors' worth. Then again, you can always have more stimpaks... [↩]Admittedly this matters a lot less after the first couple. [↩]Ultimately the problem is very much something like the curse of bimetallism : because both "storage space" and "production capacity" are legitimate game currencies, but their relation allows inflation (specifically you can increase productivity, but you can't increase storage space -- each room space unit yields the same 10 no matter what) bad money drives good money off the market, resulting in the situation where you only ever want to expand your production by building more rooms. [↩]The differential factor between a 1-slot bare room and a 3-slot 3rd-upgrade room is something like 11, meaning you only get to use two people instead of six but they have to fight lesser threats -- a degree of magnitude lesser! Sign me up. [↩]Radscorpions also roll a dice for the next room they visit ; the small rooms count as one, the large rooms count as one, so stacking the deck's very much to your advantage. As a very significant added bonus, radscorpions are only as strong as the room they're in, so if you have a lot of these militarized singlets few scorpions will live long enough to be noticeable, let alone an actual nuisance. Let me tell you it's really quite enjoyable to see the obnoxious bestioles succumb to a coupla shots from the labcoats' shotguns. [↩]For this reason I don't usually bother with the intelligence training room : there's really no need or utility for it. One might want it for aesthetic or role-play considerations, of course, but otherwise intelligence carries no value and has no importance in the brave new world of the future. Speaking truthfully you might even be better off without it (though the female-only agent provocateur outfits are kinda cute). How's that for a trite conclusion! [↩]Six is specifically better than five (though it takes an extra six hours or so) because the levelling gear is +odd, either +3 or +5. The hitpoint calculation thus looks (taking the most bare-bones endurance +3 gearing) 2.5 + (5 + 3) * .5 = 7 versus 2.5 + (6 + 3) * .5 = 8, meaning an extra 50 hp at level 50, from 350 to 400. Even in a linear estimation, if your guy will work in your base for more than two days it's worth taking six hours to give him 1/8 more health -- and he will have to work more than two days to even get to level 50 in the first place. [↩]Whatever that is for your base. Either the 6-8 damage shotgun or the 7 damage rusty laser pistol are good candidates -- being common grade they take an hour or so to produce in the most barebones of weapon rooms ; and they serve the backbone function quite well. [↩]Ideally it'd be the endurance +5 garb ; but if you're short the +3 won't be the end of the world. It all depends on your wanderers productivity, because rare armors (like rare weapons) are universally not worth producing -- they eat up rare ingredients that are needed for legendary crafts, thus constituting the most epic waste of resources conceivable. Both weapon and armor shops should craft common or legendary matter pretty much exclusively. [↩]Do you know what "repartitii" are, by the way ?
Bonus reading : Vai de capul nostru ; Loc de munca asigurat! [↩]This disparity is also why all your Wunderkids (meaning, 10 perception 10 agility 10 endurance 10 luck native) will be female. It's just not worth the risk otherwise, not to mention little's more annoying than spending a day or two training males only for rats to spawn right on them and... there you go, blink and corpses. [↩]The little bitches get a whooping 11 HP per level ; 200 is very safe, being what "normal" endgame looks like. You can shave it much closer than that if you're in a hurry for whatever reason ; but really there's no good reason to be in much of a hurry, because what's the point sending level 9s out in the Wastes ? They'll just blow a day doing jackall, if they stayed inside they could've made at least lvl 18 in that day see. [↩]Heck, you could even do charisma if you're that fucking anal. [↩]Actual utilization rates seem to be about 4.5 stimpaks to the radaway ; but there's no great advantage in sending people out with too few. Let them carry a spurious half dozen and bring it back most of the time, such that you never regret not packing enough.
It's tempting but also not a good idea to simply click the max radaways when sending someone out : it'll put too much pressure on your storage, tempting you to overbuild Science rooms and so on. [↩]Or whatever, once they're down to a coupla. Depends how often you bother to check, if you're going to bed anything under 6 might be too little. From what I've seen they use about 6 a day or so (potentially more if you play their encounters, but then you're playing). [↩]I tend to name everyone A-something Quester that worked quests, so they show up towards the top of the list. An alternative approach is to sort the list by Job, and make sure your questers are always lodged in the barracks, they'll be at the top then. [↩]Because children coming of age go on coffee break which makes them invulnerable, every base has a perpetual electron crowd of children who, having been born at some point in the foggily distant past, long came of age and have hence been wandering aimlessly from room to room, slowly growing older but neither wiser nor more experienced -- not even properly living, if such can be said of life in the Vault in the first place.
Naive females being (in apparently all cultures, including this inadvertently imaginary one) more desirable than their male... counterparts, if we can call them thus (though I don't see what'd warrant such) they slowly get pulled out of stasis and into being, to be impregnated, to populate the various training rooms... The males are left behind, with no clear purpose, bereft of even the most vanishingly dubious call or demand. Since the game is a game (meaning there's a player to heap all agency unto) the remainder gutted cartoons of males shambing about are good for pretty much nothing besides being cast out, barefoot, into the Wasteland, which is why this here's the only list they ever top and honestly speaking why they're even there in the first place. Vault Survivors' a harem game implicitly, because that's what necessarily an' unavoidably happens when you represent reproduction and allocate agency.
Now wonder with me at the "suicide bombers" of "Islam". All societies have this exact same problem, and the four million thirty-something aspiring Elliotts of Cairo's ten million pullulation ain't no different from Santa Barbara's equally equipotent & equivalent fraction. [↩]
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Year 13 d.Tr. »
Category: Trolloludens
Sunday, 03 January, Year 13 d.Tr.
State Fair
Speaking of barn animals : that doja chick made a new clip with some stripper. She's meanwhile... lost, let's say, pretty much every distinctive anything she ever had ; but "in exchange" (let's say) the sound, the set, the everything's reasonably produced to decent values. The end result's... decenti, I guess, though the nudity certainly could stand some dialing up.
Which brings us to today's topic, the titular State Fairii.
In this regrettable piece of nonsense Margy[erine to Vivian Leigh's butteriii] mopes about. She dun danceiv, she dun titties, she just... mopes, what, it's both her own word and the right word. There's a lotv of unintended, unexpected and otherwise uncanny comedy, principally resulting from the interplay of kink high's "firm convictions" with the historyvi thereof (and therefore completely immune to any suspicions of intentionality). Besideswhich, the interiors (especially early on) have a lot in common with historical reality : they're idealized versions of real objects, importantly idealized with the means then available. Therefore the film's informative for the amateur who wants to be able to follow (at least broadly) an actual anthropologist's points, but doesn't want to actually do all the reading involved.
Ultimately I suppose that's what Iowa always was all about, so in that unexpectedly meta sense the product delivers the promise in the title. It's only fair...
———In fairness there wasn't anything there besides coincidentally-flavoured lazy to begin with, so nothing of substance or import was lost. [↩]1944, by Walter Lang, with a tediously overdressed Jeanne Crain and otherwise a buncha extras, comedians etcetera. [↩]It's painfully obvious chick was trying to marilyn before there was a Marilyn to marilyn so she just picked the next best thing she could find in her immediate environment an' set her ass down to marilyinin' that...
I could say it's uncunny, but come down to the brass tacks it's anything butt. It's not uncunny at all, it's so very very cunny it almost bleeds (monthly, or thereabouts). They're indistinct so they copy each other, because figuring weight for age an' tits for tats what the hell's gonna be so personal about a hole ? Biology really dun leave much to work with, nu-i vina lor, ie vina naturii. [↩]It is degrading in the superlative for a young woman to live with her feet glued to the ground. They just don't belong there, yo! Lift them up! As Ole Liz aptly put it, "the prettiest earrings are always your own ankles".
How did you think hoop earrings ever became a thing, anyways ?! Same way you'll ever become a thing, now hop to. [↩]If you'd like an example, I could give you an example. In the fictive world of then, just as in the current fictive world (not to mention reality, for reality's cold an' unfriendly), the female mates up in the world. The male stays on the farm, to continue his dad's endless toil ; but the young cunny goes to town, to be with a...
Well, with a "journalist", of course. Doh. That's the angle they were jacking off to back then, what else could possibly be as cool as being one of them losers. That they were selling silly bois stuck on the farm back in Iowa the same sort of nonsensical slop they reheated for various geese & assorted cunturkeys a few decades later is not the important point here. What the hell, every immigrant goes by the same rocks and shorelines on his way to a hollow statue, every turnip fallen off the truck rolls down the same pavements an' gutters... of course the "liberated" dumbos of the 1990s will be presented the same delicious dish that the "liberated" ourbravebois of 1950 had to suck up. Go to New York and live on your wits why dontcha!
Anyways, that could be the point anywhere, so I'm not making here. Instead, let me say, with all possible confidence, that you've never seen sketch like this. Not ever, not anywhere, they broke the mold. This dude, drastically indicated, foreshadowed an' all but introduced in neon lighting as the dream-come-true mate, this dude is so fucking creepy... I don't think I can put it in words. Let's just say he's from Creepazoid and they all bow down to his mastery of their craft back on his homeworld.
Suffice it to say that the "trust your gut" nonsense being passed about the platforms as some sort of superlative, unquestioned-because-unquestionable wisdom nowadays directly reduces to "trust what the media says". It's exactly -- but I do mean exactly -- equivalent to telling the heroine in a slasher flick to "follow the music". On one hand of course she will, and on the other hand you know why the music is there, who put it there, how come etcetera. And that it'll change. And how it'll change.
Well... it changed, what can I tell you. Trust your guts this other way now, they're the same guts, same shit inside... you just trust 'em this way now, you hear ? [↩]Hatefully recorded, no doubt, for it takes a certain type of disloyal blackguard to purport to keep track of the wars with Eurasia or whatever. THE TIME IS NOW!
PS. A blackguard is that thrice-cursed dog whose faulty vision sees things as they actually are as opposed to what they'd like to see. [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Thursday, 28 January, Year 13 d.Tr.
Somewhat busy these days...
... because... well, of the usual reasons.
One day ended with me saying that I feel so very superlatively loved, an' happy, to delighted coos from the (nude) audience ; because as they say and I plainly believe there's no light shining greater in the slavegirl's life than a thoroughly satisfied Master. Then I continued to say "and my asshole's so thoroughly licked, and...", in the purely rhethorical sense of rounding the statement and anchoring it in the... you know, synergy of facts. But it sent all the girls into a mild tailspin, "how long's it been since I ate your ass ???" "omg I've not licked in there this week" and so on. I pointed out to them that it's the spirit that cunts, and besides ; and then we went to bed : me in bed, and they besides. I'd like to make a sentence with betides now, for complextitty, but I have no ideas, besides perhaps to say that woe betide the man without ideas (and the boi with).
I now must save this piece, and what the fuck am I going to call it ? wtf.txt should be good enough, I guess ; but back to our story : the morn rolled around, and we went... shopping! Because what the fuck else am I gonna do, rotting here in earthly paradise ? And besides, I'm a money stylisti as a principal vocationii. At which point, upon returning from our coffee break mid-perusal of wares, I spoke to my slave, "Oh, what a nice life I lead! I've just bought a pile of laptopsiii and now I'll go home to play video games, or... maybe you make some cake -- wait, you already did". Because she had, the day before, some truly delicious brownies the likes of which I've seen exactly nowehere -- and I travelled the world. At which point we were just rounding a corner past the elevator and coming in view of the... German make car, let's call the local bramobile thusiv, so she says "And you have a girl waiting by the car to open your door", which was true, there she was, most eager filly, waiting by the car to open the door. So I bellow'dv "what the fuck are you doing standing, bitch ?", which put her on her knees, and there we go, Gaddafi ain't got nuttin' on me!
The day continued in the same vein, a "closed on Mondays" restaurant opened for me because I fucking felt like going Monday, and then they went to the gym leaving me behind counting money, in piles, because there's a lot, and uhm... that'd be it, we're going to the beach tomorrow, what can I tell you. There was some public fucking at some point in there too, "go chain yourself to a polevi, maybe I feel like coming over and fucking you" and so on in that vein, but... well, what can you do.
I'm a very busy guyvii.
———Rest at ease no large sums were hurt in the making of the substance for this paragraph, I think we only went through like a million colones or thereabouts, which isn't anything. [↩]I do other things, of course. I'm a reasonably accomplished spyncter phlebotomist, for instance, as well as an anoxia experimentalist and I feed small invertebrates to Vulnavia the Burt also. How's that for a pizdicullum vitae! Ca nom nom n-om fi cutotii gay de-aia ieftini cu net gratis de la gayromeo sa cur-ricullum impreuna asa, tinindu-ne de minute acuma. Da ? Just ?
Mbine. [↩]It was a pile indeed ; she did the research, I was in the store all of ten minutes, counting piles of money (yes, they still discount por efectivo, especially if you don't want receipts) and off we went, on her work. Props, bitch!
PS. No, I didn't wear a mask. Everyone else in the store was, sure. They kept looking at me oddly, sure. "Laws" aka queefs still don't apply to me, and may you chodes choke on it. Seriously now, you've been in them muzzles for what, a year ? Two years by now ? Mandatory for you, is it ? Well... when you look up, in the direction of the urine stream, you get an inkling of what wealth, power an' supremacy are all about : it's just as mandatory for "the presdient of the united states" as it is for you ; but it's optional for me. Thassit. [↩]Do you fuck in your car, by the way ?
On the highway ? [↩]It's an interesting device, this Master praline, whereby the outer shell's plainly serious as if it were serious throughout, but there's a soft core of joke inside. Takes them a year or two of live-in slavery to start appreciating it. [↩]She was naked, of course. Perhaps I should say "as nude as a newborn babe" ?
Except for the fake tits, definitionally the item babes aren't born with, but gotta earn on their own time and out of their own hide. [↩]We also watched a brief portion of some lulz with Ben Kingsley about some big deal Brit mobby-sters or somesuch. L-O-L's all I can say. [↩]
« To Die For
So here I sit... »
Category: Oda Superbiei
Tuesday, 09 February, Year 13 d.Tr.
Somebody embezzled the bezele berrets!
You see, because pickles do not grow in threes (I mean trees) ; pickles as anyone knows grow under a rock. There in the dark cool damp of the cave, they do their things, and have little interest in coming out to the sunny breezy above. Unless, of course, it's to go on caps.
Should some good fellows (especially if with good moustachios, but even otherwise) need a good hat decoration for their hardcaps of WAR!!! then the pickle could perhaps be coaxed into the sun, above the ground. Then the fellows could adopt it as the ur-decoration for all their masculine millinery, resulting in something quite akin the celebrated picklehaube.
But who would the picklehauberks go to war with ?
Well... obviously some guys obsessed with sweet creams and beaten eggwhites shaped in shapes, held together by sugar : the frankly famous & frizzy fabulous bezelei berrets! Whom were embezzled from, because... well... mit Pomaden bezalt...
That'd be all, really.
———As in that joke whereby the diabetic went to the doctor to complain about his wife's yeast infection :
"Ok, " said the good doctor, "but how about yourself ?"
"Well doctor... I'm a diabetic", answered the diabetic.
"Ok, so ?"
"So what should we do ?"
"Faceti bezele!" [↩]
« Object-oriented, format-extension, freedom & self-respect, things an' matters (that dun matter)
Dangerous, a novel »
Category: Zsilnic
Thursday, 21 January, Year 13 d.Tr.
Some other mornings, however...
Apparently there's this emergent new kind of Trilema article whereby... how shall I put thisi. Some mornings I wake up with an erection, and I go inside a bedroom. A girl's sleeping there, cuddled within herself, breathing evenly under the sheets. My penis is dangling, in her face. She wakes, and it's the first thing she sees. She starts, and then she curls in a feline smile. And then we fuck, and then we talk, and then she gets in trouble, and then she learns things, and then she's exhausted, and then she goes to bed. By herself, I mean, though sometimes they sleep together generally everyone's got their own bed what the hell.
Some other mornings, however, I wake by myself. Though I'm not really "by myself" in any common sense, not this time. All the girls are about, sleeping their slavery, dreaming it, breathing it, nearby. I could have my choice, for any reason or by no reason at all informed, whichever way I please or not care to notice. The ancient hope and desire of mankind, to have your choice to have your way. Yet I do not want my choice, this morning ; I've apparently awoken before the Sun rose with an erection of a different kind.
So in the darkness I sit, and I write -- though by now it's no longer dark at all, but plain daylight ; and moreover we've said good mornings. But I am still in bed, and writing, something I almost never do ("Hey, bring me the power, would you."). They've things to do, some aren't even up yet, for having had a difficult day yesterday, though it started well, but then it took a decided turn (while the day before was even worse, it started poorly and it continued with eating dogfood and being angry and punished terribly and just getting worse and unfoldingly worse from there) ; then again that's life, isn't it ? It is ; and then you die.
They do, and so do you. Not me, so far ; and once I do... well, once I do there won't be any mornings, neither like this nor definitely like that, and so there's nothing there to write about. Is there something here to write about ? There's apparently this emergent new kind of Trilema article whereby... there's nothing there to write about. It's new in the sense of different from all the other ones that weren't there to write about until they were written and so therefore became something ; because it is the unique curse of being the only font of thought that what you do may become a point, for others, but it never has a point, not for you. There's gotta be a first point, right ? So then there is, if there must be thus it is. This is it ; and what is it about ?
Hannah is leaving, even. She has things to do. She looks like a million bucks in her tight outfit, a look she's earned, by a million beads of sweat, slaving away at the gym ; but she is sad, overwhelmed, exceeded perhaps. Supervising workmen is growing ever more tedious an activity as the years go by, in direct proportion to the ever diminishing ability, competency and general savoir-faire left in the ever-draining pool. At least if it were quantified, and it drained away in headcount only ; but sadly with every workman lost to stupid the remainder grow dimmer too, somehow. Come to think of it, perhaps a swamp'd be a more adequate denominator. Whatever it is really has very little in common with a pool -- unless of course what's contemplated's the stagnant water where life supposedly begun, lo all those years ago, and apparently's quite in danger of readily returning, say tomorrow. Or the day after.
What shall I do today ? Perhaps I'll play ; maybe I'll write. I write like I play, which is to say playfully ; and I suppose in fair honesty I also play as I write, which is thoughtfully you could call it, I suppose, though for me it's not thoughtful in the usualii, reflective sense. A signal processor's definitionally bereft of state, as opposed to a von Neuman machine ; and similarily my thoughtful activity's not ruminated, like apparently everyone else's. Nor is this accident in any sense deliberate, it's not a construction of refinement (also known as stupidity, for what else could it ever be), I just...
The great advantage of defining corectness as simply "what that guy does" is that whatever he does will actually be correct ; the disadvantage's the same. The available alternatives are to give up the notion of correctness altogether, thereby reverting to the sad but natural state where it's hard to learn and easy to forget (and ships are but boards, hence all the talk of swamp) ; or else to try for yet another instalment of socialism, whereby you sit in the same swamp but -- and here's the cleverly ingenious bit of sheer ingenuity (and did I mention genius ?) : you pretend like the state's satisfying your needs.iii Trying to pick a better one won't do anything, because there isn't a better one nor are you equipped to actually establish this point (or any other, for that matter, but why depress ourselves), and so...
We're stuck with each other, and in our respective positions. It's simply the human condition, and it admits no solutions (in being no kind of problem), hence literature (and the temptation to "realism", or "meaning", in literature, quite exactly like the temptation to honesty in politicsiv) along with every other kind of pretense -- expensive, and improductive, especially when prosecuted on the ever-shifting basis of no formal familiarity with the underlying truth of the matterv.
———To "put it" is yet another construction that means to fuck in Romanian. Aren't you surprised ?
Da' macar i-ai pus-o ?
I like it, myself. Not just the fucking, I mean the expression ; it suggests to me, on the solid basis of lengthy experience, this particular form of the activity whereby a great whore (this discusses her competency, she's great at fucking) with a great ass (this discusses her endowments, she's that kind) either lays in bed on her back or I suppose on her knees, and you take this mataringa, a superlative erection almost to the point of it becoming painful, and you just lay it on her cunt. If she's on her back it just ever so slightly parts her (very sensitive, by the way) labia, but it's not in by any degree, it's just close enough to rub her slick ; if she's on her knees it just ever so slightly parts her (pink, and pretty, and delicate) netherlips, but it's not going inside, in fact it's not even on any kind of practicable direction, just like in the movies. It's a cool, pleasant, breezy late morning, she's hornier than a harpy from hell, her cunt's willing the damned thing to fuck her already, her whole body's sucking you in somehow, metem-tele-psycho-kinetically, and...
Asta se cheama ca i-ai pus-o.
The whole thing originates, I suspect, with one of them "secret" stories of Ion Creanga, the one where the girl young wife claims it feels like Ionica's buttering her up inside.
Cum o puse, cum se duse... [↩]That important reference still MIA ; I wonder where the hells it went, after having just spent another tiresome hour digging through the pile for it.
Meanwhile it's been found (with a little help from my friends) :
diana_coman mircea_popescu: eh, nu stii tu sa cauti! poftim: http://trilema.com/2020/forum-logs-for-07-apr-2017/#2265605
[↩]Hey, it worked for women all these many years, why shouldn't it work just as well for you too ? Aren't you a woman anyway, kinda ?
So then! [↩]Or impregnation in copulation, or cutting one's own neck with one's own hands more generally speaking. Just like the temptation to push the eject button while watching a movie -- suicide's an uncommon event lots of ruminators disproportionately preoccupy themselves with. How about yourself ? [↩]You understand both the meta ridiculousness, as well as the very direct danger to be found inside interaction with fiction naively, as if it were factual ; yet just as you prosecute fraud and apply warning labels you also think "this film was based on a true story" spicy, rather than plain old dumb. Yes ? Well... [↩]
« Dangerous, a novel
Cu ciorapu' flausat pe pula... »
Category: Zsilnic
Monday, 25 January, Year 13 d.Tr.
So some dork asks me for a "designer" job...
It's a particularly... peculiar occurrence, let's say, strictly because of where I'm from : a place & time beyond the rainbow that you can't begin to imagine (and for which reason you're very much beginning to live).
Back among 1980s socialist (ahem, I'm sorry, "popular-democratic") narratives, back in those enchanted times & places where a dozen teenaged girlies hung themselves each yeari because they only made 80-something percent instead of the ninety-something percent that'd have allowed them to become teachers (as opposed to factory workers) on the omnixam, thus greatly disappointing their families (as represented by the father and his ilk, not the mother and her kind) the sorting through the she-herd for marital purposes was simple enough : upper class people got a French-speaking girlie ; the middle-class and other upstarts of dubious quality still accepted on public occasions but rather towards the back of the room got themselves an English-speaking second best. The former came from the titcan called Liceul Mihai Eminescu ; the latter from the less great but maybe nicer tits (certainly bigger) titcan called "Liceul Gheorghe Sincai".
That's as far as the differences wentii : the showing off of the bitch/bride to be (dressed, don't mind me) to uncles &cetera extended family. If she was French-able she earned you bonus points, and otherwise... well, English'll be good enough, it's "of future" and whateveriii. No brownie points though. Not like it made any difference beyond that, they were both gonna be teachers, preggers and subsistence cooksiv anyhow -- and that's the end of that story.
Then the 90s rolled around, and some things happened. For one thing, decent, respectable boys listened to Heavy Metal (Iron Maiden especially and very dominantly)v. Contrariwise not to mention opposite of this correct, righteous, just and appropriate preference -- which, at the time (as well as in the confused mind of teenagers generally) passed for identity -- some utterly fallen, decayed (and probably homalai, too!) scum listened to -- horrible dictu!! -- Depeche Mode. They weren't people, that's for damn sure ; and their cosmos-destructuring crime -- for it was a crime, make no mistake about it -- to be punished on the spot, with a hardcore beatdown, including stomping. I've never beaten in my whole life as a career criminal as many people for anything else as I stomped the living daylights out of those depesari reprehensible fucks back in the 90s.vi (Amusingly enough, my elder slavegirl's a lifetime fan, and although I beat her ass down regularily... it's never for that.vii)
For another thing, new career paths opened up for boys, besides mastering that math and therefore becoming engineers. They could just as well (and alternatively) not master anything, and be... designers. Since you've not seen the beatdowns you can't imagine the contempt in which those idiots were held, that had become "designers" because they couldn't figure out math. It was like going to school to become a faggot (which you probably imagine "is ok" and "socially acceptable" and "a matter of personal choice" whatever identity politics vomit, but permit me to laughviii), I mean... I'm positive any kid worth his salt'd have much rather Tom Sawyer-drowned than cocking it all up that badly.
The irony of it all is that upon 30 years' history accumulating into experience, it actually turns out that... they were right, too. It was a categorical, crucial mistake, "becoming a designer". It never panned out for the becomers, anyways. It'd have been better to drown, Tom Sawyer-drown or otherwise. It was actually wrong, morally wrong, to like Depeche Mode as a kid. It may very well be aesthetically right, I agree, as a grown man I even have it in my grown man car the bitches drive for me. It's harmless to me now, just like the old folk said. But morals ain't got nothing to do with aesthetics. Ethically, it was a choice worse than suicide.
What to do for the walking dead ? Nothing, of course. With, yes, but for... how ?
———Out of maybe a hundred thousand or so total population, meaning post-Bacalaureat suicide was the principal cause of death for females age 18. Not that anyone reported it as such, because nobody gave a shit, because honestly that's what they were supposed to do. Helps keep the rest in line. They'd call it "a personal tragedy", and mean by that "exactly how it's supposed to go". [↩]That's exactly how it went, what. Who disagrees wasn't the fuck there. [↩]If you recognize this spoken part carries a woman's wilting lilting soprano voicing indication, who knows. Maybe you were there. [↩]I'll just say "N-ai pe cineva..." and leave it at that. You find Tomita on your own. [↩]In continuation of pre-90s fashions. [↩]Nor do I have any shot in hell of ever catching up. For one thing I'm way the fuck too lazy, and for the other I've gone from "almost slapping" to throwing cashews over a decade, I mean gimme a break. 19 yo me is quite unimpressed with all the fatty decay. [↩]It's never for anything really, at least not usually.
Take for instance the most recent beatdown, which occured last night. I invited the bitches to my bed to cuddle, which took a rapid turn because they started kissing and blocking my view of (b) "what the fuck is that" (h) "another one of those celentano teenagers rock things" (m) "yeah dude, this guy... he owned Italian box office for twenty years, making the cheapest shit ever. I don't think he ever spent a hundred grand on a film, just basically put out a podcast and the suckers ate it up."
Next thing I know, I was tying the unicorn's feet to the solid metal railings of the bed and inviting Hannah to beat her up, then someone was licking my balls while I was ploughing into an unexpecting cunt (it's great by the way, try it sometimes, unprepared sex like them real Africans do it) that got flood-slick in three strokes while beating the shit out of some thighs or butts or what was it... o wait actually before that she was spreading her legs sitting so I could get her where it really hurts, you know, them inner thighs on a grown woman while I was nominally beating the tied down bimbo... basically she was tempting my stick away by putting her cunt on display you could say.
Anyways, I don't remember it all, but to make an unremembered story short they're all leopard-printed this fine morning (those that are, unlike me, up) and I can't say they've done something to deserve it.
Other than being somethings that deserve it, that is. [↩]And while we're laughing : noticed the disclaimer ?
How faggoty are those "United Nations" jokers anyways ?! It's almost like they're DM fans, what the fuck "we publish it but we didn't publish it if you come asking with a jackboot ready" sorta bs is that! [↩]
« La Ragazza Che Sapeva Troppo
L'homme orchestre »
Category: 3 ani experienta
Thursday, 11 March, Year 13 d.Tr.
So here I sit...
So here I sit, with a pile of deliciously fresh mango, all oily-ripe, and the world's best bananasi, and a mug of milk, and I'm about to write... well actually, I went through the comment section first. It was... lulzy, after a fashionii, but then it's also very predictable and besides, not really that interesting.
I was however about to write yesterday's story, which begins at four-something Wednesday morning, with nude slavegirls all quietly kissing my toes to wake me up, because... well, we're going to the beach. And I like going there early, because sunrise sun's the best sun, yes ? The trip's about an hour through one of the world's most scenic routes I'm pretty sure I've shown you before, except there's a difference between one picture and ten thousand tripsiii, but let's not make hay of it. There's a cooler packed with all sorts and manner in the trunk, byproducts of busily kneeling womanhood ; we're chattering happily about I don't specifically remember what, but as is oft observed "this is so much better than any radio show, comedian or anything on TV...". It is, too ; but I ain't about to start a fucking podcast. Nor am I about to start watching one ; or as death itself put it once, "you do you".
Then we jumped waves to exhaustion, watching the pelicans fly by from up close, underneath. They were literally skimming waves overhead, four-five feet away. Besides that, we were literally swimming with the fishesiv -- all sorts and kinds, coming up close enough to touch / nibble : the orange-black-white tropical guy, the pale blue guy with really long arches extending vertically from his body, a tuna or two, even a long preditor of some kind I couldn't identify. A bony fish for sure, long and slender (he was well over a foot), dark gray. A wave rose up and there he was, inside, swimming all like "wut ?" as if a section of ocean had been produced spontaneously for our inspection. Which... it had, hand't it. They jumped and watched us jump, and blew bubbles (perhaps because we were blowing bubbles ?). Fishes as friendly as these tropical guys most people have to go snorkeling to maybe encounter... but we were just at our usual haunt, see, they came to see us. Not the other fucking way around. I suspect there might be a crab somewhere selling tickets! Come see the people show!
Anyways, then we napped, on our comfortable beds, in our air-conditioned environment, fifty steps from the beach. By counties! But before we napped I took a shit (there's nothing quite like ocean waves for peristalsis) while the girls showered ("Wash my cunt, bitch!" and other audible amusements filtering past the see-through glass) and then... we went back. Swam some more, and walked on the beach for the sunset, admiring the hermit crabs -- there must've been fifty billion of them, at one point we ran into a large grouping of perhaps fifty, or a hundred maybe, I've never seen them socialise before. And all the pretty and varied shells they got! We played with them to our heart's content, and walked and watched the susnet and "Nah, I think you're the only one getting his cock sucked on this beach" and then we went back to the beach house and showered and packed the car (well, I didn't pack jack) and hit the road on a return trip, sixteen or eighteen hours later, thereabouts, them bitches tired out. They're still sleeping actually, ha-ha!
How's your Wednesday been ?
———"You know... I think this might be the best bannana I ever had."
"Oh yeah, these are great."
"Umm... shall I turn the car around ?"
"Naaah."
Because it ain't worth turning the car around, for me. As the harem slaves call it, "Emperor of China syndrome", whereby I have it so good it's getting outright absurd. And that Lucian Blaga cuck dared misstate his cucky bliss as "being affraid of divine envy ?" Pshaw!
Grow a pair, why don'tcha. You won't be afraid of anything anymore. [↩]
mircea_popescu http://trilema.com/2009/un-an/#comment-159851 daca doriti sa revedeti.
diana_coman ahaha, eu am citit "luna crypto" si deja ma gandeam la lapona enigel
diana_coman lmao
mircea_popescu tu mai esti in lumea crypto apropo ?
diana_coman eu? da' ce, am fost eu vreodata?
diana_coman da' acu' au auzit brusc toti de bitcoin-fashion si na, ii tine acolo vreme de 5 lei cat vor face ei averili
mircea_popescu ce simplu e, stii... "bun venit in minunata lume a matematicii". bai... da' io-s in viata reala ok ? nu in "lumea matematicii".
diana_coman ei na, care lume reala, auzi colo, aia e la televizor :D
mircea_popescu tati puletii din lumi imaginare, gen youtube, sau ma rog, garsoniera-comfort-sporit vin la tine sa te intrebe daca mai esti in "lumea" oamenilor ce fut gagici
diana_coman pe mine oricum ma pufneste rasul la alea cu "e youtuber" ori "influencer" si alte alea
mircea_popescu is hazu' de pe lume, TOATA presa ro iese sub trilema daca aduni. date publice, etc. da' ei... mnoa, nu observa lol
mircea_popescu e ceva asta cu lumile...
diana_coman lasa, ca e doar ca te-a vorbit ala buhuhu-nicinici de ti-a facut trafic!
mircea_popescu just
mircea_popescu asa o fi in lumea youtube, nu zic nu.
diana_coman cum era aia, da' probabil ei nici pe aia n-o stiu cu "astazi iar, la telejurnal, am vazut cascaval"; cam asa si ei, numai ca intre timp nici ce-i aia cascaval nu mai stiu, imi pare.
mircea_popescu pai asa e regula, cind uiti repeti.
[↩]I don't think we've been to the beach a thousand times. Maybe a coupla dozen this year -- I don't mean this year that just started, I mean this "year" ie since last returning to Costa Rica. And maybe a hundred or two the previous return, and so on. Apocatastasis, you know, I keep returning ; and through it all the Autopista Del Sol perdures. [↩]I can't imagine why this expression caught on such ominous coloring. There's a lot of fun in swimming with the fishes. [↩]
« Somewhat busy these days...
BUG Mafia »
Category: Zsilnic
Thursday, 11 February, Year 13 d.Tr.
Shield for murder
Shield for murderi is banal, run-of-the-mill cheap cinema masquerading as a noir, with little more to distinguish it from the soup besides Carolyn Jones's absolutely exquisite bar whore (and, perhaps, Marla Englishii's cute toes in fishnets atop platforms).
Yet even though the dialogue's impossibily wooden and the plotholes more abundant than the spaghetti dislogic, you absolutely still have to see it. Because female perfection is female perfection, and that blondy's approach to the unknown, difficult, nutty dude, her openers and parries and ripostes... it's the stuff of wonder. For that reason alone you have to see it, for Carolyn Jones it survives, because rarely is anyone any good, at anything -- be it something they care about or not, wish themselves good at or on the contrary, bla bla bla. Carolyn Jones is perfect at whoring out of bars, that's exactly how it's supposed to be done : joke opener, expertly hedged... that bitch can take it, she'd make a jeweled addition to any stable, harem, household etcetera.
RIP old girl, ensconced in the all-protecting solace that you, indeed, have not lived out in vain.
Besides providing superfluous footage diluting an exquisite Carolyn Jones one whore short there's also I suppose a pool shoot-out, and assorted other ex-B-list-in-TVland exploratorium. O'Brien had been a major box office draw at some point, before the war, you know. There's even a (rare) period shot of what exactly "tract homes" (the pioneers of urban sprawl & contemporary suburbia) looked like, back then. Spoiler : not much ; definitely not enough to warrant uprooting a working, workable construction of the world world for.
And so it goes.
———1954, by Howard W. Koch & Edmond O'Brien (odd, I know), with Carolyn Jones, David Hughes. [↩]Budget Liz Taylor practically speaking, obscure teenage stunner that settled into a bourgeois marriage before 25. [↩]
« Moral myopia
Hey bitches! Smell my armpits! »
Category: Trilematograf
Tuesday, 08 June, Year 13 d.Tr.
Sextette
Sextettei is the crowned exponent of the cringe genre, or at least would be if the gods could bear such atrocity as a cringe genre.
It's just... it's unwatchable. The whole cast & production crew are TV schmucks, which universally makes for terrible cinema ; then the supposed starlet supposedly Jayne Mansfield-ing all over herself is a complete geriatric case -- she moves with all the grace of an arthritic badger, she readily commands all the gruff tone and delivery of a slaphappy heavyweight long retired, her waistline'd absolutely betray late-trimester pregnancy if she were anywhere near nubile (but as it is it's just an utter embarrassment)... I've no words. It's like watching selected footage of commercial fraud, like one of those cases where a "slick operator" tricks some retiree into buying eighteen organs (the musical instrument) or an ever less relevant party machine tricks some misfortunate war veteran into "running for president", something he's self-obviously and most transparently neither interested in to any degree nor much capable of even representing to any standard in those brief (and ever briefer) moments of lucidity.ii
The Ra-ra-ra-America general conventions, plottings & pious frauds that'd have maybe even mattered the last time anyone laid the laidin' lady (which is to say a good three-four decades prior) fall indescribably flat ; her delivery of Rodney Dangerfield-level throwaways just out-and-out terrible (to say nothing of predictable -- it's a lot like playing Go with a five year old who simply puts his token right under whatever you've played no matter what). Then the forced comedy whereby the "British" stock character readily admits to "being gay" on "television -- which is the instagram everyone cares about, hurr" or somesuch nonsense because (wait for it) he thought (in his "Britishness") what's meant is, you know, gay, as opposed to faggot HAHAHAHA see because HE IS BRITISH HE DOESNT GWET IT HAHAHAHAHA ce-am mai ris.
Meanwhile the edges of the atrocity are, for their pretense to "framing" the story into "everyone knows" normalcy, even more bothersome. The stupid cunt / "influencer" of the 70s, for instance, is -- between her idiotic "women in business & with careers" jacket and hairdo and stupid fucking scarf -- even less tolerable than the necromancy'd chorus girl. You just want to bitchslap that fake "empathy" / concern trolling smug mug offa her face with a well greased socket wrench -- or at least, I do.
I'm not saying this film shouldn't have been made ; in fact, very well that it was made. I'm not even saying it shouldn't be watched, in general, however formulated. I just don't want to watch it myself, that's all.
———1977, by Ken Hughes, after a play by Mae West, with an eighty-four year old Mae West, Dom DeLuise, Tony Curtis. Also included, cameos by Ringo Starr, Alice Cooper, Regis Philbin, George Raft etc. [↩]Can you look at poor ol' Biden and not feel sorry for the victim of what's quite undeniably senior abuse ?
You think he even understands what the fuck the weirdo nurses in his strange retirement home are doing to him all the time ? And why the fuck can't he tremble his lips in peace like every other foggy octogenarian since creation ? I can fart in my home to my heart's content, and when I'll be old I'll be able to tremble as much as I fucking want (or need to), which I suppose is putting me ahead of these "presidents" of nothing in particular yet again. [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Thursday, 25 March, Year 13 d.Tr.
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It's been a year since I deployedi the cluster currently serving Trilema -- slightly longer, I suppose, as the title readily attests. Coincidentally it's also been a year since Roosevelt-socialism abandonedii most trappings of republicanism, in favour of ye olde & well familiar "popular democracy" rehash -- slightly longer than that, I'm sure (just as I'm sure it felt way the fuck longer on your hide even while I barely noticed).
So... maybe it's time for some illustration worth 10`000 paper monies (the sort nobody wants for anything) ? Do you think ? Yeah ?
Wellll, ok then! Here :
Up top, Trilema traffic, as reported by some uninvolved third party. Down below, the fantasy of financial situations in socialism, as self-reported. Notice any kind of pattern or anything in there ?
How is it, do you think, that today like every day, that this year like the first year, we're still divided by the same line, and in the same manner : you trying to pretend you're me, me actually being me. What gives ?
And... well, wouldn't it be easier on your meagre faculties if instead of struggling under the overwhelming burden of trying to pretend you're me (while trying to pretend you never heard of me, and so on -- pretense never saturates, but forever yields the need for itself) you'd just... well, you know, plainly, simply, modeslty come to your natural station on Earth ?
Wouldn't it be a simpler life, to prostrate yourself before me ? Instead of trying as best you can to hold on to this shot-through, raggedy pretense that no-oh-no, you're you, there's such a thing to be as this "you", somehow (impossibly) something else besides mere idiocy... wouldn't it perhaps be more satisfying, for being more in tune with actual reality, for being naturally true, for being the overpoweringly self-obviously fact of the matter ?
What if in place of this dearly bought paid (yet never delivered upon) pretense to an individuality that's just not within your purchase, what if instead of all the herpitty-derp you simply gave up ? Isn't it tempting, to sleep, perchance to dream... ?
Anyways ; my infrastructure's again reaching saturation capacity, like it was last time I had to look at it. I feel about as disinclined to do something about it now as I did then, it's true -- but then again in the end I did do something then, so who knows, perhaps I will again.
Or perhaps I won't. Tell you what : if you're trying to read Trilema but there's no Trilema available for you to read, just do what the rest of "you" do, whenever that happens -- meaning, all the time. Why don't you just queue quietly and wait.
It's what you're for, after all. Isn't it ?
———In fairness I mostly managed & oversaw the deployment, which in some peculiar views is not exactly the same thing. [↩]In fairness, they didn't actually have the spit&vinegar to come out and claim it ; they go around pretending like "events" (by them imagined) in their unfurling forced their hand -- an altogether most Rapunzel take on things. The ever-raped, raped again, into something so unlike what they were of, or for.
Feminine "points of view", what can you do. [↩]
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Category: Meta psihoza
Friday, 07 May, Year 13 d.Tr.