19 October 2014

Emily St. John Mandel

Hell is the absence of the people you long for.

18 October 2014

Axiom - Margaret Atwood

Axiom: you are a sea.
Your eye-
lids curve over chaos
My hands, where they touch you, create
small inhabited islands
Soon you will be
all earth: a known
land, a country.

17 October 2014

Thymus - Sylvia Legris

Gulch of affection the gully
of fumigation. Sweet-throated
the courage gorge. The sweetly bred
sublingual cultivar.
Feisty-hearted, the meat-
propagating gullet.
From the juicy acorn ripens
a warty excrescence.
Cheeky the rude clump!
Buttress-rooted, vulgaris—
eye-sorry carbuncle.
A scrunch of pungent
chump change.
Thymus the field-drab. The aromatic bromide. History of dark sea, old
moss, laurel. Absinthe; the gray-green, gently absenting itself.
Thymus the shrinking mass in aid of breath and exhalation [Cooper].
Thymus the mystery organ [Galen]. Organ of vicarious respiration
[Meckel]. Protective thoracic cushion [Vesalius].
Small planet of the solar plexus. From the Greek thymos, for thyme; to
stand in line for the lungs, to burn in sacrifice.

27 September 2014

Why I Am Not a Good Kisser — Mary Ruefle

Because I open my mouth too wide
Trying to take in the curtains behind us
And everything outside the window
Except the little black dog
Who does not like me
So at the last moment I shut my mouth.

Because Cipriano de Rore was not thinking
When he wrote his sacred and secular motets
Or there would be only one kind
And this affects my lips in terrible ways.

Because at the last minute I see a lemon
Sitting on a gravestone and that is a thing, a thing
That would appear impossible, and the kiss
Is already concluded in its entirety.

Because I learned everything about the beautiful
In a guide to the weather by Borin Van Loon, so
The nature of lenticular clouds and anticyclones
And several other things dovetail in my mind
& at once it strikes me what quality goes to form
A Good Kisser, especially at this moment, & which you
Possess so enormously—I mean when a man is capable
Of being in uncertainties, Mysteries & doubts without me
I am dreadfully afraid he will slip away
While my kiss is trying to think what to do.

Because I think you will try to read what is written
On my tongue and this causes me to interrupt with questions:
A red frock? Red stockings? And the rooster dead?
Dead of what?

Because of that other woman inside me who knows
How the red skirt and red stockings came into my mouth
But persists with the annoying questions
Leading to her genuine ignorance.

Because just when our teeth are ready to hide
I become a quisling and forget the election results
And industrial secrets leading to the manufacture
Of woolen ice cream cones, changing the futures
Of ice worms everywhere.

Can it be that even the greatest Kisser ever arrived
At his goal without putting aside numerous objections—

Because every kiss is like throwing a pair of doll eyes
Into the air and trying to follow them with your own—

However it may be, O for a life of Kisses
Instead of painting volcanoes!

Even if my kiss is like a paintbrush made from hairs.
Even if my kiss is squawroot, which is a scaly herb
Of the broomrape family parasitic on oaks.
Even if a sailor went to sea in me

To see what he could see in me
And all that he could see in me
Was the bottom of the deep dark sea in me.

Even though I know nothing can be gained by running
Screaming into the night, into the night like a mouth,
Into the mouth like a velvet movie theater
With planets painted on its ceiling
Where you will find me, your pod mate,
In some kind of beautiful trouble
Over moccasin stitch #3,
Which is required for my release.

26 September 2014

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota — James Wright

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,   
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.   
Down the ravine behind the empty house,   
The cowbells follow one another   
Into the distances of the afternoon.   
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,   
The droppings of last year’s horses   
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.   
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

16 September 2014

from Terry Southern's The Sun and Still-Born Stars

Sid and Sarah were of a line of unimaginative, one-acre farmers who very often had not owned the land they worked, and whose life’s spring was less connected to the proverbial love of the land than twisted somehow around a vague acceptance of work, God’s will and the hopeless, unsurprising emptiness of life. The only book in their little house was the Bible, which they never read.

10 September 2014

04 September 2014

Should Literature Be Considered Useful? from the New York Times

To reduce literature to its usefulness is to miss the verbal texture, the excess, the sheer pleasure of word and sound, that make it literature in the first place. The idea of literature as equipment for living seems puritanically utilitarian — as if you were to listen to a symphony in order to sharpen your hearing, or look at a painting to improve your vision.

Yet there is a persistent impulse in our culture to offer such pragmatic excuses for art, as if only something that helped us gain an advantage in the struggle for life were worthy of respect. Nearly a century ago, the critic I. A. Richards advanced a psychological argument that reading poetry improved the responsiveness and organization of the brain. Today, the same argument is often made in Darwinian terms. There is a whole school of Darwinian aesthetics that explains art as a useful adaptation, which historically must have helped those who made it or those who enjoyed it to improve their chances at reproduction.

Adam Kirsch

Literature is life’s long-lost twin, its evil double, its hidden velvet lining, its mournful ghost. The relationship between the two can be expressed only as a metaphor, permanently equivocal and impossible to pin down. But whatever genetic mutation (or angelic blessing, or demonic curse) gave rise to this human drive to recreate our lived experience in language and share that creation with our fellow hairless primates, we’re stuck with it now. Literature may not be in a strict sense useful — may even, by its nature, mock “usefulness” as a category, allying itself first with pleasure, idleness and play — but its necessity seems self-evident from the mere fact of its continued existence, so inextricably bound up with our species’ own.

Dana StevensContinue r

01 September 2014


When it occurs to a man that nature does not regard him as important, and that she feels she would not maim the universe by disposing of him, he at first wishes to throw bricks at the temple, and he hates deeply the fact that there are no bricks and no temples.  


    A man said to the universe: 
    "Sir, I exist!" 
    "However," replied the universe, 
    "The fact has not created in me 
    A sense of obligation." 

— Stephen Crane

Feedback from a peer in my summer workshop.

"A redhead would NEVER wear red or orange. EVER. At least the ones I’ve known, anyway."

28 August 2014

from Amy Hempel's In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson is Burried

What seems dangerous often is not—black snakes, for example, or clear-air turbulence While things that just lie there, like this beach, are loaded with jeopardy. A yellow dust rising from the ground, the heat that ripens melons overnight—this is earthquake weather. You can sit here braiding the fringe on your towel and the sand will all of a sudden suck down like an hourglass. The air roars. In the cheap apartments on-shore, bathtubs fills themselves and garden roll up and over like green waves. If nothing happens, the dust will drift and the heat deepen till fear turns to desire. Nerves like that are only bought off by catastrophe. 

Chaos Theory

Nassim Nicholas Taleb

Platonicity: the focus on those pure, well-defined, and easily discernible objects like triangles, or more social notions like friendship or love, at the cost of ignoring those objects of seemingly messier and less tractable structures.

Ludic Fallacy

from Wikipedia

Dog Days were popularly believed to be an evil time "the Sea boiled, the Wine turned sour, Dogs grew mad, and all other creatures became languid; causing to man, among other diseases, burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies." according to Brady’s Clavis Calendaria, 1813

26 August 2014

from White Noise

How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn’t they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for a little while? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise?

23 August 2014

Question - May Swenson

Body my house
my horse my hound   
what will I do
when you are fallen

Where will I sleep   
How will I ride   
What will I hunt

Where can I go
without my mount   
all eager and quick   
How will I know   
in thicket ahead
is danger or treasure   
when Body my good   
bright dog is dead

How will it be
to lie in the sky
without roof or door   
and wind for an eye

With cloud for shift   
how will I hide?

16 August 2014

from Hannah Arendt's On Violence

That science, even though no longer limited by the finitude of the earth and its nature, should be subject to never-ending progress is by no means certain; that strictly scientific research in the humanities, the so-called Geisteswissenschaften that deal with the products of the human spirit, must come to an end by definition is obvious. The ceaseless, senseless demand for original scholarship in a number of fields, where only erudition is now possible, has led either to sheer irrelevancy, the famous knowing of more and more about less and less, or to the development of a pseudo-scholarship which actually destroys its object. 

So far, so good...

It matters not.

09 August 2014

from Walk the Blue Fields

There's pleasure to be had in history. What's recent is another matter and painful to recall.


The bride is a beauty whose freckled shoulders, in this dress, are bare. A long string of pearls lies heavy against her skin. The priest steps in close without touching her and stares at the line of her scalp where the shining red hair is parted. 


Inside the hotel there's the mordant heat of the crowd, the spill of guests. A waitress near the front desk is ladling punch. Another stands with a sharp knife, slicing a long, smoked salmon. The guests are queuing up, reaching for forks, capers, cuts of lemon. All about them, there are flowers. Never has the priest seen such flowers: wide-open tulips, blue hyacinths, trumpeting gladioli. He stands beside a crystal jug of roses and breathes in. Their scent is heavy. The need for a drink comes over him and he faces into the bar. 


Any time promises are made in public, people cry. 


The priest freezes as the pearls slip off the string. He watches how they hop off the polished floor. One pearl hits the skirting board, rolls back past Miss Dunne's outstretched hand. She lets out a sigh as it rolls back toward the priest's chair. He puts his hand down and lifts it. It is warm in his hand, warm from her. This, more than anything else in the day, startles him.
The priest walks across the dance floor. The bride is standing there with her hands out. When he places the pearl in her hand, she looks into his eyes. There are tears there but she is too proud to blink and let one fall. If she blinked, he would take her hand and take her away from this place. This, at least, is what he tells himself. It's what she once wanted but two people hardly ever want the same thing at any given point in life. It is sometimes the hardest part of being human. 


He remembers the snatch of bridal veil on the yews, puts his hand in his pocket and feels it there. He takes it out, lets it fall. Before it touches the water, he regrets it but he had his chance, and now his chance is gone. 


The next morning, their last, they had lain in bed with the window open and he'd dreamt the wind had blown the freckles off her body. 


He remembers lying naked with Lawlor's daughter in a bed outside of Newry town. He remembers all those dandelions gone to seed and how he said he would always love her. He remembers these things, in full, and feels no shame. How strange it is to be alive. Soon, it will be Easter. There is work to be done, a sermon to be written for Palm Sunday. He climbs the fields back towards the road, thinking about his life tomorrow, as a priest, deciphering, as best he can, the Roman language of the trees. 


Le bourreau qui jouit, le martyr qui sanglote.


Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
George Santayana

Those who are ignorant of the past, cannot be expected to remember it.
True Ott, PhD, ND

29 July 2014

todo hecho por mi mismo

I'd love to get you on a slow boat to China, all to myself, alone.
Get you & keep you in my arms, evermore. 
Leave all your lovers a-weeping on a faraway shore.
Way out on the briny, with the moon big & shiny, melting your heart of stone.

I wanna get you on a slow boat to China, all to myself, alone.

22 June 2014

"Here's the devil's feathers."

Quoyle squinted at the sky where nothing could be seen but the billions of tossing flakes stirred by a rigorous wind.
"It's a stepmother's breath," said Billy.

06 June 2014

In Wyoming they name girls Skye. In Newfoundland it's Wavey.

Wavey ran to get away, then for the sake of running, and at last because there was nothing else to do. It would look undecided to change her pace, as though she did not know what she wanted. It seemed always that she had to keep on performing pointless acts.
Quoyle lay in the heather and stared after her, watching the folds of her blue skirt erased by the gathering distance. The aunt, the children, Wavey. He pressed his groin against the barrens as if he were in union with the earth. His aroused senses imbued the far scene with enormous importance. The small figures against the vast rock and sea beyond. All the complex wires of life were stripped out and he could see the structure of life. Nothing but rock and sea, the tiny figures of humans and animals against them for a brief time.
A sense of purity renewed, a sense of events in trembling balance flooded him.
Everything, everything seemed encrusted with portent.

-- Proulx

25 May 2014

from “The Troubles of Celestial Bodies,” in Annie Proulx’s Postcards

            “But I worked it out in my cunning wet brain that if I was consistently haywire and did meticulous work in the sober periods the records would still have some value because there’d be regularity to them. That’s my rationalization. That’s how I work. My work is flawed, but it’s a consistent flaw.” […]
            He started as soon as the cabin was in sight, as though he had crossed a boundary into a more permissive country. The bottle came out of his shirt pocket, the pocket over his heart, his heart’s desire. He tipped it back and let the whiskey flower in his throat. The long exhalation was mostly relief, a little pleasure. […]
            “You know,” he said, “you can get so used to silence that it’s painful when you heard music again.” […]
            “Life cripples us up in different ways but it gets everybody. It gets everybody is how I look at it. Gets you again and again and one day it wins.”
            “Oh yes? And the way you see it you just have to keep getting up until you can’t get up? Question of how long you can last?”
            “Something like that.”

20 April 2014

I wish I had a post card of palm trees.

18 April 2014


Nostalgia and longing are one thing.

The knowledge of forever is another.

25 March 2014


I told him of my gold mine in Eldorado, of my vineyards in the south of France, of my merchant ships moored at Cadiz; I told him of my seductions of lazy-legged Jewesses in Tel Aviv, of incredibly aseptic blondes in Copenhagen, of golden, burnished mulattoes at Port Said.


"Intercourse," said an old-timer, breathing heavy. He sat up on the rail. It was a word of high danger to his old mind. He said it with a long disgust, glad, I guess, he was not involved. 

10 October 2013


Innermost suffering makes the mind noble. Only that deepest, slow and extended pain that burns inside of us as firewood forces us to go down into our depths… I doubt that such a pain could ever make us feel better, but I know that it makes us deeper beings. It makes us ask more rigorous and deeper questions to ourselves… Trust in life has disappeared. Life itself has become a problem.

Two very different private detectives in Los Angeles.

"During your chat—was there anything maybe you didn't share with them?"
"I did think about recommending a bar called Curly's out on Rampart, but the more they went on, the less it seemed somehow like their sort of place."
"This was, like, a Puck-and-Einar hangout?"
"Depending on the music policy week to week, that was the impression I got."
"Let me guess. Country and western."
"Broadway show tunes," Trillium said quietly.
"And how," nodded Quight.

Two steps in the door of which, who did Doc catch sight of but FBI Special Agents Borderline and Flatweed, both in the synchronized act of stuffing dimly perplexed Anglo faces with the house's celebrated Giant Burrito Special.

He was right about the begging, though. She found herself carrying rolls of coins for pay phones because she never knew at what odd moment of the day the longing would seize hold of her—between freeway exits miles away from his place in West Hollywood, in the produce section of the Safeway, during some fugue for woodwinds, all at once this humiliating heat would envelop her, and there was nothing she could think of to do but call him.

... and there was Einar with all these Hawaiian orchids and the sweetest look on his face, and it was at least a month before he admitted he'd worked his way like a pickpocket through the crowd at a debutante ball in the Ambassador and stolen the corsages right off people's gowns...."
Being the continuation of a long story Doc had forgotten, or maybe missed, the beginning of.
"I don't know why I'm telling you all this."
Doc didn't either, though he wished he had a small aggravation fee for each time somebody had spilled more than they meant to and then said they didn't know why.

"You mustn't judge Osgood too harshly," advised a voice to which Time, if it had not exactly been kind, had at least contributed some texture. 

"Mr. Cobb was my escort," she said. "Such a nice escort, Mr. Cobb. So attentive. You should see him sober. I should see him sober. Somebody should see him sober. I mean, just for the record. So it could become a part of history, that brief flashing moment, soon buried in time, but never forgotten—when Larry Cobb was sober."

"Thanks, lady. You're no English muffin yourself."

"If I had a razor, I'd cut your throat—just to see what ran out of it."
"Caterpillar blood," I said.

24 July 2013

09 July 2013

Ulysses - Tennyson / Sailing to Byzantium - Yeats

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an agèd wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought
with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
---Those dying generations---at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

05 July 2013

Stephen Mitchell on Job, via Anne Lamott

The physical body is acknowledged as dust, the personal drama as delusion. It is as if the world we perceive through our senses, that whole gorgeous and terrible pageant, were the breath-thin surface of a bubble, and everything else, inside and outside, is pure radiance. Both suffering and joy come then like a brief reflection, and death like a pin.

from Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird.

Because of the spirit, I say. Because of the heart. Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It's like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can't stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship.

Film Length

Cinématon, French filmmaker Gérard Courant's 182-hour (seven & one half days) experimental film, created between 1978 and 2006, consisting of nearly 3000 silent vignettes.

Its position as longest film ever produced was later usurped by 2011's Danish film, Modern Times Forever, which clocked in at 240 hours, or 10 days long.

Takes all kinds.

05 June 2013

Guy Davenport

When a man owns a lion, a lion owns a man. The thing about technology is that it owns us.

02 June 2013

aged one hundred and four

Does Rose Kennedy own a black dress?

from "What We Talk About When We Talk About Flow"

...when we talk about flow we're talking about the variation of sentence structure and lengths; about the "sequence of syntax" and its effects on the reader's emotional response; about the rhythmic mimesis and the way it contributes to those effects; and about the rhythmic relation of the work's parts to the whole. Thus, if we want to write fiction that flows, we need to explore the syntax of our prose on all levels, from the micro level of the sentence to the macro level of the complete work.

David Jauss

03 May 2013


Eddie Van Halen - Beat It

Eric Clapton - While My Guitar Gently Weeps

18 April 2013

from Toni Morrison's Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination

Discussing To Have and Have Not:

In part one, at a crucial moment during the fishing expedition, which has disappointed both the captain and his customer, the boat moves into promising waters. Harry is coaching Johnson; the black man is at the wheel. Earlier Harry assured us that the black man does nothing aside from cutting bait but read and sleep. But Hemingway realizes that Harry cannot be in two critical places at the same time, instructing the incompetent Johnson and guiding the vessel. It is important to remember that there is another person aboard, an alcoholic named Eddy, who is too unreliable to be given the responsibility of steering but who is given manhood and speech and a physical description. Eddy is white, and we know he is because nobody says so. Now, with Harry taking care of his customer and Eddy in a pleasant stupor, there is only the black man to tend the wheel.

When the sign heralding the promising waters arrives—the sighting of flying fish beyond the prow of the boat—the crewman facing forward ought to be the first to see them. In fact he is. The problem is how to acknowledge that first sighting and continue the muzzling of this "nigger" who, so far, has not said one word. The solution is a strangely awkward, oddly constructed sentence: "The nigger was still taking her out and I looked and saw he had seen a patch of flying fish burst out ahead." "Saw he had seen" is improbable in syntax, sense, and tense but, like other choices available to Hemingway, it is risked to avoid a speaking black. The problem this writer gives himself, then, is to say how one sees that someone has already seen.

05 April 2013

Baker's Dozen

A large egg weighs, on average, 1.67 oz, with the white making up 2/3 of the egg and the yolk constructing the remainder.

Although a pinch was originally a measurement that suggested the amount of sugar, salt or other fine spice that could be pinched between the thumb and forefinger, it is now considered to be equal to 1/4 of a gram.

26 March 2013


The country clubs with a blue light burning at their entrance do not welcome Jewish members.

25 March 2013

The Cinefamily - Update

Of the things I enjoyed about my time in West Hollywood was my membership at the Cinefamily.

On January 4th of 2009, I went on a double-date to view a screening of The Peanut Butter Solution, put on by the Cinefamily at the Silent Movie Theatre.

It was the first time I'd ever heard of the establishment or of the group. We ended up parking in the neighborhood, west of Fairfax. I didn't know that within a few months I'd be working around the corner or that we were parked on the street where I'd eventually end up living.

Of the events I've been to since:

The Robocop Trilogy

We didn't stay for part 3 because it's awful, but the opportunity to see 1 & 2 back-to-back was not to be missed.

The [original]Texas Chainsaw Massacre

Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan [on Friday the 13th]

By the time our group arrived at the theatre, the sold-out sign was already posted. We were crestfallen and most were ready to surrender to cigarettes & disappointment, but I wasn't having it.
I started hustling and found two people selling tickets. Because they were trying to pawn them off, they were cheaper than box office price, and I ended up buying one more than I needed for our group and selling it at price to someone else.
Recap: found enough tickets for all of us and came up $12;

Cinefamily Senior Prom with Carrie

Attended with my then squeeze and a few other friends to watch Carrie and dance our asses off. A memorable evening for many reasons.

The 100 Most Extreme Kills

The trailer nearly says it all. A portion of the compilation was set to Stairway to Heaven.

Halloween II, Nightmare on Elm St. III: The Dream Warriors and Friday the 13th IV: The Final Chapter

October Franchise Triple Feature.

Battle Royale

First US theatrical screening


My first Godard, which I know own via Criterion Collection.

Kill List

+ Screenwriter/director Q&A.


+ Director & Lead Actor Q&A.


Among the more brilliant films I've ever seen. It made me dislike Hellraiser, which I'd previously enjoyed, for being an inferior rendition of the same, basic, idea.

On the Silver Globe


Pretty Poison

+ Director Q&A.

Werckmeister Harmonies

Now one of my all-time favorites.

Jason X

+ Director Q&A and appearances by Derek Mears and Tyler Mane.

Werckmeister Harmonies

TJ Miller's Hangover Matinee

+ Brunch and live standup before the film.

HFS: That's Mexploitation! featuring LA VENGANZA DE LOS PUNKS

The screening began with two compilation clips. The first was a montage of luchador Santo, set to "The Sound of Silence." It worked perfectly and everyone in the audience was losing their shit. The Cinefamily picked clips that had nothing to do with fighting; instead they compiled moments of everyday, almost existential monotony, with Santo wearing his mask throughout.

The second was a series of clips culled from a number of Mexploitation films, interrupted routinely by, "That's Mexploitation!"
+ Mexican food & piñatas.

Funny, Ha Ha! 10th Anniversary

At this point, I cannot recall when or where I first saw this film, but I know that it was sometime between 2002 and it's 10 year anniversary. Whenever it was, at the time it wasn't poignant to me. Strange that now, at twenty-seven, watching the adrift missteps of a twenty-four'ish crowd, hit me in a much more visceral way.
+ Writer/director/editor/actor Andrew Bujalski Q&A.

Predator 25th Anniversary

Preceded by a montage of old photos of Arnold, set to the complete scores for Commando, Terminator and Total Recall.

Terminator 2: Judgment Day Archival 35mm Print

This has been my favorite film since I was 5. I was already watching my parents' VHS tape of the original Terminator by the time I was 4, and I distinctly remember the moment I saw the first trailer for T2 on television. My dad took me to see it in theaters and I haven't been able to get enough of it since. For me, it's the quintessential action film and, (despite a well-written—obviously—article by DFW that articulates all the reasons it sucks), a very good film generally. I've watched it hundreds of times now, and this was my third time seeing it in a theater.