Zodiac

The night I met Scottish folk-rock troubador Donovan I also tried to pull the ol' switcharoo and trade in my lameduck girlfriend for her hotter, funner friend. [Know where this is headed?]

We were all drinking downtown—me; the girl I was dating; her friend, who I wanted to be; and Donovan, who was unwinding with a Macallan after playing a show in town. The girls were tickled with the kitchy thrill of meeting the guy who sang "Mellow Yellow" and we all drank ourselves silly while being all ironic starfuckery with the guy.

Later that night, fucking wasted and having a nightcap at my house and listening to records (sans Donovan), I decided it was time to put the moves on my date's friend. My date was passed out on the couch, The Best of Donovan was playing on the stereo, and I told the friend how I'd like fuck her right now because she was super cool and my girlfriend looked like a goddamn troll and sucked in the sack.

...

You know that first scene in the film, where the kids are in the car, super ready to get it on, and then the killer drives up and shoots the shit out of them all cold and methodical—pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, blood everywhere, screaming, twitching, gurgling—then leaves, then comes back, and unloads a few more rounds into the poor fuckers? I say those kids got off easy.

The Wrestler

Nobody likes a fuck-up.

We tolerate liars, cheats, drunks, wife-beaters, and many murderers much better. Those idiots get picked up, dusted off, and sent back out for a second chance like a little kid who scraped his knee horsing around on the playground. But guys whose hearts are in the right place but whose instincts are all wrong? Who make a mess of everything not because they're mean but because they're just losers? Who can't catch a break and who are almost too ground-down to even try to make their own? Those knobs? Fuck those guys in their stupid fucking faces. AMIRITE?!

The Devil and Daniel Johnston

Can anybody tell me what’s going to happen to the documentary genre when all the profileable musicians, poets, painters, and writers in the world aren’t junkies and drunks and cheddarheaded retards anymore but instead get their jollies shopping at Whole Foods and going to spin class three times a week?

You laugh, but it’s happening. Ten years ago it wasn’t an art party unless everyone was coked out of their minds and someone was sucking dick next to the keg. Now I can’t excuse myself for an after-dinner cigarette without feeling like the entire table blames me for the ozone, oil dependency, and the decimation of family farms. Well, I’ve fucking had it. I’m going to need artists to throttle down their non-violent war to reverse the institutionalization of gender roles in America one of their perfectly enlightened boutique babies at a time and get back to, like, taking dumps on hookers and shit, mkay?

Pickpocket

As far as French New Wave films go, Pickpocket won't make my Mt. Rushmore but this sequence is the balls:


Did you know you can rent movies from the library now? Only they don't call it "renting." They call it "lending," because you don't have to pay jack to take the movie for a week. Nothing! It's a service I've vowed to take greater advantage of from now on and encourage you to do the same.