Nine

I walked my wife to the train today, like I do almost every day. I pick her up too. She works in a dentist's office, not exactly what you'd call a cheery place, so I make her smile a bit before and after work. On my way back home to drink the rest of my coffee, I pick up the free newspapers, amNEW YORK and metro new york and once a week the Village Voice. Most of the time the headlines are superficial garbage or stories that I expect to read; I'd read stories about how the war in Afghanistan is going well, such and such number of troops dead such and such injured, things so large and out of my hands that I kept my outrage suppressed. Today an old story resurfaced. Jayson Williams, former NJ Nets basketball player was sentenced yesterday to five years but he might do as little as eighteen months for accidentally shooting his limo driver in the chest with a shotgun as he was showing it off at his house to some friends in 2002. Williams then tried to cover it up. In 2004 the jury came back deadlocked on a manslaughter charge but not so on the cover-up. Kent Culuko testified on April 25, 2002. From the transcript:

''Did you later alter that shotgun by wiping it clean of fingerprints and moving it?'' asked Steven C. Lember, the acting Hunterdon County prosecutor.

''Yes,'' Mr. Culuko replied.

''Did you receive instruction to do this to the shotgun?''

''Yes,'' was the answer again.

''Who gave you these instructions?'' Mr. Lember asked.

''Jayson Williams,'' Mr. Culuko responded.

Mr. Lember did not ask who had fired the gun.

A few days later on May 2, 2002, new charges of aggravated manslaughter were filed. It carries a sentence of ten to thirty years unlike a manslaughter charge which carries five to ten.

Two months later on June 7th, Williams pled not guilty.

A week after that on June 14, 2002, Officer Eric Allena was indicted on second-degree official misconduct and third-degree witness tampering charges,

John W. Gordnick, on August 23, 2002, testified that he hid Williams' bloody clothes on the night Costas Christofi was shot and killed according to Williams' direction.

Sticky yet?

On October 30, 2002 prosecutors claimed that eight hours after the shooting Williams' blood level was 0.11 (0.10 is the legal limit in New Jersey). Let me interject here that Williams' is a monster of a man. It's my opinion he must have been pie-eyed when the shooting took place, but it's just an opinion.

Mr. Christofi had been hired to chauffeur Mr. Williams and 11 guests, including four members of the Harlem Globetrotters, to dinner at the Mountainview Chalet in Bethlehem Township, N.J. Early in the evening, the court papers say, Mr. Williams singled out Mr. Christofi ''and began cursing at him.''

''The defendant's conduct was such that several of the witnesses were uncomfortable with what appeared to them to be an uncalled for public humiliation,'' the papers say.

When Mr. Christofi, who was known as Gus, rose to leave the table, Mr. Williams told him he had only been joking, the papers say.

Prosecutors said the shooting occurred after Mr. Williams's party returned to his $3.5 million estate sometime after 2 a.m. There, Mr. Williams took the shotgun from a cabinet during a tour of his bedroom. The papers say that Mr. Williams owned at least six guns, and was trying to show a few guests his prowess with weapons.

''The defendant announced to those around them that he wanted them to watch what he was going to do with a shotgun, stating that he was 'a professional,' '' the papers say.

Mr. Williams opened the 12-gauge Browning over-under shotgun, the papers say, and directed an expletive at Mr. Christofi, who was standing by the bedroom doorway.

''The defendant then flipped the shotgun together in one motion,'' the papers say. ''The shotgun immediately discharged from the lower barrel.''

Mr. Christofi was about three feet away when he was struck in the right chest by 12 pellets of buckshot, prosecutors wrote. Mr. Williams, the papers say, dropped to his hands and knees, lowered the shotgun to the floor and uttered an expletive, saying he had ruined his life.

Taken from an article of the New York Times, by By RICHARD LEZIN JONES Published: October 31, 2002 on page B5 of the New York edition.

In December, Williams' lawyers tried to get the case dismissed. They failed to do so. On February 3, 2003 an appellate court decided to hear motions of dismissal. The trial that was slated to begin on February 18th was postponed till March 12th.

On March 19th a state Court of Appeals ruled that the prosecution had to release a recording of the 911 phone call made Jayson Williams' home on the night Costas Christofi was killed. Oh, and the prosecution tacked on a weapons charge, adding, if found guilty, Williams doing 55 years.

On April 4th 2003 a settlement was reached in wrongful death suit by the brother and sister of Costas Christofi in the amount of $2.75 million. The 911 tape had Victor Williams, Jayson Williams's brother telling a 911 dispatcher that Christofi had shot himself and that he himself was sleeping when the shooting occurred.

After this Williams' lawyers tried to get a new grand jury to look at the manslaughter charges. No dice, but Judge Edward M. Coleman of State Superior Court granted the change-of-venue motion. On January 13 2004 jury selection began in Somerville.

From an article By BOB HANLEY Published in the New York Times: February 5, 2004.

The judge in the manslaughter trial of Jayson Williams refused on Wednesday to allow prosecutors to introduce evidence about Mr. Williams's killing of his pet watchdog with two shotgun blasts in 2001.

Katharine Errickson, an assistant Hunterdon County prosecutor, said the shooting of the dog undercut the defense contention that the fatal shooting of Mr. Christofi was a tragic accident. Ms. Errickson said Mr. Williams had a history of recklessly handling guns after drinking.

The dog was shot, Ms. Errickson said, in August 2001, about six months before Mr. Christofi was killed, after Mr. Williams had been drinking in a restaurant with two friends, including Dwayne Schintzius, a former professional basketball player who was staying at Mr. Williams's estate at the time. Ms. Errickson said prosecutors learned of the shooting in an anonymous letter mailed to them.

She said detectives later learned that the watchdog was killed over a $100 bet. After the three men returned to Mr. Williams's estate from the restaurant, Mr. Schintzius bet Mr. Williams $100 he could drag the dog out of the home, Ms. Errickson said. Mr. Williams accepted the bet, she said. Mr. Schintzius then grabbed the Rottweiler by its hind legs and pulled it from the house.

Mr. Williams left the room, and Mr. Schintzius thought he would return with the $100, Ms. Errickson said. Instead, she went on, he came back with a shotgun and fired two rounds at the dog, nearly decapitating it. Ms. Errickson said that Mr. Williams then reloaded the weapon, pointed it at Mr. Schintzius and told him, using a profanity, to get the ''dog off my porch or you're next.''

February 1oth, 2004, William R. Martin, one of Williams' lawyers, told the jury in his opening statement that his client was unaware of any risk as he handled the shotgun and did not consciously fire it at Mr. Christofi. ''Jayson Williams will tell you what happened that night,'' Mr. Martin told the jury. ''Jayson Williams will tell you how this horrific, totally unforeseeable accident occurred.'

Sorry, unforseeable? Really? You're drunk, even a little drunk, and you pick up a gun? A LOADED GUN? A LOADED GUN AND YOU'RE A SHIT TWAT WHO BUYS GUNS 'CAUSE YOU HAVE THE MONEY TO? You're a moron. A complete and utter fuckhead. Sorry. Right. Back to it.

On March 25th the defense and witnesses to the shooting say this: the gun could have misfired. I'll spare you the details.

April 5th, 2004. Trial is suspended for a week.

April 9th, 2004. Defense attourneys ask for dismissal.

April 12th, 2004. Judge rules against dismissal.

April 29th 2004. Jury's deadlocked. Has reached verdicts in six of the charges and were deeply divided on the two other counts.

April 30th 2004. Jury, in a split split verdict acquits Williams of aggravated manslaughter and two other serious charges, and a mistrial was declared on a fourth -- reckless manslaughter. He was convicted of four other lesser charges that he had covered up his involvement in the shooting.

A month later, on May 21st, 2004, prosecutors on the first trial decide to retry Williams on the charge of reckless manslaughter to begin in January of 2005.

February 18, 2005. The case is delayed till April 21, 2005.

On January 11, 2011, Jayson Williams pleads guilty.

On February 23, 2011 is sentenced to 5 years. There's a possibility he might get out in 18 months.

I hope when he gets out he kills himself.

Eight.

Charlie Kauffman is the man. I don't want to hear it. Since my last post on Synecdoche I've seen Human Nature and started Being John Malkovich again. My friend Pete said Kauffman was really cerebral, that's it hard to watch his films. I nodded in agreement thinking to myself that films in America at some point became mind numbing instead of mind stimulating. Film isn't for the mind only though, they're food for the emotions also and I think that Kauffman does that extraordinarily well. His protagonists are always asking philosophical existential questions. Those questions of course make us ask the same questions. What is love? What is eternity? What is hell? Is hell personal? What is freedom? Can we be free serving life in prison? What is human nature? How deep does the human soul go and what hides there? There's many other questions that one can ask.

I recently saw a film called the Invention of Lying. Really smart concept. The precept of the film is simple: noone has lied yet. There is no God, no religion, no fiction, no movies, just documentary films. And someone lies. The best bits of the film are the really tiny bits like the waiters telling people the food's no good and commenting aloud to customers who are on a date. "You're not on her level." "If I gave you my number would you call me?" "Shut up." etc.

Unfortunately this is a romantic comedy which is a genre I despise because it's fluff and the world has very little fluff in it. So here is this good idea, could have been remarkable film but very forgetable, because it rides the fence of the believable and the unbelievable. Life is about choices right? Writing is about choices, right? Wekgjrgfaerhgaeh epofuhiu ewfjewkfh. That was a choice. I wish I could see your reflection everywhere. That was also a choice. You get the point. Every little thing you put down is a choice, even a choice not to make a choice is a choice. In this film civilization and society exist. This to me smacks completely of a lie. Civilizations and societies are based on lies. How could a lie exist without lying? In order to watch this malarkey you have to suspend only half your thinking. Architecture, art, are all lies. How do I manipulate mathematics and stone and measurement to make people think this particular building reflect this philosophy? Lie. What I find remarkable is some women eat this shit up. They can watch mind numbing things like this for hours on end. They sit with bowl after bowl after bowl (no water), shoveling it into their mouths at the speed of blur, and me I sit watching them, mesmerized and nauseous after they swallow the first bite.

If you're tuning in waiting for Camus, you're in for a long wait, I think. The reading is progressing very slowly but it's daily, so keep waiting.

Who am I kidding, I'm talking to myself.

Seven

Stop the madness America. Stop. Stop. Stop. No more American Idol. What America needs is less mind numbing television and more truth. Ah bugger.

The more I think of just the name of the series, American Idol, the more ridiculous I think it is. Now I'm not mocking the performances, the work, the toil these people, many of them incredibly talented. What irritates me to no end is the American Idol machine. So corrupt. So ugly. So inartistic. Unatural. That singing, something that people listen to or do to feel emotions should be taken and put on display in a way that it is simply left to commodity and popular opinion is infuriating to me. I was on Union square several months ago when this fat 350lb. black woman was struggling with her bags. She was in her 50's. Nothing to do, I offered her some help. She told me she was just crossing the street. The traffic flowing south on Broadway and Fourteenth St. is not a place to drop bags in the middle of the street I thought fine and helped her. I then asked her for a light, as a kind of payment. I had one but she seemed an interesting character and I thought, I'll light a cigarrette and listen to her five minutes and go on my merry way. I was standing there on the corner observing the hustle and bustle and she started telling me she was a singer. I told her I played music and sang too. I played something from my phone to her. She liked it and started singing Arabic. My curiosity piqued. A young black kid in his twenties stopped and listened. This was all going on where the shoestore is. Hundreds of people are walking by us and me and this guy have a free concert. He told her it was beautiful, and that he wasn't happy especially since his mother had recently died and it touched him. So she started singing again, this time in english grasping the kid's hands. I stood there wanting to leave but she had grasped my hand too. I was annoyed only because I had to leave at this point. But one thing kept me there, the human pain and the relief in the sung poetry, I couldn't tear myself away. The kid's eyes glossed over. She was singing and she had a voice. Weeks later I saw her singing in the subway on chance. I stopped for a moment to listen but I didn't end up saying anything. She had said it all. Where is this in the American Idol show? Cheapened by phone calls, commercials, contracts. Where is the human contact? And under what circumstances are we given this human contact, this soul touching? Under the influence of people making money while people sit at the television. There's no desire by the masses of people watching this crap to go out and listen to musicians in places. The young receive their musical food from television. We don't go to listen to music anymore, very few people sing anymore. We hear them on the subways now. The poets have moved there into the filth of the subway system. Perhaps it's fitting.

Six

I've been writing mainly about impersonal things, things having to do with what I think rather than what I feel. This is the writing that's terrifying. Pssh, writing a novel, easy. Not easy compared to not writing one, but you get the point. Writing your soul is hard, dangerous, honest. There's been a million songs about this, it seems, yet I can't get my heart to dictate the words. Maybe I don't have one. I've often thought I was a sociopath. After I think that, I think I'm being stupid, like right now. You always hurt the ones you love. Some might say, "what a bunch of bull". To those people I say, SHOVE YOUR CONDESCENDING BULLSHIT IN YOUR ASS. A truer sentence has never been spoken or written. I love my wife. I didn't hit her if that's what you're thinking, but I hurt her and I hurt myself. I hurt us. Damaged myself a little further than I did prior to even meeting her. Now we're both damaged. Maybe I wanted her slightly hurt, like myself. Selfish really. Quite stupid. Maybe I bit off more than I could chew. There is nothing in the world that heals the human soul. Some say time. Funny thing. Time is a manmade system. Everything we use for measurement, we've made up. For the sake of argument, tell yourself. No clocks, no watches, cellphones, computers, fax machines, clock towers and sundials. What are you left with? Just nature: the sun, and the moon. A little research will tell you that we imposed measurement of the sun, the moon, etc. So time, doesn't exist, not in the way you think. You age, that's about it, time is what we called measurement for death. They say time heals all wounds. Another truism, but not true, since time doesnt exist. So what heals these wounds that nothing heals? I don't know. I want to say love, but tonight, I can't bring myself to type the word again. It might cheapen it.

Five

I forgot to write something about F. Murray Abraham, and it was a my friend Pete who brought him up when he saw that I had written about Finding Forrestor. I want to but I don't want to. I really don't feel like praising an actor. They're actors. Their performances are fleeting. He's been in many films over the years, but I've seen only a few of them. Serpico, Scarface, The Name of the Rose and The Bonfire of the Vanities and Amadeus. Originally, when pointed out my grievous overlook, I thought, crap, I got to go back and edit and then that will take over my mind and whatever thoughts I've got now, are out the window. I then thought, just move forward, just write a little anecdote about how we forget things. My heart says fuck F. Murray. He's a mean looking son of a bitch and a good actor to boot, well trained it seems. When he plays a villain, the urge to hate him is uncontrollable. That in itself is an accomplishment, someone making you hate the character they played so much that it resonates within that person years later. I can't think of a single person I hate as much as the character of Bernado Gui in the Name of the Rose. Maybe I don't hate hard enough. Every time I see that film, I don't even see the person of Abraham. All I see is Gui and I he infuriates me more every time. Cheers to you, Mr. F. Murray.

Four

In the film Finding Forrester (2000) Sean Connery played a reclusive writer, a Salinger copy. William Forrester lives in the Bronx who rarely leaves his apartment and just writes, doesn't publish. When a young black kid on a stupid dare goes into the recluse's apartment and runs out leaving a schoolbag full of his journals and this leads to the fledgling writer student/voracious reader becoming a pupil of the great recluse writer. The film was interesting as director Gus Van Sant is but one piece of technical advice was what hooked my mind and guts. He sits Jamal into a typewriter and tells him to type. Just type. That it doesn't matter right now. So on. I'm not quoting the film but it's the gist of it. This line in the film was advice identical to advice I had read reading interviews of writers. So here I am, typing about nothing, a completely stupid introduction, meandering and useless to get the following out: I'm writing. Writing. It doesn't matter what I write. Humans are dumb animals. You can say what like. You can dream your little dreams, but the facts are the facts and they're indisputable. People hate for good reasons, people sin for good reasons, but the majority of the time, the majority that fills history books is proof that people are as stupid as a box of shit. Aristotle said something to the effect of man being a creature of habit. I agree. So here comes the writing. If I write every day, I'm a writer. I just have to be honest with myself. That's the tough part. Honesty with yourself means knowing how and when and where to differentiate truth from lie. It means knowing who you are. It means accepting that you're a dumbshit. Admiting this- I am a dumbshit- has the following effect, on me at least, maybe you shouldnt try this at home. If you admit your limitations, you prepare yourself not to be limited. You accept the obvious and never forget it but you move past it. This is why "saints" never think they're saints, their sins keep them grounded. And that's something that's missing from today's world, the grounded people. People say they're grounded. Horseshit. They totally ignore the fact that their inner thoughts and emotions are unchanneled, running rampant, chaotic. Now this might be all well and good. World was shit, we came from the mud, we'll be mud again, let it all go, let it go down the tubes, we've been enduring this paltry existence for thousands of years now. That theory might have something to it, hell, a lot to it. I'm not interested in this too much. My own personality has never been a stable one. I'm like the wind, one minute I blow this way, another I come from that way. All I'm interested in is writing.
And here it is. Eat it. Now I'm ready.

The fuck it all theory was born a long time ago but in modern times began in I think full force and regalia during WWII. During WWI it was a baby. Come WWII, millions are killed senselessly. Hitler, the bomb. Boom. Blues gives birth to some screwed up twins named Rock and Roll. Rock is the aggressive one, the one who needed to be hugged, the one with the heroin habit. Roll is the elusive one, the cool one, the psychopath, the one that gets caught with 20 bodies in its back yard and then doesn't say anything when it goes to the chair, just stares and smiles. So we are still in the fuck it all era. Forget Aquarius, I'll eat Aquarius for breakfast, raw. This is the fuck it all era and we see more and more evidence and it piles up in front of us like trash bags during a garbage strike but we ignore it, we make things up like pride, and self-respect, religion, and god to explain why we're slipping into the primordial goop we came from. Some comedian recently said, he used to clean ashtrays in one job of his. He said, when you wet ashes they become this sludge. That's what we are. I believe him. Completely. There are no rights, there is no country, and there is no God. That's my right hand. My left hand says, make something out of nothing. Be the watchmaker. Be God. Be the I am. Be the I am who I am.

Three

I finished Synecdoche, New York. First off. It's a good film. Let's say that. It's not simple. Let's also say that too. Let's also say that this film didn't have any mega- super stars, not the one who begin to smell because of overexposure. You know, you're Brad Pitt, smile smile smile. Wave. etc. You may not smell it, but adjust your nose and rest assured, people do start to emanate a foul smell when you see them all the time, but that's for another conversation. What it did have is fine actors, mmmm, excellent actors who faces aren't a machine. In the film are Philip Seymore Hoffman, Catherine Keener, Samantha Jane Morton, Hope Davis, Emily Watson, Dianne Wiest, and Tom Noonan.

Synecdoche, New York throws you. The title. Or it threw me, because I'm like all people an idiot, and slow (face it, even if you're a genius, you're not that smart). Synecdoche comes from the Greek word, synekdoche (συνεκδοχή) which is a compound συν meaning simultaneous, or together and εκδοχή meaning understanding or receiving. Schenectady is the real name of the actual county located in New York State about a hundred miles north of NYC. It's a Mohican name that means "the other side of the pine." When the Dutch settled there, the kept the name and it was I assume, transliterated. I for one, got the title mixed up. If you're a city rat, you have no problem picking up a plane ticket and going to California, Florida, Texas, etc. but you sure as hell don't go upstate. It's weird there. Stupid thinking of course, but there you have it.

I'll try not to completely ruin the movie for you. Synecdoche, New York hosts Caden Cotard, a playwright and director, married, wins a MacArther grant, which is a grant given by John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation to anyone from nearly any field that's doing creative work. It enables someone to use 500,000$ no strings attached over the course of five years to do whatever it is they're doing better. Caden decides to use the money to make his magnum opus.
After that it becomes more and more bizarre and weird and smart and funny and Kauffmanesque. After an hour of saying what the fuck is going on, you finally let go of your brain and become a sponge, soaking in till the end when you're... well, I won't say what you'll be, but I like it.

Two

It's only the second day of this diary and it's daunting. The day isn't over. It's Friday 1:19pm. Courts are closed due to Lincoln's birthday. I am not allowed to serve today. Monday I think, is president's day; can't serve then either. Personally I don't think that they would mind.

I don't know much about the founding fathers. Bits and pieces here and there. They're painted by factions in their own way. By some on the "left," the founding fathers are painted as liberals. By the "right," they're conservatives. I tend to think they were more complicated than this, but forget it. Incidentally, when I say left, I mean the American left in the news, not the real American which is marginal. There's not much of a left here in America; left here is center from the right. You have people who parade themselves as liberals who are crypto fascists. You have the extreme right here in America, from the little guy who has his Nazi paraphernalia in the storage room of store, or the basement of his house to big guys, like David Duke and Don Black to people who are too rich to hone in and race hate. The way I look at politics here in America is that there is far right, the # 12 on a twelve inch ruler, and # 6 is the left, 9 is the center, 1-6 is covered, ignored, or something close to it. This gay guy on a train once told me George Washington was gay along with some other founding father. I was surprised but I wasn't sure of the validity of the claim. Gay people claim everyone's gay. A minute number of gay men are under the delusion that most men are gay, somewhere so deep inside they can't see it. That's fucking rubbish. It's like saying, "somewhere you have an addictive personality, you're an addict, really deep down, sniff coke for a month and you'll see."
Bah.
Anyway back to whatever the hell it was I wanted to talking about.
So I've been reading Bukowski after a long time. Ten years ago I got some of his novels, Ham on Rye, Women, Post Office, two non-fiction books, Notes of a Dirty Old Man and The Captain is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship, and and two collections of poetry, Love is a Dog From Hell and The Last Night of the Earth Poems. I re-read Love is, and Notes, and The Captain. I'm taking a break. Bukowski is one of the most deceptively draining writers ever. So I'm taking a break from Charles. I'm going to read Camus now. Gotta go read ole Albert.

I'm still watching Synecdoche, New York. Slowly, starting to savor it now. It's beginning seems real, but you slowly see the method in Kaufman's writing and directing when the story starts fudging with what you see. It's not real. I've yet to finish it. I'm lagging because I don't want it to end. Anyway, I'll finish it and try not to give the plot away. And the first Camus will be The Myth of Sisyphus. Stay tuned.

One.

This is my diary. This is my brain, or at least, the part I'll show. There's a prevalent opinion today that hiding things in yourself is bad. Where does one draw the line? Where does one say, this you can know, this you can know, this you can know, this I'm keeping for myself. Does one have to say everything? This seems to propagate worthless meaningless talking. And what happens to silence in this idea? Is silence such a frightening concept? I lost my voice for a day a few years ago. Few things in my life before and after ever gave me such clarity. You see when you lose your voice, you immediately panic, trying to find some way to communicate. You resort to hand gestures, which you'd be surprised can answer most questions in your day to day. Other questions have to be answered by writing. When you're mute, and you're writing... you boil what you think and what you write to the absolute bare essential, to the paramount.

Enough of that.

I have various opinions that burst out of me upon reading the news. Case in point, Bill Clinton might come out of the hospital. I don't give a shit. He's a murderer. Actually I do care. I think he shouldn't come out of the hospital. Not alive. Clinton meddled in the Balkans. He and his cunt wife. The area was volatile, unstable to begin with, has been for centuries. Now it's completely fucked. Governor George W. Bush fucked up Iraq, and Obama is going to fuck up Afghanistan. This is blog, not a history lesson. Moving on.

Christians are making a big deal out of Lindsay Lohan's picture on Purple magazine cover. It depicts her as a hippy crucified. Apparently this is a big big problem and newsworthy.

Christ, the one in the book, doesn't care about his self-image, if you've actually read and thought. I think he would be absolutely indifferent as to this picture, were he sitting down at his computer in 2010 (maybe an internet cafe). The picture has no cross, no blood, no pain, no nails and no pain whatsoever, beside our own, that we have to see Lindsay Lohan's face. Again. I read some comments by Christians criticizing this picture. Why are there no depictions of Budda or Muhammed. I'm curious to see which Budda they'd use. Fat pig Budda or thin emaciated Budda. Take a picture. Go get a really fat guy and make it arty. Go. Take a pic of skinny buddah wanking it by a tree, or whatever. There was an outrage some years back. A cartoonist poked a little fun at Muhammed. Muslims went apeshit. That's stupid. When we pay attention to Lindsay Lohan, we're just as.

Alexander McQueen is dead. He should be alive. Sarah Jessica Parker and Sandra Bullock should have bit it and he should be alive.

I hate Hollywood, Hollywood movies infuriate me, I can't remember the last movie I went to see. Hangover maybe. That was months ago. They're working on another one. I saw it. It was funny, funny as in not stupid. Was it Eddie Murphy Raw? Nope. There's some exceptions. I'm watching Synecdoche, New York. I'm half way through the movie and I'm awe of what a beautiful mess this movie is. It's stupendous.

I'm typing this sentence at 4:10am. That's why it's a god damn mess. Goodnight. I think I'm finally tired enough to go to sleep.