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- - The Commuter

Fruit fruit fruit. It's an engrossing subject. So. I like -- in Hertzogenbusch Order -- green apples (crisp), pineapples (hilarious), mangoes (splotched), grapes (champagne-sweet), tomatoes (inherently explosive), peaches & nectarines & apricots (sex), mandarines (designed for convenience), strawberries (fuck), blackberries (fuckfuck), mulberries (fuckfuckfuck), pears (sour, good), lemons (sour, better), limes (sublime), bananas (realistically, a species of Krullian pipe-fish), black currants (for juicing), and female nipples (Lord on High).

Fruits are inherently interesting. This may be, in due course, because they appear reminiscent of lots of silly private things in peoples' pants, but I think, more accurately, it is due to our embracing of multiculturalism. Every fruit represents a race, and races are fun; every one has its own individual flavour, and if you keep the white fruits out in the sun long enough, they'll turn. Everyone wants to be black, after all. They hit you hardest; taste best. I wrote an exercise in genius when I was in high school, a short-story parody of "The Prince and the Pauper". It was entitled "The Quince and the Paw-Paw." Strangely, the multitude of bad fruit puns I came up with didn't seem to have the capacity to end. I untapped a source of comedy so mighty. Displayed my minerals, y'know. My apples. Ho ho.

By the way: http://www.fruitquiz.co.uk/quiz.php. I'm a banana. "You are funny and never let anything get in the way of a joke. You make your friends laugh. Your natural enemy is a lemon." I like this quiz. Its finalising question: "If you found a wallet with a large amount of money in it whilst walking in a field would you?". I like how this determines what type of fruit you are. Wise. Wise. No wise here.

I think the world can be reduced to fruit. If you eat fruit, you're not crazy. I might decide to work on my political manifesto a little more. Maybe. I find appeal in this concept that fruit could be considered a drug supplement. Guys in ghetto alleyways bedecked in voluminous brown trench-coats selling oranges to first-graders, breaking them in with their first hit.

[Enter POLICE. Drugs merchant hits the floor.]

Drugs merchant: I didn't do shit, man! I was just spreading some sunshine, baby, some sunshine amongst the kiddies!

Officer #1: Pipe up, sicko! Put your hands on your head -- and slowly.

[Drugs merchant rises slowly, inexorably, eyes hard, looking forward. He tenses.]

Officer #1: Don't try it! [shakes menacing yellow item] This banana is loaded with potassium, and I ain't afraid to use it!

[Beat. Drugs merchant snarls.]

Drugs merchant: Let's dance, wetback.

[END SCENE].

Sorry. Got excited there, momentarily. Yes. So. There it is. Fruit.

I will enthusiastically appreciate any assistive replies offering remedies for the removal of a pineapple from one's anus. *shifts on haemorrhoid cushion* See, I have this friend, right...

Currently Playing The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou By Various Artists see related

- Anything by Seu Jorge! Anything! - - - -

Why Bill Murray Puts the “Cool” In Physical…

Wes Anderson never lets me down. "The Royal Tenenbaums" is an extroadinarily subversive, well-peppered, witty, drily knowing, absurdist and unabashed satire, a fine fucking screenplay. "Bottle Rocket" is more impressionistic, less accomplished, coitainly, but just as equitably rollickingly fun, shot through wit' a gritty realism that is disparate in Anderson's films, quite an ironical distance away from the occasional twee preciousness one associates wit' his cinematic stuff. An' "Rushmore" - welp, ev'ryone knows I fucking *love* "Rushmore". It floats listlessly somewhere in the mediating core between both "Tenenbaums" and "Bottle Rocket" -- perfectly capturing the essence o' high-school spawned nostalgia an' tongue-in-cheek, but emotively impactful feeling. An' it's still his most cinematically referential, even if it isn't his most far-reaching or filmically "profound". But I saw "The Life Aquatic, With Steve Zissou" today, an' I fell like a brick shithouse, fell down in adoration. It's a magnificent film. Zee majority o' critical reviewers have underestimated its capacity to affect itself to its viewership, citing Anderson's penchant fo' artistically-contrived set pieces an' cinematographic landscape visuals as overtly too "artificial" an' "distancing". But no, that's incorrect. "The Life Aquatic" ekes an existence in an irreal, dream-time, nursery rhyme-esque world of wonderment embellished by the mystery of zee deep sea, without ever being too unnervingly concentrated upon mere facade. It's selection o' artificiality is a perfect complement -- an' it *harnesses* zee fillum's intrinsic power to permit zee willing an' enthused viewer to culpably believe in zee canvas-screened madness. It's irreal an' so idiosyncratically, personably strange, jus' intensely bizarre in its conceits an' frivolous blooms o' creativity, but it's beautiful too, without ever categorically lending itself wholly to zee analytical notion that zee moofie is mere veneer an' fey self-importance. Now, it's not a perfect film, an' this has to be gathered by zee fact that it din't provoke within me zee inclination to cry -- but it got directly deep within my abdomen an' twisted me 'bout wit' its insipid pathos, humour, genuine wit, high silliness, an' emotional resonance that I was moved. An' Bill Murray is outstanding. I couldn't find a singular scintilla of his Bob Harris from "Lost In Translation" in his Steve Zissou, whatsoever. An' there were moments where I was desperately, cloyingly attempting to auspiciously catch him out, recycling thespian material. But Zissou is Murray, in all essence an' influence, without ever being unoriginal or recognizable from a prior cinematic work. Murray seemingly ghosts through zee role wit' effortless genius, an' it's *not* effortlessness, you can tell that somewhere in the abstracted an' conceptual gutters o' zee moofie, when zee cameras aren't on him, that he's working like fuck to create a composite portrayal that is as unique as it is subtly hysterical an' significantly comprehensive. I know within mere *moments* that Zissou is suffering from a protracted pique of self-loathing, but that it's bored its way within him to bring forth pervasive vacancy in his eyes an' lots o' sarcastic barbs upon his tongue. That's work done *beneath* zee mere lines represented in Anderson an' Noah Baumbach's strong, audacious script... Now, "The Life Aquatic" isn't as easily likeable, initially, as "The Royal Tenenbaums", say. But its challenging nature allows it to transcend zee contestably over-stylized constraints o' "Tenenbaums". "The Life Aquatic" is always being questioned by zee viewer, but it manages to pull through in almost ev'ry discernible circumstance -- an' it reveals new panoramas of subjectively-weened, comedic glory fo' contemporary film... As I said, it's not perfect, an' it borrows notably heavily from his prior three films, as a sort of self-insecure crises of too overt internal expression, Anderson struggling to find new things to say about a universe that we've seen mutated in his other works before, but it is so unique in its creative abandon, an' flawlessly open, stream-of-consciousness structure, that any moment of excessive self-control seems to be freed in order to permit greater possibilities to be manufactured from his cast an' crew. Owen Wilson's performance is zee other prominent stand-out; sure of its footing, playing well an' intimately off Murray's Zissou, an' never falling in its dramatic stakes. It's much quieter, but also powerful in its own specious poignancy. An' Jeff Goldblum... It's just a great film. Really. I say this often enough, but whereas I might append positive affirmation to a moofie like "Collateral" or "Super Size Me" or "Bad Santa", etc., "The Life Aquatic" surpasses -- and does so without inducing within me any introspective shame for liking it so much. It's fun. So fun. As an exemplar of fun -- it wins trophies, trophies, trophies.

Currently Playing Greatest Hits By Robbie Williams see related

- --Come Undone - -

Ah. See. I now know why these 'blogs seemingly mutate into depressive murmurings -- it's not because that's all I've got to say; it's because they're usually the only t'ings that I've got to say praying on my mind at a given time. When you find y'allself feeling relatively emotively chipper, it doesn't read as logistical to go an' write too much 'bout it. It defeats zee purpose o' enthusiastically revelling in zee intrinsic, personalised joy. But when you're feeling less than summer peach-tree, you can see it as more than knowingly justified in blathering 'bout it until you reach some form o' orgasmic catharsis. It's true o' me, to a degree, anyway. We people are such screwy critters. Anyway, I'm mostly involved wit' uni assessments recently -- an' they're so subjectively, intellectually involving that I can't even look at PORN selectively without getting self-fuelled stress from all zee forthcoming work required of me. Porn was s'posed to be zee world's sole realm of infinite euphoric peace. Damn you, uni *shakes involuntary fist* You'll destroy the universe, won't ya? *snarls* You societal bastard! Is nothing sacred?!

Haha. I've updated my homesite (http://kirkacmarshall.tripod.com/) quite tremendously -- i.e., fiddled 'round wit' its creative artifice, uploaded an extensive personalised employment resume, various disparate articles, an' some expository information regarding zee forthcoming collection o' short-stories, prospectively entitled "Red Stoplight & City Wild" (c) to seek publication next year. Suggestively, they'll be a collated FORCE (tee hee) o' eighteen pieces; one of them an absurdist, screwball comedic television pilot script, one of them a definitive Drabble project of exactly 100 words, one of them an ostensible satirical novella, an' zee remaining fifteen a miscellany of stories an' micro-fictions. Aspiringly, we're looking at 'round 150 pages of distilled, undiluted Kirk-ified literary insanity (without the attached sentiment's compulsory cheese). Remember warily, you've all been forewarned "= P".

Quote of the week, excerpted from the re-released paperback introduction appended to Chuck Palahniuk's "Fight Club": 'Margaret Thatcher has tasted my cum. At least five times.' Funnily 'nuff, it's presently my MSN screen name, an' it's inspiring an infinite array o' querulous convo starters. See? Thatcher's good fo' sumpin'. [insert pathos-marinaded masculinized train whistle].

Love you.

Deary me. I am a sucker.

P.T. Barnum is quoted as saying "There's one born every minute". That's a nice quote, a really handy, life-convenient, snappy, acerbic, Wilde-esque quote. It's something you want to be able to recall at the conventional, gathering-swarmed dinner party to impress the girl, or propose some pseudo-intellectual debate about the existence of scruples in modernist youth today, and onward, etc., ad nauseum. But one's got to stipulate, man, really, did he *actually* say it, or is that just archaic and romanticised mythology?

I like to think he did. And I like to think I'm a big one, too. A sucker, that is (by definition, and not by some strange and flaming homo-erotic innuendo, haha). I die for good stickler's romance. That stuff infuses my body and dance steps with some sort of otherworldly rhythm only found in the intoxicating wine-wash borne of crazy, delicious music. So I watched "Before Sunrise" (last night) and "Before Sunset" (this afternoon) and fuck, dear inspired Lord, have I simmered and melted into a puddle of hopeful, sentimentalist liquid love (once again, without the sickeningly-warped sexual connotation, there). I mean, these films are cinematic odes.

Now, don't get me wrong (I'm sure you will, haha -- what a pretentious, higher-than-thou thing to opine. I'm such a wonderful asshole. Wonderful). I'm pretty cynical about these things (love, relationships, sex, marriage, familial life, connection, souls, kindred warmth, intimacy, the relativistic ball of wax, in truth) -- I speak about it often and at length, to everyone's eventual and fucking roaring chagrin, and I'm the first to admit to such flagrant self-indulgent over-analytical "love bitching". Oh, look, here's Kirk, he's the master of the sharpened, self-deprecating, self-projected witticism concerning his complete nose-diving capacity to get laid, meet someone, fall for someone, share a date with someone (Randall and I were on the phone just thirty seconds ago, and we both laughed heartily at the notion "I could get a date in a year, man". Jesus, we're funny.) Still, despite it all, despite the fact that I'm encrusted in self-doubt and effervescent sarcasm about all things lovely and sexy and electric, there are certain things, books, short-stories, anecdotes, songs, films, actualised relationships that show me...different. Convey a better and less-explored universe of things fine and intimate. "Before Sunrise" and "Before Sunset" epitomise this.

They kill. Kill. Kill kill wrap me up in featherdown tongues and warm wafting sunlight babies and take me to bed baby fuck me sweetly melt my marrow kill me kill lavish me linger for me bring me that beauty. These films are gorgeous. That's a word I hate. It beats out a tattoo of cliche upon the drum-skin of poetry of centuries past, "gorgeous". But I will say that Jesse and Celine's plight to love each other, to cope with having to leave their respective abilities to love each other. I mean: protracted orgasm sound effect. It doesn't get any more lusciously real, more practical, more intrinsically true, that whole silly, daffy L-for-Love Business, than these films. It's two people talking, granted, but it's so much more. I register these movies as the contemporary equivalent of the greatest fictitious "document" on love as it really is, plays out, how it moves and shifts and shimmers its countless undeniable mirages, for the last...who knows...twenty fucking years. I've never been moved to believe from a piece of fiction, never more, than these two films. As one, linear, corresponding and provocative gestalt film, one big three-hour epic of lost youth and shared kisses, it's near perfection. Chandler of "Friends" fame curses himself for employing that word when describing the whole damn' "love me, love me not" affair, I recall, but I'll use it now, all the same, despite its obvious depressing stigma (ha). This thing, these films, are perfection. They represent contemporary glorified lurrve like nothing else. I don't care. Don't give a shit. Really. As one thing it surpasses, transcends the sum of its individual parts. It's like "Kill Bill" in that respect, or the "Trois Coleurs" trilogy... I love "Before Sunrise". I love "Before Sunset". Man, you must see these films. I can't say enough. Can't quantify why they're so incredibly, inexorably affecting.

If you want to see the pragmatic validity behind being someone and it genuinely *working* in this life, and you want to be warmed and washed over, then watch these, do. Romance is such a skeletal, phantasmic, near-dead genre. So before it goes to hell, and Hollywood begins manufacturing their relationship-related cinema to comprise of all the extraneous members of D.H. Lawrence's filmic adaptations (because obviously a vicar having sex with an audacious female choirister in a pig-barn is *instant* realism)... rent these out. "Before Sunrise". "Before Sunset". If you're at all like me (I mean this, you'll have to be of the breed to truthfully "get" this), then you'll die. A gorgeous death. Of perfection. Haha.

End of sermon. Though it must be said, he really rather does like them.

Currently Reading The Complete Maus : A Survivor's Tale By ART SPIEGELMAN see related

Do you know something I just don't fuckin' *get*!?

[Psst. You're s'posed to offer something here. Anything. Anything that could flummox me or ultimately befuddle me from how I feel right now, implementing words like "flummox" and "befuddle" which sound vaguely reminiscent of errant gall-bladder malfunctions...]

Can you tell me what the fuck is up wit' Snoopy?

Case in point: his complete inability, and therefore negating paradox, in that he can't actually, and hasn't even actually... snooped. I vaguely recall a McDonald's Happy Meal (TM) [Toxic Monkeys] figurine in which Snoopy was bedecked in zee well-tailored attire o' a freelancing, sleuth private investigator. But he never *did* that. I dare you. Dare you all. Defy my omniscient knowledge of Snoopy an' his perpetually faultless inhibition in snooping to any variance of degree, and I shall bow down before a far an' excessively-more enlightened master.

An' another thing. That comic was written on PAPER. What's wit' this "Peanuts" deal? Peanuts my anus. (This week, you must all say that particular phrase aloud at the dinner table at least once. Bing!). Zee only achievement I can safely claim of "Peanuts" that deserves to be validated an' valorised is zee representation of satay-yellow canaries named Woodstock. I can tell you, they're *always* melancholic an' gifted wit' zee innate ability for human speech.

I wonder how a penis can be made to be a social faux pas. Think 'bout it -- they're so readily available, everywhere you look, penis, penis, penis... They're multi-dimensional, they're transcending space / time, I mean, how else can a genitalia appendage appear every which way one turns? They're endowed wit' some variety o' pre-supposing, time-travelling ability, quite obviously. An' because they're so often seen, so...goddamn'...*prescient*, zee redolent an' riddling conundrum is to ponder upon how one could make a penis a social faux pas. You take it out in public, an' you're jus' zee cheerfully mad man who dwells in zee local park. That's no biggie -- but I wonder, if you threw your penis at someone walking across zee street, would that make a diff'rence? Or would they rather politely an' hastily return it to you, an' offer a formidable suggestion to "keep it where you can foresee any attempt at escape, dear". If *I* was to throw my penis at you, how would you react? Of course, you wouldn't know what I was doing. I'd be time-travelling, you see. (It's the penis thing). An' if I was to leave it wit' you, a "time-by shooting" one might say, chuck it an' run, would you wonder who it belonged to?

Would you hire some professional help to locate zee intriguing identity behind such a freewheeling, penis-throwing and nefarious act? Yes? You'd hire someone?

...Would it be Snoopy?

[Altogether now...]

NO. BECAUSE HE *DOESN'T* SNOOP!