MZFPK [2021)

Breakfast cereal video game.

Pauly Deathwish’s 3rd album.

I am behind.

I can’t keep up with this guy.

Out of the gates like Flaming Lips.

30,000 feel of despair.

The gash.

Right into Isao Tomita.

Doing Debussy.

Marching.

Martial.

Fantastic noises.

Like first Stereolab album.

Here Come the Warm Jets.

Cheyenne Mountain jams.

I can no longer see what I’m typing.

  • What if I type in white?  Ahh, yes.  That does the trick.  But it ruins my style.  Louis-Ferdinand would not be happy.  Totally Air.  Pocket Symphony.  Who is Kevin?  Shields?  Ayers?  Fairlight.  Synth clouds.  Rich chords.  Very sophisticated harmonies and arrangements.  Cornelius from Japan.  This sounds very modern.  OH FUCK!  Groove is in the motherfucking heart.  Vogue!  So on track two, we are straight up on a catwalk.  But it could be Alan Vega or Martin Rev.  Kinda Sun City Girls.  Zoviet France.  Fridmann never gets this crazy with bass.  Wayne is driving it weirder.  This was, from what I hear, done with ZERO budget.  Is this a dance album?  First you have poetry.  Then you are prose.  Amateurs.  Into Odelay.  That was a good drum break.  The Strokes.  Fuzzy vocals.  Paliament/Funkadelic.  Sly Stone!  Later Stereolab.  Tim Gane processing.  Counter melody!  For fuck’s sake.  Somebody listen to this bloke.  Whoa.  What is up with this chorus?  Roland Kirk?  Like in Switzerland?  Definitely hitting some Os Mutantes twee.  Lo-fi as fuck.  Great Godard tongue in cheek.  Apparently about Neil Young and Rick James being in a band together when they were young and still in Canada.  Yonge Street?  Beats.  Drake needs to hear this.  Bit crusher lisp.  Spiritualized at the grocery store.  Swipe barcode.  Song peaks at end.  Masterful mix.  A true climax.  Savage mastering on every album.  Whole mix jumps.  It works.  Needle skipping.  American Supreme.  Claustrophobic.  COVID.  Sad.  Scared.  Apocalyptic.  The concept of the gaze in cinema.  Bass drops in.  Feel it in your sex organs.  A sexy song.  “Cobra Strike”.  This is unequivocally a dance album.  EDM all up in here.  Lots of panning.  Spliff it.  Micro gestures.  Pandemic planning.  How long will it last?  Soul-crushing.  Zombie metaphor.  Shaun of the Dead.  Masterpiece.  Beatle drums.  First Velvets album.  Rat trails.  “Black Angel’s Death Song”.  “The New Pollution”.  Dr. No.  Walther PPK.  What does this kid know?  He can’t possibly know, can he?  Pure phase.  Visconti.  Lanois.  Acid jazz.  Nick Cave.  Montage, mon beau souci.  Flaming Lips.  Jeff Tweedy drawl.  Jesus and Mary Chain team up with The Cure.  Disintegration.  Heartbreak here.  Who broke his heart?  Bleeps and bloops.  Robot noises.  Heartbeeps.  Jazz funk ’70s experimental upright.  Great lyrics.  Superimposition.  Steenbeck!  Fucking great lyrics on “Snip Snip”.  Oh, damn.  Glockenspiel at just the right time!  Icy.  Air.  Virgin suicides.  Dazed and confused.  Blonde.  Braids.  Like glazed bread.  German.  Texas.  Floating world.  Old world.  No one to smoke a doobie with and stare up at green trees.  No tits.  What is wrong with this world?  Rambo.  Fort Bragg.  Delta.  Boykin.  Intelligence Support Activity.  Send me.  George Crumb.  Black angels.  Jungle echoes.  4thPOG.  Ghosts.  PSYWAR op.  Make it loud.  Romeo foxtrot.  Shall we dance?  Charlie don’t surf.  Death on the dance floor.  Public Image Ltd.  Modes of limited transposition.  Messiaen.  Primal Scream.  Standing with Johnny Rotten.  #Trump2021 .  But this is more about big tits.  Giant opals.  Garth Hudson.  Telegraph.  Total loss.  Persona non grata.  Window still missing.  Swastika eyes.  Paul Weller.  XTRMNTR.  Shoot speed.  Kill light.  Eyes owned 2020.  The ugly had a chance.  Masks work…if you’re ugly and need to get laid.  Back with another block rocking’ beat.  Private psychedelic reel.  War metaphor.  Is this about election?  No.  Too early.  Look at liner notes.  Living in COVID times was like a world war.  War just beginning?  Got my pina colada.  Fuck it!  Arizona.  Living boldly.  Masks have lost.  Two weeks.  Could have been a contender.  Circuit bending.  Talking about big titty schizophrenic.  All footwork ruined.  Toys.  Falling apart gremlin workmanship.  Awkward line about Thora Birch.  Explicit warnings a little lazy.  Getting a bit Lenny Bruce up in here.  Russ Meyer.  Second line.  Double time.  Crazy drums.  Smooth as Sade.  Tambourine is the star.   One organic element.  Wrote a song.  She didn’t care.  Wrote her 200 songs.  She didn’t care.  One has zero plays globally.  She never bothered listening to it.  Some things not meant to be.  Liberals and conservatives.  Go and create.  Lobster.  Work wasn’t.  Bought her every flower imaginable.  Thousands of dollars on flowers.  Yoshimi laser warfare.  A piano not standard.  Some Tori Amos bullshit.  Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli.  Only the finest pianos.  Internationally famous.  Neither deserve it.  Pulled the plug at the wrong time.  Would he have still kept the same track listing?  Maybe so.  Heartbreak to rehash.  Goes by quick.  Good drum programming.  James Bond future theme.  Brian Wilson.  Phil Spector.  Absolute Nigel Godrich.  Cinematic.  The album that never was.  But this one is worldwide, motherfuckers.  Third this summer.  And a fourth already out.  I can hardly keep up.  I need to review movies.  Doesn’t Pauly Deathwish know I don’t have time for Galaga?  Falling apart.  Short-circuit.  Charlotte Gainsbourg.  Flashback to Bucolic.  
  • -PD

Full Metal Jacket [1987)

America is at war.

With communism.

With China.

And with those who collaborate with China to suppress freedom.

Some of those communist agents have risen to the highest levels of U.S. government.

It is not a stretch to say that America is now run by communist China.

Which means people like myself–people who like to have their votes actually count–are placed in a very delicate situation.

I am no longer under any illusion that my vote counts.

My vote was stolen by Eric Coomer.

My vote was stolen by Ruby Freeman.

My vote was stolen by Fulton County and Wayne County.

My vote was stolen by Philadelphia, Detroit, and Milwaukee.

My vote was stolen by Maricopa County.

My vote was stolen by Phoenix.

My vote was stolen by Las Vegas.

My vote was stolen by Arizona and Nevada.

My vote was stolen by Chinese hackers.

My vote was stolen by the CIA.

My vote was stolen by the Deep State.

I could go on and on.

My vote was stolen by Mark Zuckerberg and his pathetic wife Priscilla Chan.

My vote was stolen by Mitch McConnell and his pathetic wife Elaine Chao.

And her pathetic sister Angela Chao.

And the Bank of China.

My vote was stolen by China.

China who gave the world COVID.

On purpose.

America is in a war.

It is undeclared publicly.

I’m not sure our military is even smart enough to realize we are under attack.

Because many of our top brass appear to be corrupt.

My vote was stolen by Michael Hayden and John Brennan.

My vote was stolen by Gina Haspel and Avril Haines.

My vote was stolen by Bill Gates.

My vote was stolen by James Mattis and John Kelly.

My vote was stolen by Colin Powell and James Comey.

My vote was stolen by Andrew McCabe and Peter Strzok.

My vote was stolen and given to Joe Biden.

My vote appears to have been stolen by Mark Milley.

My vote appears to have been stolen by Chris Miller and Ezra Cohen-Watnick.

My vote was stolen by Mike Pence.

My vote was stolen by Brett Kavanaugh.

My vote was stolen by Amy Coney Barrett.

My vote was stolen by John Roberts.

My vote was stolen by Chris Krebs.

My vote was stolen by Christopher Wray.

South Carolina is where cars crash into trees.

Where drunks wreck their hoopties.

Fucked up on malt liquor.

Cheap wine.

Fuck it.

Beaufort.

You’re almost in Georgia by that point.

But you gotta go inland to find the Georgia Guidestones.

So transparently talking about global depopulation.

But still on the South Carolina border.

Heading towards Alabama hit Atlanta.

CDC.

Depopulation.

CNN.

Suppression.

Fake news.

Was it Ted Turner built the Guidestones or some other worthless fuck?

Some worthless piece of shit like Bill Gates.

Parris Island will get you to Jekyll Island.

Straight shot.

Where those filthy bankers plotted the Federal Reserve System in secret in 1910.

111 years ago.

Two world wars.

A Cold War.

Vietnam.

Afghanistan for us and the Soviets.

Iraq twice.

And now we can never get out of debt.

All goes back to 9/11.

False-flag.

I liked R. Lee Ermey.

Some might say.

Like liking Darth Vader.

But I don’t think so.

Because Stanley Kubrick is a (very talented) propagandist.

True, war is disgusting.

True, Vietnam was depressing.

But now you see what we were fighting against.

Was it misguided?

Perhaps.

But now Chinese communism has conquered our nation (with the installment of Joe Biden).

And so now the heroes of Vietnam–our American Vietnam vets–are truly heroes after all.

To stem the tide.

To buy us time.

And our politicians (and military brass) have pissed it away.

But mainly our politicians.

And our filthy intelligence (CIA) community.

America is not shit.

At its heart.

But Stanley Kubrick and all his commie fag friends want you to believe it’s so.

But we will not tolerate that.

We respect Kubrick’s talent.

But politely disagree with his artistic premise…that America is shit.

Wrong!

D’Onofrio breaks your heart.

And it is more schoolmaster bullying than anything.

Very British.

But it’s all plausible.

Yet Kubrick has to shoot it like The Shining.

Yeah, war will drive you crazy.

And real training should be the same intensity as the war you’re going to.

Otherwise, it’s worthless.

America is at war.

Now.

Already.

China doesn’t declare war anymore.

They just sneak around and poison you.

And fuck with your weather.

And buy off your politicians.

I love jelly donuts.

We’re not all cut out for the military.

But when the enemy invades the homeland (as China has done to us), all bets are off.

I am a digital soldier.

Born To Kill.

Matthew Modine good here too.

The terror.

In the eyes.

Kubrick was a genius.

An evil genius.

Yes, war is bad.

But Kubrick was a communist.

So, for him, a communist world was better than a war.

For me, a war is better than a communist world.

Because at least we got the chance of coming out the other side with some freedoms.

Freedom, motherfucker!

That thing I am using right now to write this blog.

That thing that guarantees I can insult the government.

I can make my views known.

I cannot be violent, but I can unleash a shitstorm of invective.

And my government is supposed to not be able to stop me.

Because they are constrained by our Constitution.

Political speech.

Is protected speech.

I wish no harm to anyone listed above.

Even if they have literally taken communist Chinese money (like Joe Biden).

I don’t wish them harm.

But I can’t vote them out.

Not anymore.

Which puts me in a very delicate situation.

Which necessitates that I study war.

To fight China myself.

Because my government has become (in many ways) one with China.

My loyalty is to the USA.

My loyalty is to my country.

America.

Joe Biden’s loyalty is to money.

And those who give him money.

He and his family have profited handsomely off of Chinese dealings.

And Ukrainian dealings.

China has released a plague upon us.

This is not the time to make friends with China.

But Joe Biden doesn’t understand that.

He just understands corruption.

He just wants his pockets lined.

And Joe Biden’s handlers don’t care about the plague.

For them, it’s just another opportunity to make money (off of vaccines).

And really, they worship the plague…because the plague let them dethrone Trump.

It was the only way.

To get the mail-in ballots.

But some, like Bill Gates (and Avril Haines), are quite obviously more privy to a deeper plan.

A plan to cull the herd.

Unfortunately for them, the rapper Pitbull is onto their Event 201 bullshit.

So it is not looking good for Gates and Haines re: stealthiness.

Do you remember Charles Whitman?

Lee Harvey Oswald?

Gunnery Sergeant Hartman does.

Them’s the facts of life.

The Virgin Mary.

Mary Jane Rottencrotch.

A man can only be pushed so far.

How many people voted for Trump?

What do the rotten bastards say?

69 million?

That’s no small potatoes.

Based on post-election polling, I’m guessing the current number of Trump voters who believe the election was stolen sits at about 46 million people or more. Maybe closer to 50 million. And this is assuming the 69 million total is correct (which it cannot, in reality, be).

But I am not here to lay out the evidence.

I have done it before.

I am sick of doing it.

Research it yourself.

Nothing could possibly happen on Tet.

Never has before.

There couldn’t possibly be a military coup.

Never has been before.

Except in just about every country on Earth (America not withstanding).

But what we have had are:

–a Revolutionary War (which birthed the country)

and

–a Civil War (which tore the country in two).

It was a rebirth.

China (and Russia) would like nothing more than to see us go through a civil war.

China because they want to beat us.

Russia because they still hate us.

But Russia respects us.

Not our leaders, of course.

But us.

Those of us fighting against the New World Order.

China owns the New World Order.

Or vice versa.

It is symbiotic.

Russia is on the sidelines.

More or less self-sufficient.

But a little nervous.

About their neighbor China.

And about the disintegration of the U.S.

Of course Russia wants the E.U. to collapse.

But the E.U. deserves to collapse.

Because it is Chinese communism in disguise.

It is the pet project of the globalists (the Bilderberg set).

Adam Baldwin is also the most real thing here.

But D’Onofrio breaks your heart.

And mine too.

Fat boy.

We fucked up.

But we all get the punishment.

Gotta accept Jesus.

It’s not communism.

It’s grace.

It’s mercy.

It’s harmony.

Order out of chaos (some say).

Sure.

But not cynical.

You gotta offer a choice.

God is the ultimate capitalist.

Free will.

A free market of souls.

Take your pick.

Look around.

Choose the Devil.

Or choose God.

Feel evil.

And feel good.

Make your bed.

Kubrick always goes a bit squiffy just when he could nail it.

Same in The Shining.

That stupid maze scene at the end.

More funny than scary.

Ruins a masterpiece.

Blood in slow-motion.

Empty filmmaking.

Kubrick doesn’t know…why…he’s doing what he’s doing.

Which is why this film is NOT as good (nor as important) as Apocalypse Now.

But Kubrick gets very close.

There’s a lot of Strangelove in this.

The irreverence of Joker.

A little bit of Cries and Whispers.

The gook sniper.

Kubrick is going for juxtaposition.

A nuke and Vera Lynn.

A war crime and the Mickey Mouse song.

Quite aware.

Marx and Coca-Cola.

Learn your lessons now, boys!

-PD

Baby Driver [2017)

What happens in war?

The CDC declared war on the psyches of Americans when it started counting probable cases of coronavirus and probable deaths resulting from COVID as ACTUAL cases and ACTUAL deaths attributable to COVID-19.

CNN declared war on Donald Trump and waged this war for four-straight years by way of merciless propaganda.

In 1980, an anonymous group erected a mysterious stone structure in the United States which prioritized their stated desires starting thusly: “Maintain humanity under 500,000,000 in perpetual balance with nature.”

[the world’s population at the time was 4.43 billion (meaning that this anonymous group thought there were about 4 billion excess humans on the planet)]

In 1910, seven men met in utmost secrecy just off the coast of the United States on Jekyll Island to plan what would become the Federal Reserve System.

Georgia.

Jayne Mansfield was, in all likelihood, a Satanist.

She died when the car in which she was traveling crashed into the back of a tractor-trailer just east of New Orleans.

Did Hitler have tinnitus?

20 July plot.

Operation Valkyrie.

1944.

Could we call those Nazis heroes?

They tried to assassinate Hitler with plastic explosives.

It failed.

But they fucked up his ears.

Kevin Spacey embodies evil in this film (and some might say, in real life).

I avoided watching this film for a long time…strictly because Spacey was in it.

It is well known that he took a trip to Africa aboard Jeffrey Epstein’s “Lolita Express”.

Sexual assault charges have been filed against Spacey by multiple people.

And multiple accusers have subsequently died.

If there is such a thing as the New World Order (some might just call it the Bilderberg Meetings), then Kevin Spacey might well be the most thoroughly-connected Hollywood actor.

It’s just a hunch.

But one thing is certain: Kevin Spacey possesses an amazing thespian talent.

Which brings us to another point.

Do we have to approve of the lifestyles of artists?

Not necessarily so.

I love Pablo Picasso’s work.

I don’t judge his work based on the details of his life.

So I am somewhat remiss to say: Kevin Spacey is brilliant in this film.

And if he be evil in real life, then he had no problem channeling that force for this role.

For he is, undoubtedly, the villain.

And yet, he is human.

There is shading.

Like a Dostoyevsky character.

No one is completely good.

And no one is completely bad.

Which brings us back to war.

We must respect our enemies.

If they indeed demand our respect.

If the Central Intelligence Agency was to have a primary asset in Hollywood, that asset might very well be Kevin Spacey.

Again, just a hunch.

And so we can appreciate brilliance.

Brilliance in conception.

Brilliance in execution.

There are many battlefields.

Many geometric planes on which to do battle.

Kevin Spacey is an infinitely-talented actor.

It is almost scary how deft he truly is.

This movie may have saved my romantic relationship.

My engagement.

On again after four hellish days of arguments.

Because music saves us.

And we make music.

There is a connection which no one can get at.

Our DNA is musical.

Thinking back to Jayne’s measurements.

And songs I’ve written.

A timely shock of hair.

A jawline.

A purity.

Thank you for your service.

Few industries are as sick and corrupt as the acting and music industries.

I know the latter firsthand.

There’s no such thing as a former KGB man.

When life was carefree in Austin, Texas.

Before Antifa ruined it.

Anything was possible.

Everything.

Summer nights.

Potential bursting from every moment.

A sensual heaviness to the air.

Humidity.

Crickets.

The 2020 election was stolen.

And Georgia was centerstage.

Ruby Freeman got caught.

On film.

And (apparently) paid no price.

But this travesty gave us at least one American hero: Lin Wood.

And now L. Lin Wood stands as one of the few remaining beacons in the darkness which has settled over America.

But there were other heroes.

Like Jesse Morgan.

What happened to his truck-full of ballots that he transported from Bethpage, New York to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania?

His truck disappeared.

The 2020 election was a heist of the most grand proportions.

Analog, digital…you name it.

Ask Phill Kline what happened to that truck.

Ask Anthony Shaffer.

The Amistad Project tried to preserve “one person, one vote” in America.

So far, not a single court in the land (post-election) has had the guts to look at the evidence.

And the evidence is embarrassingly-copious.

Jamie Foxx is excellent in this film.

Don’t underestimate the thug.

Street smarts and book smarts differ.

The latter can earn you a living.

The former can keep you alive.

Staying alive in the world of crime and secrecy (a deadly combination) is no small feat.

Especially when the stakes are high.

For criminals, cops are bad.

Unless the cops are corrupt.

In which case, the cops may very well be working to supply the criminals (among other things).

Which makes me think of the highly-questionable Eric Holder.

And the genre this movie emerges from.

A franchise and a genre.

Fast and furious.

We are the scum that keep it alive.

We are the 7 billion people who will not make the cut alluded to in the Georgia Guidestones.

But romance continues in war.

As love is more desperate.

And each moment savored more so.

A morsel here.

There.

We get bold.

Nerds of the world.

Quiet.

Wallflowers.

Desperate times.

Measured.

Yes, we have no bananas.

Just writing songs.

A potential deserter.

Every man has his breaking point.

Ansel Elgort is also brilliant in this film.

Edgar Wright may be the most important film director working in the world today.

This film is a masterpiece.

The problem is (and it’s hardly a problem), all his films are masterpieces.

I watch them repeatedly.

Wright is truly an auteur.

He is truly an indispensable filmmaker.

I didn’t GET that at first.

Just like I didn’t GET the first Grinderman record when it came out.

Some things take time.

Each artist has their own language.

You must first learn the language.

Maybe you can only run so long.

Which is why an army is not one man or one woman.

That day will come when you are not so lucky.

If you only have one memory.

It is priceless.

Can bad people do a good turn?

Yes.

And we pray that they see the light.

Can quiet nerds be bad motherfuckers?

You better believe it.

But they never stop being (simultaneously) fragile.

It is a tenuous balance.

Breathe on it and it collapses.

Yet no hurricane could shake it.

Love.

Chase it.

Fight for it.

Enjoy it.

Be thankful.

Seek it.

God is love.

We must reward those who stick with us.

It is the sweetest honey.

Death is certain.

Life is optional upon participation.

God bless.

-PD

Absinthe [2010)

To reach new artistic heights.

To penetrate hidden realms.

Crevices.

Fissures in consciousness.

Director Chris Buddy does an excellent job directing this documentary.

Occasional tracers.

A creativity and playfulness.

Of Ted Breaux and his reverse engineering.

Take an old bottle.

Microbiology.

Coax a recipe from history.

Jared Gurfein telling his story of circular history.

Arcane laws.

Circumventions.

And the director films a street of lights all turning green in mystical simultaneity.

Well worth a watch.

 

-PD

Who’s Minding the Store? [1963)

Here’s a great movie.

And a great chance to take stock.

To assess.

Work.

And money.

I got engaged.

Recently.

Yay me!

It’s a very big thing.

I’ve never been engaged before.

But today I’m scared.

Because I’m poor.

Money fluctuates.

And I worry I won’t be able to provide for my love the way I would want.

Kinda like Jerry Lewis in this film.

A schmuck.

Hard-working, but still entry-level.

That’s me.

Whaddle-it-be, man?

And yet, I’m rich in love.

I love.

And my love loves me.

This I know.

And so.

I will take that knowledge forth.

My love doesn’t love me for my money.

Because I haven’t got much.

But what if I had less?

And what if what if???

Money troubles.

Many bad things happen in money troubles.

But I am just over-excited.

I tip too much.

I go a little overboard.

If I could only write like Mozart…

But I do.

In my own way.

These strains you haven’t heard in a long while.

Because they have been buried.

We have to suffer.

And so I suffer now in this moment.

Fear.

Oh, the ignominy!

Of picking up trash.

Of licking the boots of bourgeoisie.

Those who fancy themselves to be above their position.

Like me.

Fair enough.

To kiss ass.

With a master’s degree.

Obviously I’m in the wrong line of work.

But I press on.

Dumb, but steady.

Trying to be honest.

Trying to make an honest living.

Learning hard lessons.

If someone would abandon me for over-loving, then to hell with them.

YOLO.

YOLT.

JOLT.

That thunderbolt looms large.

I am flawed.

Pressed on all sides.

Said Saint Paul.

Like the Star Wars trash compactor.

So I make this a prayer.

Knowing my love believes in God.

I pray to you, Lord, that you will give me a chance.

That you will help me with my mistakes.

That you will not make others suffer because of my ignorance.

I pray, Lord, that you will put opportunities before me.

And that you will help me to be a better person.

I am not used to all of this.

Can I pull it back and win?

It is to God that I pray.

Beg, knowing I am blessed.

Blessed simply by the same grace which is available to every man and woman.

All creations of God.

I ask God help with my health.

My peace of mind.

Please help with my striving to be healthy.

Please give me strength and grace to overcome the obstacles now before me.

And I ask you, Lord, to give me guidance in my career.

In work.

How to spend my time.

Where to spend it.

And how to spend my money.

How to save it.

Give me wisdom, dear Lord.

I have nerves.

But I am an artist.

And God is my parachute.

Do not tempt the Lord your God.

Who helps those who help themselves.

With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.

Jesus.

God’s got this.

 

-PD

Bean [1997)

Maybe think I’m not taking this writing thing serious.

Au contraire.

To rethink fundamental things.

Good movie.

Hideous painting.

De Kooning.

Superimposed.

[Ah!]

Perhaps not as solid as show.

But big difference feature length to sitcom squash.

Can I ever regain?

Yes.

Will I?

Maybe.

Wait for next episode to see Bean Cannes.

But, at root, watching a film.

For enjoyment.

Doesn’t matter.

See it again.

Welcome to the trauma of real life.

Daft.

Formulaic.

Heartwarming.

All.  Like Dostoyevsky.

Art has dribbled out since Podesta débâcle.

And then we come to QAnon.

Real or fake?

What would Orson Welles make of this PSYOP?

War of the world.

Buried deep in a movie review.

Experts.

I cannot say for sure.

I hope it’s real.

A good movie.

Popcorn.

 

-PD

Blondie’s New York [2014)

Man…

So much I could say about this one.

But it’s one of the few times where I can say, “I worked with that person.”

Clem Burke.

Probably wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire.

Now.

Because I’m a Trump supporter.

But he was the best drummer I was ever in the same room with.

And drumming was the longest “career” I ever had.

I’ve played drums since I was a kid.

All of them.

The set.

“Traps” 🙂

Orchestral snare drum.

Marimba.

The whole 4-mallet thing.

Jazz vibraphone.

But when I worked with Clem, I was a bass player.

That day.

That year.

For awhile.

It was the bass that took me to England.

To Scotland.

And to Spain.

And it was the bass that first took me to Los Angeles.

But this is about Blondie.

The band.

And what a band!

Based on my own experiences just mentioned, I can attest to the extremely high musicianship of Clem Burke.

And watching this relatively-short documentary (an hour) convinces me of just how special each of the band members were/are.

But perhaps my favorite part is seeing Mike Chapman work.

The record producer.

What a talent!

It was my dream to be a record producer.

Didn’t really work out 🙂

Tough business.

Maybe you fuck up.

Or maybe no one helps you.

Or maybe you get one chance.  And only one chance.

But that’s ok.

Because life goes on.

Marilyn Monroe aged.

Lou Reed sang about it on the Velvets’ “New Age”.

And Godard wrote about it.

The aging of Marilyn Monroe must have been a traumatic phenomenon for the first generation of movie goers.

The first generation with that color reality.

And with the television buttress.

And Marilyn…

Even Elton John, a homosexual man, was in love with Marilyn…in a sort of way.

“Candle in the Wind”

Which brings us to Debbie Harry.

The former cocktail waitress from Max’s Kansas City.

Chickpeas and lobster.

Park Avenue South.

And brings us to the album Parallel Lines.

This documentary is almost strictly about that album.

About Blondie’s breakthrough into the mainstream.

Yeah, they were punk…

Had the street cred.

But they transcended.

Mostly due to musicianship.

A bit like the Talking Heads.

The other bands were hopelessly arty.

Of this scene.

My favorite, Suicide.

[R.I.P. Alan Vega]

I met Alan once.

Changed my life.

But Suicide never really had a hit.

[Nooo…you don’t say?!?]

Yeah.

The name.

Whoa mama!

But that was punk.

And my whole mission is a bit of a punk mission.

Pauly Deathwish.

Uh huh.

Not a name I came up with.

But given to me.

I remember that day.

And the personages.

But my mission is also a bit like the mission of Greil Marcus.

And Lipstick Traces.

Now I’d just prefer to read Debord.

Or read Len Bracken on the Situationists.

But Greil tries (valiantly!) to pull it all together.

And I’m a bit like that kind of wanker.

Just hoping to SOUND like I know it all.

And someday have Harvard written on my spine.

But we’ve hardly discussed Blondie.

Or this excellent little film.

Which is currently streaming on Netflix in the U.S.

Again Kino Lorber’s marketing team (?) seems to be absent behind this release.

There’s no Wikipedia page.

And the iMDB page lists the title of this made-for-TV-affair as Blondie’s New York and the Making of Parallel Lines.

Ok, so it’s not Citizen Kane.

But it’s well worth watching!

Directed by Alan Ravenscroft.

He does a fine job here.

It really is a magical story.

Punk.

New York City.

CBGB-OMFUG.

The Fugs! 🙂

New York, a magical place.

Hell, even mayor Ed Koch is in this.

And he’s much easier to stomach than Bill Clinton.

I don’t care…liberal, conservative…whatever.

Just don’t be a dick!

And if you’re a dick, have the schtick down!!

Like Trump.

He has the schtick down.

He’s learned to lie.

In his many years.

“The babies, the beautiful babies…the innocent babies”…

There were no babies, my friends.

There was no chemical attack.

That footage was in the can for some time.

But it’s a white lie in the world of geopolitics.

It’s like telling your kids that Santa Claus delivered the presents.

There’s no way to explain, “I’ve gotta bomb Syria to make an impression on China.  And the bombing has to happen almost simultaneously with dinner…at Mar-a-Lago.”

And McMaster must be lying too.

That’s ok.

Just don’t make a habit of it.

Because then you’re CIA.

And that’s a dark road.

To get wrapped up in lies.

But the white lies are synthetic terror where nobody dies.

Even the Russian/Syrian body count.

Likely false.

Especially the “four kids” detail.

Pithy.

Icy.

The Democrats are really (I mean it, unfortunately) exceptionally dumb.

They only sense the general outline of the conspiracy.

Russia’s faux indignation.

But they don’t understand that their infantile foreign policy made such machinations necessary.

Blondie 🙂

And Quintilian.

See the documentary.

Forget about North Korea for a moment.

By all means, don’t watch inferior propaganda.

The Propaganda Game?

Great film.

Songs from the North?

Cinematic equivalent of toilet paper.

The Cinémathèque Française knew the value of propaganda films.

Henri Langlois.

Back when they were educating “the five” (Godard, Truffaut, Chabrol, Rivette, and Rohmer).

And Godard understood the importance of “good”, well-crafted, persuasive propaganda.

As Jacques Ellul wrote in 1962, “Ineffective propaganda is no propaganda.”

In other words, it has no business calling itself propaganda.

It’s less-than-worthless.

But kick back with some Machiavelli.

And The Art of the Deal.

And remember the unholy marriage of art and commerce that is and was Blondie.

-PD

Jia Zhangke, a Guy from Fenyang [2014)

I bet you thought I stopped writing about film, right?

🙂

Me too.

Sometimes.

I think…

“Am I still a film critic?”

With all this Trump this and Trump that.

With these tableaux.

This lazy poetry.

But I am back with an actual film.

And it is a masterpiece.

But I don’t know what to call it!!!

It’s a Chinese film.

Sort of.

But not really.

Because it’s by a Brazilian film director.

But not just any Brazilian film director.

Someday I will get around to reviewing one of the best exemplars of naïveté ever made.

Yes, one of the best FILMS ever made.

Central do Brasil.

Central Station.

A formative episode in my filmic life.

But back to this Chinese film directed by a Brazilian.

I didn’t even get to his name yet 🙂

Walter Salles!

Yes…two masterpieces are enough to make an auteur!!

But we can’t use the Chinese title here.

For the film.

Under consideration.

Because that would be disingenuous (and we will get to Trump).

[Or we will try.]

{so much…stuff…in the world}

Let’s paint the picture…

Three Gorges…no.

We must wait.

Central Station was a fiction film.

A beautiful masterpiece which stretches even up into the sertão.

But Jia Zhangke, a Guy from Fenyang is a documentary…about a guy from Fenyang…named Jia Zhangke.

Messrs. Baggini and Fosl (Julian and Peter) would call that a “spectacularly uninformative sentence”.

And Kant, the less-colorful–less-candid “analytic proposition”.

But we hit an impasse.

The film I am reviewing is so little-known (apparently) that it doesn’t have a Wikipedia page.

Worse, it has a strange, butchered title on iMDB.

There it is called Jia Zhang-ke by Walter Salles.

Hmmm…

I must admit:  it appears some people in marketing over at Kino Lorber are dicking around.

But we press on…

Just who the fuck is Jia Zhangke?  And why should you care about him?

Well, first:  he’s a film director.

And second:  he’s as good as Jean-Luc Godard.

Did I just say that???

Yes.

I just put someone on an equal level with my favorite director of all time.

What’s more, a Chinese guy you’ve probably never heard of.

Of whom.

And what about this Fenyang business?

Well, let’s get out our maps.

First, we must find Shaanxi Province.

Northern China.

The capital is Xi’an.

But we must get to the more obscure.

Fenyang.

Home of our subject auteur:  Jia Zhangke.

So we don’t exactly know the title…here to there…from this platform to the next.

But we will say this.

If you are in the U.S., this film is currently streaming on Netflix under the title Jia Zhangke, a Guy from Fenyang.

Or something like that.

This is the confusion of a lack of standardization.

Where’s ISO when you need them…or Zamenhof!

Ok…so why should you watch a 105 minute documentary about a filmmaker of whom you have likely never heard?

Because Walter Salles compels you.

He says, “Watch my story…  Pay attention to this little self-deprecating Chinese man.  He’s a cinematic genius.”

Wouldn’t it be great if all artisans and artists helped each other out in such a way?

A filmmaker, age 57, decides to make a film about another filmmaker, age 46.

Actually, that is quite an honor.

That an older filmmaker would help in the career of the younger one.

So we heartily praise Salles for his mise-en-scène as well as his morals.

But then we hit another impasse.

Because words cannot express the brilliance of Jia Zhangke’s grasp on cinematic language.

And so, why should you watch this film?  I ask again.

Because it gives you an introduction (not dumbed down in any way) to the works of a contemporary film artist who is leading the cinematic medium into this new century.

Likewise, it gives you an introduction to Chinese film at the same time.

These aren’t kung fu flicks (for the most part).

These are art films.

Similar to Breathless

Born of the French New Wave.

But also born of Raj Kapoor.

Indeed, as a young boy…Jia Zhangke remembered an early film which extolled thieves.  And it was this Indian film shown in China.  And the Chinese kids remembered the melismatic melodies for decades…to rip off a shred and a few threads of a melody which bound them as enfants terribles.

Jia Zhangke, a Guy from Fenyang is a bit like Cinema Paradiso.

The big director returns home.

And there’s a sadness.

Maybe you can see your childhood home.

And hit the wall one more time.

You can imagine the family bed and the father’s desk was there.

And the books on shelves along here.

So many books.

That there is a sadness of being from Fenyang.

I feel it being from San Antonio.

And Jia Zhangke, all throughout this film, ideates thoughts which have now and then wisped in and out of my dreams.

Jia is very calm.  Thoughtful.  Serene.

A true artist.

And as he talks about the process of creation, I find him to be an exceptionally dedicated artist.

We hear about Xiao Wu (1997).

Pickpocket.  Starring Wang Hongwei.

I mean, this bloke…Wang…  His clothes hang on him in almost a magical way.

He’s a good-for-nothing bum in the Chaplin mold, but still puffing away like Belmondo in Breathless.

But Jia was right.

It’s the gait.

The way Wang Hongwei walks.

Body language.

Brilliant!

And the shots we see of Platform are really moving.

It’s like being from a place like Kiruna, Sweden.

Gotta get there by train.

Up past the Arctic Circle.

And the kids…they don’t have a lot of entertainment.

Maybe even the sight of a train.

But in China…………….far more vast.

These remote places.

Like the Three Gorges area where Jia made Dong and also Still Life.

But the joke’s on me.

Because the whole world knows Jia Zhangke.

The whole world of cinema.

And me, with my insular approach, not so much.

Because Jia won the Palme d’Or in both…wait.

We have the wrong envelope.

Ok…so maybe he’s not that well know.

His films have been screened in competition at Cannes, but no hardware yet.

With the exception of his Golden Lion from Venice.

But none of that matters.

What matters is that he’s making great films.

What matters is that he has the potential to best us all.

This was a very moving film for me.

Because it speaks to the obstacles of life.

Of the unhappiness.

Of the solitude which must be for creations to ferment properly.

To mix metaphors, we need the darkness in which to screen our masterpieces of light.

We cannot screen them in a glass house…at 2:30 p.m.

Finally, this film will give you invaluable insights into the recent history and current state of China.

All the people on Weibo (like Twitter).

The market system which has been kicking ass since the 1990s.

And crucial periods such as 1976-1989.

The restructuring period right after the Cultural Revolution (1966-1976).

WE NOW JOIN PAULY DEATHWISH NEWS NETWORK…IN PROGRESS: “…

Xi Jinping.  His father purged in 1963.  His father jailed in 1968.  Xi was sent without his father to work in Shaanxi Province in 1969.  [The remote province from which film director Jia Zhangke hails.]

This was a time of immense violence in China.  Being purged.  Being jailed.  Being sent to the countryside to work and be re-educated.  All of this was suffused with violence.

So when President Xi got the message from President Trump himself that the U.S. had just launched 60 Tomahawk missiles into Syria minutes earlier, President Xi was met with the shock of surrealism…a perfect steak…beautiful ladies…the glitz and glamour of Mar-a-Lago…and the throat punch of an actual tiger.  No paper.

“Get North Korea in line, and fast!”  Would have been the message.

So that, in these times, to truly appreciate that which is unfolding around us, we need directors like Jia Zhangke.

These are our new philosophers.  Our new poets.

Thinking about social media.

Fooling around with it.

Inventing new artistic forms.

And finding new types of loneliness.

And desperation.

Jia came from a very poor area.

He loved his family very much.

The Chinese don’t like violence.

We Americans don’t like violence.

See this film.

Then get back to me on Dereliction of Duty 🙂

-PD

Bound by Flesh [2012)

I never know.

What I’m getting into.

These movies.

In the hopper.

And then spit out by a sort of roulette.

That I forget.

Anything I might have known.

And mostly I don’t want to know.

I just want to “pull the trigger” on these films.

Give it a try.

Try to watch it.

And boy did I find a doozy.  A masterpiece.  A truly special film.

Bound by Flesh is a documentary currently streaming in the U.S. on Netflix.

It was directed by Leslie Zemeckis.

Wife of Robert Zemeckis.

Now.

There are a couple of things which slayed me concerning this film.

First, is San Antonio.

My town.

The boring shithole in which I live.

A place so lifeless, so meaningless…that one must comb through the relics hoping for some shard of redemption.

Yes, Robert Johnson recorded here.

But he also recorded in Dallas.

And that was it.

So we have that half distinction.

And Pola Negri lived here.

We are very honored by that.

And Wings was made here.  The first film to win Best Picture at the Academy Awards.

But none of these things helps me to get up in the morning (or the middle of the day).

The 15-or-so years I lived in Austin, I had the legend of Sterling Morrison to give me hope.

Guitarist with The Velvet Underground.

Doctorate in medieval literature from UT-Austin.

And the Hole In The Wall was my sort of Mecca…because Sterling had played there.

But San Antonio has been an unmagical destination of return.

These past five (?) years.

But I say with utmost honesty…with absolute sincerity.

The story of Daisy and Violet Hilton has helped me.

These Siamese twins.

So beautiful!

I mean, really:  the two most beautiful girls you’ve ever seen.

And so The Smashing Pumpkins start to make sense.

That time at the Sunken Gardens Theater.

When I was but 17.

And they were touring Siamese Dream.

And my ballet classmate magically pirouetted out on stage.

“How the hell did you get up there?,” we asked her on Monday morning.

It was all magical.

The venue.

The Sunken Gardens.

But now it makes sense.

Siamese Dream.

Daisy and Violet (hereafter to be reversed) lived in San Antonio.

Their (by all accounts) evil manager Myer Myers (what a fucked up name!) built a huge mansion on Vance Jackson (that’s a street here) with the money he skimmed (or ladled) from his cash cows.

The freaks.

Violet and Daisy.

One of the best films I’ve seen in the past years is Violet & Daisy.

With my favorite working actress (Saoirse Ronan) and the very-fine Alexis Bledel.

So we shall go with that.

Violet and Daisy.

Indeed, all throughout this documentary, a prominent curator from the Witte Museum (our old, yet newly-renovated…reopening repository here in San Antonio) gives her articulate insights into the life of Violet and Daisy.

[that curator, incidentally, is the excellent Amy Fulkerson]

Ok…so the twins lived in San Antonio.

Great.

But what else?

Well, it was their route.

Talk about circuitous.

Born in Brighton, England.

Home of Nick Cave.

Hell, home of Jonny Aitken (hi Jonny!) last time I checked.

Interestingly, the twins next big locale change was to Australia.

Which is to say, their life was like Nick Cave in reverse.

And Cave would certainly gravitate to this sort of story.

Dark.

Freak shows.

Carnival midway.

Vaudeville.

[and the death of minstrelsy…{think Emmett Miller}]

Burlesque.

[and the death of vaudeville]

Drive-ins.

Hell…Violet and Daisy were in Freaks by Tod Browning!

Yeah, the guy who directed Dracula starring Bela Lugosi.

But as with many show business stories, this one turns sad.

And yet…as Ms. Fulkerson makes clear, the Hilton twins never gave up.

They had an indomitable spirit.

It may be cheesy to reference, but it reminds me of one of U2’s finest songs (off the very-fine War album).

“Two Hearts Beat As One”

Sure…Violet and Daisy didn’t stay in San Antonio.

They eventually moved on to New York.

And finally to Charlotte and environs.

But their story is so damned inspiring!

And to think that they graced my town 🙂

That they had their trial in 1931 (?) down at the red brick courthouse.

That Myer Myers got what was coming to him.

Which brings us to a parallel point.

To something I haven’t covered in a LONG time.

Pizzagate.

Or Pedogate.

Most of all, the John Podesta scandal which WikiLeaks unearthed.

First, I’d like to salute all the people who turned out in D.C. on the 25th to advocate for missing children.

We’re talking kidnapped, trafficked, raped, killed children.

And there is a very disturbing “video” of which I was just made aware today thanks to the ever-vigilant reporter David Seaman.

Said video is more sound than image, but it is purported to be a recording of John Podesta beating a child at Comet Ping Pong in Washington, D.C. at a Heaving Breathing show.

Heavy Breathing is one of the bizarre bands (including Sex Stains) which played at this “family” venue run by James Alefantis.

Simply put:  John Podesta’s cryptographically verifiable emails on WikiLeaks seem to point to him being AT BEST a pedophile, and at worst a violent child molester possibly involved in Satanic ritual sacrifice of children.

I’m not making this shit up.

Go read the emails for yourself.

Do some research.

It is the freakiest shit on the planet.

Look at it too long, and you want to vomit (while beating the crap out of Podesta).

That’s level one.

The emails.

Level two is/are the tentacles.

It involves Hillary.

Why was Hillary seemingly covering for Laura Silsby in Haiti?

In other words, why was the Secretary of State (Clinton) interceding for an American woman who had been convicted of child trafficking in Haiti?

You can read the story.

Likewise, certain of these Clinton emails are on WikiLeaks.

There are the “after ‘wheels-up'” statements.

But then we get to James Alefantis.

This motherfucker…

No, actually…if he was fucking mothers that would be somewhat socially acceptable.

Be it appears that his establishment IS INDEED integral to unraveling the pedogate ring.

To sum up, it appears that American “elites” (both Democrat and Republican) have a certain predilection for little boys and girls.

Some of the elites are also heavily immersed in occult practices.

Hillary is one of these.

Larry Nichols confirmed that Bill Clinton told him specifically of Hillary’s monthly jaunts to California to participate in a witches’ coven.

As I’ve mentioned before, Hillary would not have been playing second fiddle at such events.

And if that seems farfetched, we can point to the Bohemian Club (aka Bohemian Grove) [also in California] and their yearly opening ceremony called “the Cremation of Care”…at which they perform a “mock” sacrifice of an infant in the shadows of a giant (40 ft-tall?) statue of Moloch.

This is the meeting that has drawn (and continues to draw) the likes of Kissinger, Ted Turner, Reagan, Nixon…and so many more “elites”.

But let’s back up one level.

James Alefantis is a “bad (or sick)” person.

Ok, I couldn’t help it.

More accurately, he’s a sick, sick person.

His Instagram was archived.

And, as David Seaman correctly points out, it fetishizes the sale and abuse of children.

[this is where Violet and Daisy come back in…because they had no one truly looking out for them]

But let’s move laterally for a moment.

The sickest of the bunch might just be Tony Podesta, John’s brother.

This guy’s art collection is like a pedophile’s dream.

But also a Satanist’s dream.

The art that Tony Podesta (and his former wife Heather) collected (and presumably still collect) is some sick fucking shit!

So when you start to tie all this stuff together, John Podesta’s coded (not encrypted) messages made public by WikiLeaks start to take on a very ominous tone indeed.

But the video I alluded to can be found with a simple Google search of “John Podesta Skippy video”.

Yes, even the woeful Huffington Post (I refuse to italicize that crap publication) wrote about John Podesta’s bizarre alter ego years ago:  Skippy.

As stated, to my eyes, the video shows very little.

But the sound is of the utmost importance.

Unfortunately, with my highly-trained ear (I advanced a year in ear training classes in one day of university) I am not hearing what other researchers are hearing.

HOWEVER, it seems that someone is fucking with John Podesta.

And I can’t help thinking that is, in general, a good thing.

In other words, someone has “the goods” on Podesta.

The video, incidentally, ostensibly has a child (a horrifying sound…like Lou Reed’s Berlin to the nth degree) begging “John” and (not-quite-alternately) “Skippy” to stop the beating.

I will say this.

I do believe it to be a genuine article.

But in my honesty, I do not hear the words “John” nor “Skippy” at any point.

Yet, I believe it is John Podesta beating a child.

And I believe the general outline of pizzagate/pedogate to be true.

And so, dear friends, we owe it to children to remain vigilant.

Sexual abuse ruins lives.

It is very likely that Podesta (and his brother) himself (themselves) was (were) abused.

It doesn’t excuse their actions.

But it goes a certain distance in explaining them.

However, the occult (which has a direct tie-in to Marina Abramovic…again, verified in WikiLeaks emails) aspect is really hard to fathom.

It’s so bad that I don’t want to fathom it.

But we can’t ignore it.

We can’t be afraid.

We can’t just roll over and die.

I’d rather be wrong about Podesta than for a single child to suffer rape or torture or death at the hands of sadistic monsters.

So there you have it.

That’s how a Pauly Deathwish review goes.

Buy the ticket.  Take the ride.

As Hunter S. Thompson said.

I will tell you when a film sucks.

And I will tell you when a film is great.

And I will also tell you when something in the world is fucked up.

The nightly news and the morning paper won’t say “fucked up”.

And, somehow, that explains why they are truth-neutered.

But I ain’t got nothin’ to lose.

My life sucks.

And my life is beautiful.

But I’m down here at the bottom.

On the killing floor, as Howlin’ Wolf sang.

The abattoir blues, as Nick Cave sang.

I ain’t so deluded as to think that lying will get me a better life.

I’m sick of lies.

I’m too old to care.

Go ahead, kill me.

It doesn’t matter.

I’ve got no career for you to ruin.

And I understand the high bar for libel of public figures.

So go ahead, John Podesta:  keep comparing us to Sandy Hook truthers.

Yes, by the way, Sandy Hook was fake.

But you’re not weaseling out of this one.

You’re caught.

So let that Raskolnikov guilt sink in.

A thousand times worse than death.

You are a sick, sick person.

I hope I’m wrong.

But I don’t fucking think so.

-PD