The Last Half of October Looks Like The Last Half of a Great September

I normally jot down in my journal the last day that I wear shorts in Valencia which is normally on this day each October, or sooner. It's not that it's too cold to wear shorts, but simply because everyone else has made the transition and I don't want to look like a tourist. This year, more people are still swimming in the Mediterranean than wearing long pants.

 

...But at Least the Weather is Good

 I just read this bit of terrible news this morning. It’s one of those life events that we’ll all remember where we were when we heard about it. I hope that it doesn't spoil your day. I'm trying to move past it.

 

Turd Polishing: Part ?

I swear to god that I just clicked on this review randomly to prove a point: that the NYT film critics couldn’t spot brilliance if it bit them sharply on the ass. Maybe they once knew the difference between great films and truly godawful movies, but being condemned to bow down to the gods of the film industry have broken them destroyed their ability to give anything approaching a fair appraisal of a work.

 They aren’t art critics; they have been forged into turd polishers by their masters at the media conglomerates who own them like serfs tending their land. It takes this turd polisher several paragraphs to get to his point: Triangle of Sadness is a bad film.

 I could have told you that, and I haven’t even seen it. It clocks in at 2h30m. That’s all I need. It’s too damn long as it should have a runtime of 1h30m. Period. How could it possibly be good with an entire hour of fat added? Answer: it couldn’t.

Here is a phrase I found in this stool sample of a review:

  “I still find the tendency in European cinema that those directors represent to traffic frequently in facile provocation and sadomasochistic arousal of the bien-pensant bourgeois audience’s eager self-contempt.”

 Jesus fucking Christ, if that isn’t the most ridiculous sentence I’ve ever read then I curse my poor memory for my failure to remember the one that tops this one for silliness. I’m sure that he spent an hour crafting this phrase with one hand on his pen and the other stroking his flaccid cock, trying to coax some blood into one, and who-the-fuck knows what he was attempting to put on the paper.