James Taylor sucks. In a world of few certainties, that is one. “If I hear one more Jesus-walking-the-boys-and-girls-down-a-Carolina-path-while-the-dilemma-of-existence-crashes-like-a-slab-of-hod-on-James Taylor’s-shoulders song,” Lester Bangs once famously wrote, “I will drop everything and hop the first Greyhound to Carolina for the signal satisfaction … Read More
As sad as it is infuriating, people living comfortably usually dismiss thoughts of poverty, disease, and war. Luckily, we are sometimes shocked out of emotional detachment and we think twice, maybe truly mournfully, about the helpless people we hear about … Read More
Everyone – myself included – has written pieces about the Oscars. I will certainly be watching, and I will certainly be rooting for the Disgruntled Shepherd movie this Sunday night. But this Saturday, there is another important awards show in … Read More
The Writer’s Strike is over! Listen closely and you can hear the clicks of the computers as writers across America happily click away. All is good in the world, except for all of that bad that’s still in there too. … Read More
“The multi-media nature of the work invites viewers to do more than just reflect on what they see: to engage with it through their own experimentation.”
It was half past midnight. The snow was soft and crisp from the other side of the glass. The radiator spluttered, rousing from its hour-long slumber. Like adding cotton to an over- stuffed pillow, it seeped a heat into the tired room that stirred our restless desire to descend.
In the simple world that it posits, there is no World but the Hockey Rink. There is no Universe but the Firmament of Floating Crowd Heads. There is no Time but the Match Clock. There is no Woman, and there are but four categories of Man: there is Goalie, Fat Man, Average Man, and Skinny Man. There are Soviet Russians. There is no fucking around. Good luck, cupcake.
