(Re-posting in honor of New Moon coming out today)

Robert Pattinson creeps me the hell out. I haven’t even seen his vampire movie. All I know him as is the kid who died in the Goblet of Fire and the guy who takes creepy photos. Look at the above picture. There’s something very, very wrong about him. He has Ivan Drago’s chin, hair you see on your average homeless man and dead eyes. Cold, dead eyes.

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Sing, goddess, the anger of Mad’s son Michael

And its devastation, which put pain thousandfold upon

Zaller and his Zaz.

What was it then set them together in bitter collision?

The sad sombrero, or the menacing moustache—marauding

in guise of greater guile?

Strike up in your mind’s eye, noble Madsen

Just how you’ve made alien your most loyal

Apostle, who preached your gospel and sung your praise:

Yes, Madsen: mind most high

(whose penis prevails perpetual

the proof of which lies potent

in the pudding of Zaller’s visage)

scholar and renaissance man,

who no doubt appreciates this English heroic verse,

why forsake ye your truest of friends?

A comedian comes to stroke your

Ego, his sole job rests in hurting himself,

That renders you more regal

You do it yourself, yielding

Not to conscience, or the cacophony

Of other multiple persons that in your mind

Lurk, lying in wait with specious passion

Of self-defence.

Oh, muse, do make him see,

Give him sight of the specific sorrow,

Yea take his eyes farther than his tactful hat,

Now that he may know what he has done:

That he has taken our job,

Becoming the barb

That the comedian continu’lly seeks.

What use have we for jokes

Or whimsy, when you

For our pleasure do all provide:

Your dream-drought

And your high hat—

That merry mitre of a majestic mind.

Muse or dote, Mr Madsen, do take note

These comedians wish you would comport

Since now we will see you sink, not float

In the costly and honored halls of civil court.

Michael Madsen has a new film out called HIRED GUN (Directed by Brad Jurjens). And when he agreed to sit down for an “offbeat” interview with me, I don’t think he realized that I was going to be joking around, trying to get a reaction out of him. In a nutshell, Madsen looses his cool.Please enjoy.

HIRED GUN available on netflix:

and amazon.com:

Picturing Senator Byrd surfing…  nude.

Happy Birthday and thanks for helping to warn Boston about the Brits.

***

I give good beak.

John Cusack, Amanda Peet, Chiwetel Ejiofor, and Director Roland Emmerich participate in an open and candid forum about the potential end of the world, and their new film 2012. The meandering of the forum ushered in topics such as Vicodin, dehydrated food pills, Elephants, The Queen of England, boxes of humanity, Noah’s arc, and so forth. I attempt to convince Chiwetel Ejiofor that we share the same birthday, award nominations, and life history. I also attempt to convince Roland Emmerich that they’ve worked together before and are friends. Much to my chagrin, Emmerich remembers that they do not know each other…yet. Worth a watch.

There are drunk people playing a synthesizer in the other room and it sounds like someone scrambling a metal device around in my brain. The keyboard goes from a generic, midi-format polka to what could only be described as ambient sound-noodling. (Ok, so, in reality, I can come up with more ways to describe the sound, but I thought the phrasing was apt and decided “ambient sound-noodling” was simple and concise enough for my needs and purposes).

Have you ever heard the sound of two cats raping each other? How about sirens raping each other? Or armies of nails, again, raping each other on a giant acoustically enhanced chalkboard?
In short, I guess what I’m asking is - have you ever heard the sound of rape?
Because, unfortunately, that’s what a lot of music has been sounding like to me in recent times. Mostly times when I am trying to get to bed but can’t. I currently associate music, or the practicing of music, with the un-consenting entry of foreign objects into my aural cavities.

When you’re trying to sleep, ska music is like someone kicking you in the rib. They’re kicking lightly, but over and over again. It’s like a hyperactive elf, pounding erratically on your temple (in the same manner that a small child might; thrash their arms on the ground in a supermarket aisle).
Dance music at least has a steady beat; this is more like having a slow jack hammer pound into your face as you attempt to drift further into your pillow. It evokes the image so clearly you feel as though the beer-bellied construction worker looming over you. Often, the steady back and forth of the 120 BPM vacuousness causes my eyes to rock from left to right like a metronome (or one of those terrifying wall-clocks shaped like a cat). The paranoia builds up until you truly understand Poe’s tell-tale haunting. The beat is so steady that it feels like it’s inside you. So you go to your tool-box, get a chisel and start to pry open your head; but there’s nothing there, and the noise remains. Even as you lay bleeding on the ground, you can still hear that pounding. You can still feel that jack-hammer against your skull.

But at least it’s not hardcore.

I would rather have my testicles gnawed at by hungry beavers than hear a hardcore band play anything after midnight. All the screaming. Dear god, the screaming…
It’s like you’re in a blitzkrieg only people are making revenue off the merchandising.
Butt fucking a porcupine would be more pleasurable than listening to hardcore while trying to get to sleep. Frankly, I would rather have a pneumatic drill screwed into my urethra on webcam in front of congress.

[SIDE NOTE: At this point I’d like to say I would really NOT like to have any of these things done to me. In reality, toned down and out of persona, I would MUCH rather try to sleep through music than have anything inserted into my urethra or have sex (especially anal) with any form animal (especially one with quills).]

I guess what I’m saying is I’m a man who enjoys the simple things in life; like sleeping.
Quietly. In my comfortable bed.

Just like a regular citizen.