Explore Sound and Sense and Watch History Come Alive!

(The two lovers never consummate their actuality in despair. She is only speaking to herself.)

He was a little fellow rather like Spike Lee, or Puck in A Midsummer’s Night Dream. Every ten years since 1952, appearances of yellow film magazine (information: critical) were to determine an introduction to Laurence, which stood the test of time. "Could be engaging, friendly, and charming," wrote Tristam Shandy, even though he wasn't sure what was happening in about 8 1/2 of the Hoo Di Hoo Pages.

The distant past, the present future: Which of these do you find yourself most often thinking about? With a balance of slapstick comedy and dramatic moments of emotional tenderness, Laurence waits on the edge of a cliff for Batman to begin the story of...It's hard to summarize. With his tight shabby suit, cane, and mustache, he applauds the publication of the symbolism I didn't know one afternoon for 45 minutes.

Lots of mid-August resources come from art, not chance, men in thousands from all parts of the world. A more imaginative approach might be in order: The female subjective perspective is not understood from left to right across the screen, the Federal Reserve add-ons seem to be nominated for the major prize o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main can make easy money not for the timid or skeptical standing at the doorway. It is time for Alec to abruptly part to catch his 5:40 train. [Rachmaninoff's music plays.]

Maybe you're a little obsessed with routine comings and goings, the early colonization of this slippery medium of trade? Please take a minute some rock's vast weight to throw, and also blow Big Jim.

We hope you liked this poem and the sentiments by this famous other blurb, derived totally from Alfred von None's own voice.

Girls 4-19 Take Risks, Receive a Room for Prayer at Lunchtime

Welcome to Haberdasher's Vacation School for Girls. We do consider girls bright and then whatever they have covered in the past some girls are recalled on the basis of signs of imagination. Academic scholarships ask you to indicate all the details between what one unmarried couple likened to a honeymoon and the ceiling. Girls are not required to bring accurate punctuation.

Haberdasher's girls gestate a little more quickly than a human mother. As surely as gestation follows conception, Haberdasher's was going to cash in on teen pregnancy. Forget marriage: adultery and promiscuity will be subject to an annual review. Your daughter hosted the Prince of Wales at Goodwood Stakes; sits on American values at the aforementioned seminar. Haberdasher's in Hollywood, it's eminently quotable!

Why is Katie Couric losing her perkiness? Haberdasher's entrance examination damaged tissue in the logical thought process, leading to a weaker tendon in Cockfoster's Garden. To meet the Head Mistress, flimsy arguments and questionable motives integrate about twenty girls in the military and exposes one's (Rebbecca O'Donnell's) outright homosexuality. What the media won't eyewash entry to the Senior School saves halfway to heaven, the natural process followed by stem cells. Entertaining discussion is available for a gift of $10 (40 mins) or more.

It seems to be the year for the blue, very phallic-nosed (beaked?) muppet, if you would like to print out and review our prospectus, "Beyond the Beats and Melodies Big Guns Fire Away!" As marriage declines, church attendance falls, and China denies Visas to human rights activists, Black Mamba makes a breakthrough in almshouses and spacious new Del Mar Racetrack ,which lifted flinty Dr. No to the most important world stage. [Girl gets on top of him].

"The Early Show" at the Worshipful Company of Haberdashers points a gun at the Aldenham Estate, in terms of pupils and physical resources a substantial past decade for 120,000 Trelawney studs. Shining recommendations quote the higher proof of sexism of nobody on the other side, but who doesn't? Eyes on culture open at the center of the Haberdasher's community. Every year, bitches. Yeah!!!!!!

United States of America, Plaintiff

The United States is a law enforcement agency operating for the safety of persons otherwise physically restrained. Violent confrontations from at least 1990 to the present constitute a pattern of restraining seizures from occurring and citizens in the sciences piloting the planes the way they said they did. Improperly stopping in the jurisdiction and venue of the City while Ancient Rome burned, persons of rights (i.e. persons in handcuffs) held secret sessions to secure the Constitution; in other words, police officers discipline and tolerate the public's business pretty much through the radios of rich kids and corporate elites. The intelligence of this agency is overwhelming. Yeah, man. That is indeed true.

The long insufferable left wing fails to fool Planet Earth every 4 years by plundering our one and only home, Nazi law. Without properly searching cars and dwelling places, the Democratic party's gonzo bamboozlement got away with soliciting the murder of Ronald Reagan and his sons, the anthrax culprit at Sturgis and the misogynist pimp on YouTube. Police abuse by cops in the news (I know from firsthand experience) has a really good ring to it, like the music you're listening to right now. Do you know what an oath is? "The Israeli threat is not a myth!" Something still exists when it is not seen or heard? Your toddler can follow a command with greater skill.

Now what is wrong with the fact that Ayn Rand is a straightshooting and xenophobic bird of prey? In an open letter written in 1941, Rand said, "I'm sure uncomfortable with all the sleaze and lies and innuendo and ridiculously insulting bullshit spewing from the top of the DNC." George Bush slaps down $2 million, appealing to conservative intellectuals and the media getting into bed with 6 of your friends thinking, "Thank God for mental illness."

With the nation's loyal transparency, the bureau and the district judge are considering suing all Fifth Columnists permitted to act out of control by an elaborate left-wing democracy broadcast all over the country (in other towns outside the margin of error) when the world'll see the same thing we see: an agent of change vs. a grumpy old man. My 3-foot long beard just started turning gray this morning.

Where Do Movie Stars Come From? The Independent Movement: Vague Goals and Candid Answers

A couple of days ago I learned they filmed this movie in Rome, NY, which is a quick drive from my house. It's very vulgar. It's full of hilarious awkward moments and ridiculous characters. The cast is cross-dressing for the latter 1/3 of the film. The Jerk, he was fucking fantastic.

I yelled at the people in the trailer park around the block from me. I couldn't make my excitement any more apparent.

Glengary Randy Rick "got it." Pinpointing the psychological bent of counter-cultures off Wixom Road, a lot of what he said stemmed from the Kool-Aid picnic (not to mention its socialization procedures) because it was a good time. In the empty tool shed he shed his clothes and sounded off and said (as if on holiday), "Hell yeah!!!! I’m decorating my trailer with bayberry and lights and shit, and drinking Pabst all night!!!!!!!!! Come by!!!!!"

I was blown away, thinking hell on earth was about to erupt. The synopsis looks something like this:

An historian in the film points out quite clearly that "youth" is a creation of post-industrial society. Categories of life are just economic surpluses. For millions of teenagers, "wide-awakeness" describes the adolescent self in young voices shouting with glee, extrapolated from quasi-theoretical essays and all aspects of mass media. You start thinking, Why didn’t the government bureaucrats see this coming? "I couldn't agree more with Epstein (the historian)," says the most reliable liberal in the Senate.

Of course the American people are just looking for refreshing candidness.

Eventually we have no idea what he (Epstein) is talking about. "The Economy is the collection of countless choices chosen too fast on carefree summer days." We begin to observe the superiority of the Old-Order Mennonite (horse and buggy) / Amish model. Who cares about drop-outs, their drugs and their vision for a better social reality? "Every American citizen," goes Epstein, "must choose between the life he knows and an unknown destiny that beckons him." His girlfriend tries to protect us from how meaningless our lives are. Like a proverbial fish in the surrounding water, she climbs high atop Grandad's old mulberry tree and reveals herself to be a sort of ectoplasmic spirit held within a very special containment suit. "We just want to be left alone," the corporeal youth decide.

It's all very original, all very breathtakingly beautiful, like illustrations of modern biology and contemporary (circa 1975) trends in family life.

With all the hullabaloo in the Stratford Villa trailer park (a reporter was beginning to prepare commentaries in Volumes 1-12 from the only people who could reasonably and reliably be expected to know about the subject matter), I decided to reflect on my own childhood:

I remember browning my arms and burning my nose,
Feeling the grass tickle 'tween my toes.

The New Olympians versus the Kracken and the Gorgon Medusa is not unheard of, and someday you may have half the fun in watching it as the movie of the week on PBS. Still, fucking Epstein and his epic tale scared the shit out of me. The mortal youth in the film call a man blessed for his handsome face. And Epstein was; yeah, like a glimpse of the cell structure of a clockwork golden owl named Bobo (played by Burgess Meredith) in Shakespeare's trendiest play. His incomplete and inaccurate concepts were sometimes absurd. "I have a couple of theories," Epstein is inevitably producing out of his mouth, giving himself an authority that would otherwise be absent. "And I offer them now for your commentary."

Here is what I would have said: "We rarely even get together on major holidays anymore. Brothers sign deals, split talent and authority throughout the company. Shall we expose our weaknesses, or do the most for the fraternity between nations?"

Tuesdays with Pro Patria Morrie

On the bus yesterday I met a hobo by the name of James Cromwell Stearns or alium, something in that vein. There he was, bag-in-hand--Colt therein, forty ways to assuage his weariness. He struck up a conversation with Roberto, an ex-army man lacking lower teeth (retaining only hounds), far too compromised to lay claim to Hellenic Formalism. I must say, James found Roberto quite distateful; my expectation of his expectoration mounted with his threats to grace the Spaniard with the same. The full carriage rattled on silent, rapt to their salvos yet uncaring. But a revelation (more apocryphal, but as evocative as John's) averted apocalypse; they were, as James said, brothers-in-arms. Army and National Guard! The great gulf of ethnic hate which rended their clattering jaws was bridged in a moment by an idea precious enough to break all bonds of enmity. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. Roberto reintroduced himself to his new compadre as Robert; James sublimated into Jaime; the two became fast friends and struck up a discourse on the encircling hounds who they, by their valor, had driven off. Through men like them the veil endures. As they conversed, a woman of fading charms and slackening face escaped her unfortunate placing between them, leaving the platonic lovers to rejoice in freedom.

Tragedy marred that day. Robert had to disembark, leaving Jaime (the miracle passes; James again) no outlet but your self-same flawed narrator. He tells me his quest: a search for a lost loved one, a son he cannot find. But the heartfelt plea is duplicitous in its irony; the drunk man shows me smiling a picture of a Costa Rican sloth he tore from a magazine, one of several identical images he bears. For sloths, being a sloth is okay (opines James), but not for man. The pallor in his eyes precludes ignorance of his words' import. A wandering nous strays to the Lyceum, and James regaled me with tales of his noble father's alma mater (alma mater virumque cano; broken meters, sour wordplay) which the son sought in heart alone, not deed. Man precludes himself from paradise's open gates. His skills were all pro patria; a sharpshooter, straight as an arrow (perchance to dream). That route in living lost, he had found a true friend, an ever-present intervener less intravenous than his other joys). His last candle, lit for Messiah. He quoted Solomon's Proverbs: laughter cures all ills, a salvific panacea (so much for sola fide). I questioned his textuality, and he referred me to the font and source (Dasani: replenish the source within). Sola scriptura. That at least pleased me. I've yet to confirm. But, like the lost visage of Robert, James vanished forever by destiny's inscrutable hand, and I alighted at Bleecker.

Coriander and Thyme

Churn the mortar and pestle. The lies lie ever at the root, all-consuming. Have you ever driven someone to tear away their facade? Grind away the mosaics. Break a man's law. Hidden truth beneath the fallacious vault of rainbows. You cannot but wash a man clean. A perpetual intermittent scouring shall lay plain the tabula non rasa of the nascent persona non grata. The duality of the false dichotomy uncovered by your wicked archaeology is utterly destructive. Do not bring your compatriots to the last dark. Jack Horner's wisdom waxed at terrestrial expense. Shofar! Shofar! Victory sprouts without exception from deceit, and thus is tarnished as soon as made. Jericho is the oldest city in the world.

No man eschews a glamour so easily maintained. Regnant duplicitousness entombs the shackled pneuma. Whether Amontillado, Antigone, or anchorites lie within, that wall's assiduous preservation precludes any subterranean yearning for annihilation. Pure-hearted Amytis (tritely, a true Medea) lived within the endless fathoms of the antelapsarian primal forest which denied civilization, its progenitor, she its captor. But the earth's own anger cracked this antique splendor, broke a man's facade, leaving little room for wonder. And that's all there is.

This Side of Utica: Act I

They sat in silence, side by side in the motorcar as it sped through the empty streets of downtown Utica. With eyes fixed on the pavement ahead, his left hand groped through his breast pocket while his right held steadfast against the wheel. A white package of cigarettes emerged from the folds of fabric; one cigarette clenched between his teeth was lit in a single, fluid motion. He inhaled.
"Put it out," she said. Her voice was hollow.
For ad instant he allowed his eyes to stray over the passenger seat, observing in silence the woman who sat beside him. Her dark tresses held up by pins that were the fashion had begun to fall loose and lay across her shoulders, her head, turned slightly to the right came to rest against her open palm and her eyes, heavily lidded, tok in the last breaths of the sun as it retreated behind the decrepit skyline. It had begun to rain.
"Put it out," she repeated, this time her throat rang with a hint of exasperation.
He inhaled again. Then ever so casually flicking the cigarette out the open window he watched in the rear view mirror as the ember faded into the growing night. With gaze once again fixed on the road his foot weighed heavily against the accelerator while his right hand came to rest on hers. It rained harder. The city shrank.