|By Pikkle on Saturday, February 16, 2002 - 12:54 am: Edit|
Bring it home brother...
|By Louched_Liver on Friday, February 15, 2002 - 11:46 pm: Edit|
Boy, you got connections I NEED!
|By Pikkle on Friday, February 15, 2002 - 11:41 pm: Edit|
Tired? No, lapse into many a drug induced coma... nothing beats auto erotic asphyxiation on acid, pcp and opium on a Sunday afternoon in the playground... oh fuck, is that the school bell???
|By Louched_Liver on Friday, February 15, 2002 - 11:33 pm: Edit|
To jog your memory, I correctly surmised your profile photo of a year ago was the Rouge. We exchanged e-mails for a bit until you tired of my motor mouth/fingers.
Germaine (sp?) to this though, I'd fuckin' love to check that shit out. That would be right tasty. And what the hell does that Cha Cha Cha shit taste like?
|By Pikkle on Friday, February 15, 2002 - 11:12 pm: Edit|
LL... if you want high adventure on the low seas... you gotta come to my work... ole Hank, aka Henry Ford was a bit paranoid, especially when he found out Hitler really wasn't his friend... so he built under his massive Rouge complex a series of tunnels, most of which are still accessible that stretch across much of Dearborn and Detroit... you can go from plant to plant and never have to see that gnarly little sunlight thing again...
NOW YOU ALL KNOW WHERE I WORK! BRING IT ON FUCKERS!!!!!!!
|By Louched_Liver on Friday, February 15, 2002 - 10:48 pm: Edit|
Aunt tie a mindy,
Explore it deeply. The trips under Paris, and the crashing of 5 star hotel pools are great.
|By Auntieminda on Friday, February 15, 2002 - 10:55 am: Edit|
haven't had a chance to really look at the site...but I'm in love with the premise already...
much thanks, Your Louchedness...
|By Pikkle on Thursday, February 14, 2002 - 10:15 pm: Edit|
Work? Oh... yeah, like that's what I'd be doing... and the price of steel is so fucking low right now, I could drop a ton of black band on your front yard for what you're paying for four bottles of wolvie's la bleue...
|By Louched_Liver on Thursday, February 14, 2002 - 07:13 pm: Edit|
Sounds like your/+ mine kinda site.
|By Louched_Liver on Thursday, February 14, 2002 - 07:11 pm: Edit|
Uh, mebbe you could like "work" while at work. Omigod! No wonder the price of my steel is so high.
|By Pikkle on Thursday, February 14, 2002 - 03:38 pm: Edit|
What a trip... i'm at work, digging through a desk drawer and find some Brit rag, about the equivilent of a Maxim... in it there's an article about substance abuse, including the new absinthe craze (this magazine's about two years old) and talks about that ancient ritual of burning sugar on a spoon... then there's a blurb a few twenty pages up about Trenet, in the gift guide... last but not least, the book review page... lo and behold, what do they review? "Wormwood" Ugh...
|By Marccampbell on Thursday, February 14, 2002 - 01:39 am: Edit|
I've never read the book. The film ROUNDERS was pretty lousy.
|By Pikkle on Thursday, February 14, 2002 - 12:22 am: Edit|
Has anyone read this book before?
Or am I the only one... it was given to me a few years ago by a writer friend who knew I enjoyed my green, who happened to have an advance uncorrected proof of this... thing. Actually, it wasn't too bad until the absinthe parts that made it seem, well, like heroin. Here's the full review, from somewhere:
The town where the laughing images are made transforms itself from Hollywood to Wormwood for the brilliant young narrator of this debut novel by screenwriter Levien, who coauthored (with Brian Koppelman) 1998's star-heavy film Rounders. At 20, Nathan Pitch (as in What's the pitch?) comes to Hollywood full of dreams about becoming a member of the creative side of filmmaking. He starts out, as have many top film folk, at the bottom, in the mail room of an agency, where he quickly learns that even on the lowest levels all life in Hollywood is on a this-for-that trade basis. Over a three-year period Nathan works his way up from secret script reader to full-fledged script reader to D-guy (script development) to story editor for a development agencyby age 23, at which point he's a burnt-out shell and fired. His demise comes about partly from a growing addiction to the new Hollywood craze for absinthe, a drink whose highs leave its victims skinny and gaunt. Just as corrosive as absinthe, however, is the meretriciousness of every deal Nathan comes in contact with. During his stint in the trenches the one film he helps bring before the cameras is a breathlessly worthless piece of schlock. As he learns, his company is interested only in sucking up as many sweet development deals as possible and rewriting scripts over and over: Actual filmmaking kills the whole development process. A smartly groomed, episodic novel that ironically, in spite of its luridly cinematic moments and business knifings, is itself too literary to become a strong movie without cheapening its classiness with some outlandish plot twist. What of it? Its still among the top savagings of Hollywood since Budd Schulberg's 1941 What Makes Sammy Run?
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