What would you do if you had $2.2 billion dollars? Would you pay teachers better? Dispense the money back to taxpayers to spend it how they wish? (It's enough for a $6 bacon guacamole burger from Carl's Jr. for every man, woman & child in America!) Maybe you'd fix some potholes or help save an endangered species. How about getting some quality armor for soldiers?
Or...
Would you build a nuclear-powered attack submarine and name it after your home state? (In this case, Texas.)
Me? I’d buy a country, for sure. I’m fairly certain you can find a half-way decent fixer-upper for around a billion. I'd invest the other billion into upgrading it, and put a big goddamn wall around it. Then, I'd bring in a Starbucks. And with the last .2 billion dollars (however much that is) I could, you know, get a couple kegs of PBR and some strippers and invite everyone over to watch reruns of America's Funniest Home Videos.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
New List!: Favorite Movies of 2006
My favorite movie of last year was Darren Aronofsky's The Fountain, starring Hugh Jackman and Rachel Weisz. Babel was a close second.
My other favorites, in no particular order:
* The Prestige
* Stranger Than Fiction
* Little Children
* The Departed
* Brick
* Apocalypto
* Little Miss Sunshine
* Borat
* Pan's Labrynth
* Children of Men.
My other favorites, in no particular order:
* The Prestige
* Stranger Than Fiction
* Little Children
* The Departed
* Brick
* Apocalypto
* Little Miss Sunshine
* Borat
* Pan's Labrynth
* Children of Men.
New Film Stuff!: Promo Posters
Poster for the ellacia Productions short "IRAN", written and directed by Brett Johnson:
And "Sunset in the Valley", written and directed by me:
And "Sunset in the Valley", written and directed by me:
New Poetry!: STILL LIFE
Caught amid the masses of a white-collared culling
herded toward the cabinet
filed like so much busywork.
This Cesarean in progress
birthed with a cornflower-blue noose (a seven-fold four-in-hand)
buries his resistance beneath a stack of papers labeled due.
Silent, buttoned-down, productive
a victim of an apathetic generation
and of jealous neighborly competition
watches, waits & wonders "Why
won't you try something new?"
He is aware of the dangers that lurk in the unknown
and in knowing, stays safe
standing still.
His noose tightens, binding
reminding, if not now, when?
Rarely do members of his species venture outside the safety of the cubicle.
For the sake of conversation, the herd gathers
near the bottled-watering hole.
They speak in whispers
but when the lion is away
they roar
with laughter, carefree
swapping instant messages and stories
of sex
and
of sports.
He marks his territory with a 4 inch x 4 inch photo and a brass nameplate.
The bars on his cage are made of glass
to offer a view
of more cages.
He bears neither horns nor wings.
He's aged, but not evolved.
He's scared of his shadow, and of his reflection.
Soft busybody fingers type eighty words-per-minute, fully aware
of the impending disaster.
Unable to conjure the strength to roam the wild,
he's become the target
another hopeless victim
of this white-collared cleansing.
herded toward the cabinet
filed like so much busywork.
This Cesarean in progress
birthed with a cornflower-blue noose (a seven-fold four-in-hand)
buries his resistance beneath a stack of papers labeled due.
Silent, buttoned-down, productive
a victim of an apathetic generation
and of jealous neighborly competition
watches, waits & wonders "Why
won't you try something new?"
He is aware of the dangers that lurk in the unknown
and in knowing, stays safe
standing still.
His noose tightens, binding
reminding, if not now, when?
Rarely do members of his species venture outside the safety of the cubicle.
For the sake of conversation, the herd gathers
near the bottled-watering hole.
They speak in whispers
but when the lion is away
they roar
with laughter, carefree
swapping instant messages and stories
of sex
and
of sports.
He marks his territory with a 4 inch x 4 inch photo and a brass nameplate.
The bars on his cage are made of glass
to offer a view
of more cages.
He bears neither horns nor wings.
He's aged, but not evolved.
He's scared of his shadow, and of his reflection.
Soft busybody fingers type eighty words-per-minute, fully aware
of the impending disaster.
Unable to conjure the strength to roam the wild,
he's become the target
another hopeless victim
of this white-collared cleansing.
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