Weeping

Weeping, I go down the street Grotesque, without solution With the sadness of Cyrano And Quixote. Redeeming Infinite impossiblities With the rhythm of the clock.

~Federico García Lorca

The Brock Family Eulogy ~ prepared by Veronica, Robert & Thom ~ Spoken by John Mayberry

Those of you expecting a standard run-of-the-mill eulogy might want fasten your seatbelts; Jo really enjoyed a good roller coaster.

Born in Freeport, TX, on February 27, 1951, Joyce Elaine Parker was the daughter of James C. Parker and Mary Howell Renshaw.  We had all come to know her well as Jo Brock of Roan Mountain, TN, who passed on June 26, 2012 at the age of 61.  Biological mother to surviving children Robert James Alva Brock and Veronica Toys Brock, Jo tirelessly assumed the role of mother, caretaker and advisor to everyone she met.  Stunned at the situation surrounding her passing, we are taking solace in that she is now finally able to rest in peace.

In addition to Veronica & son-in-law Damon Steele of Richmond, VA, as well as Robert, daughter-in-law Codi Taylor Brock & Jo’s only grand-daughter Sydnie Hellane Brock of Elizabethton, TN, Jo is also survived by her former spouse, Thomas Van Brock of Newland, NC; her sisters and their husbands Ceci & John Mayberry of Pigeon Forge, TN, Carol & Larry Maechler of Mena, AR, as well as Bonnie & Jack McPeck of Spokane, WA.  Jo has gone to meet her maker along with her parents, mother Mary Howell of Gatlinburg, TN, father & step-mother James & Isabell Parker of San Antonio, TX, as well as her sister Marty Farwell of Austin, TX.

If anyone here is in the wrong room, now is the time to tell us.  We will pause for a moment, while you clear the room.  Any takers?

No? Moving-on then…

Although Jo shared almost four decades of her life within Roan Mountain, she always considered herself a Texan.  She maintained this home-state pride, even though she was in Sarasota, Florida when she and her husband-to-be, Thom, met on December 21, 1967. Thom and his two best friends, who were home from college, were invited to a Christmas party at Jo’s mother and stepfather’s home.  At that time, meeting Jo also meant that you had to meet all of her sisters as well, Ceci, Marty, Carol and Bonnie.

Jo was set to return to San Antonio, Texas, after the holidays.  She lived there with her father, Jim, and her stepmother, Mama Belle. She helped her dad in San Antonio in his landscape maintenance business.

Her sister, Ceci, was working at a Burger King in Sarasota during this era.  When Thom stopped there one day after classes to say hello, he was pleasantly surprised as Ceci informed him that Jo was returning to the area to live with her mom and finish school. 

As Thom attended the University of South Florida, he and Jo saw each other whenever they could.  After high school, Jo attended Bauder Fashion and Merchandising College in Miami.  Jo’s graduation from Bauder on May 30^th of 1970 briefly preceded another ceremony in the celebration of Jo’s life.

Less than two weeks later, Thom and Jo married on June 12, 1970 in Sarasota, FL, at the Pine Shores Presbyterian Church.  They lived briefly in Tampa, where Jo worked for Zayre department stores and Thom finished his degree. The “still newlyweds” returned to Sarasota in 1971 to operate Thom’s father’s landscaping and garden center business. 

When the opportunity to buy a farm in Roan Mountain, TN, presented itself, they jumped at the chance.  Thom’s folks had moved to Newland, NC, previously.  Thom’s father found the farm on Hampton Creek, which was bought, site unseen.

Jo worked hard when they moved to the farm.  The mobile home they had purchased in Florida was totally destroyed by the trip.  They were forced to live in a big barn when they arrived.  She helped turn a barely livable situation into a very viable one.  With time, ingenuity, help from friends and family, that old barn became a house and then a home.  It was perhaps as much of a one-of-a-kind original as Jo.

She endured taking baths in an oak barrel with water heated on a wood stove.  She endured taking showers outside the barn with a black plastic pipe laid across the pasture to heat up the water during the day.  She used a portable chemical commode until the plumbing was installed the following year.  Thom and she had to sleep on the bales of hay in the barn.  The moonlight beamed through the barn boards and they could see the mice dancing all around.  She endured, much to her credit, a great deal more than many people would ever even consider: No electricity, no bathroom, living out of coolers, kerosene lamps… the list was seemingly endless.

As much as Jo claimed to be a Texan, her personality traits were very much her own brand.  She never made excuses for herself, rather she made her strong-willed vibrant spirit very much known and never ignored.  Jo was stubborn, obstinate, cantankerous, ornery, and opinionated.  She was also said to have the tact of a water buffalo.   

But she also had a gregarious side.  Over the years, she reached out to help many people.  Her role as earth mother reached-out to everyone she encountered.  Her save-everyone philosophy knew no end.  If you needed the shirt off her back, she would not only offer it, rather she would insist upon sharing it.  Whether the people around her were friends, acquaintances, strangers, or otherwise, every one of them benefited from being around her, in one way or another.  Whether it was food, money, gifts, tough love or whatever was needed.  She did this so often, it was more than second nature.

Thom and Jo bought a service station business in Pineola, NC.  They ran it along with Thom’s sister, Dee, and her husband, Dewayne.  Simultaneously, Thom was also running a newspaper route for the Asheville-Citizen Times.  When Jo was seriously injured in an automobile accident in the fall of 1972, she lost a child she didn’t know she was carrying at the time.  She never fully recovered from her back injuries.  They had to close the service station business.

When Thom started teaching school in Roan Mountain, Jo had even more responsibilities at the farm.  The interaction with the public school system allowed Jo her first ability to meet and make impressions upon the mass of locals.  Jo contributed to a community fund-raising event one evening by setting up a palm-reading booth on the stage in the school gym.  At first the line was minimal, but after a few people had their opportunity to hear someone else elaborate on their private truths, the line quickly filled and formed all the way through the building and out the door into the parking lot.  Afraid that the locals might think Jo a witch, Thom wisely asked that she not do that anymore.   

If she weighs the same as a duck... she's made of wood!

And therefore…

In the following 17-18 years, she helped grow Christmas trees, as well as raised sheep, goats, hogs, cats and St. Bernards.  She always tended a big garden that was planted every year.  Veronica still remembers this garden even today with every fruit and vegetable she is offered.  Understandably, nothing has ever tasted as good as the harvest from the Elm Hollow farm.  Raised with merely hard work, nature, and love, nothing could compare. 

Veronica “Toys” was born in 1976. When Veronica was young, the family returned to Florida to run a landscaping business.  When it was time for Veronica to start school, they returned to Roan Mountain to start an arts and crafts business.  This endeavor had them traveling to a variety of locations and meeting a myriad of interesting people.  Thom started work at the animal hospital in Roan Mountain in 1983.  Jo kept the home fires burning.  Much to everyone’s joy and surprise, Robert  “Bobby” James Alva “Big Al” was born in 1987.  A few years later, he actually grew into all those nicknames.

As the arboreal crop matured, Thom and Jo also began to sell Christmas trees during this time.  Travel then was more focused on the annual trips to Florida just before Christmas each year.  It was during this era that Veronica learned the truth about a certain Jolly Old Elf.  On December 23, 1989, a massive snowstorm settled into Florida.  Previously, Thom had always managed to return home before Christmas, until that year.  The traditional Brock family celebration always began on Christmas Eve, and also lasted well into the New Year.  However, this snowy holiday, highways were closed and Thom did not arrived in time to help Saint Nick deliver his presents.  However, the holiday remained unspoiled for all, as Thom returned shortly thereafter. 

The winter holiday season was always a magical time for the Brock family.   All four of their birthdays were huddled closely around these holidays.  One of the best and most memorable eras was when Veronica turned 14, on November 7, 1990.  Thom followed with his winter solstice eve birthday on December 21 of that same year as he turned 44.  Robert was not far behind with his 4^th birthday, January 8^th, a day he shares with the late-great-king-of-rock-n-roll.  Jo’s birthday was always saving the best for last, February 27, as she reached the pinnacle age of 40 in early 1991.   14 - 44 - 4 & 40. It was a numerological masterpiece, like it was meant to be, perhaps even made in heaven, so to speak.  

It was not too long after this, the family Jo had helped to hold together, began to go their separate ways.  For good or bad, Jo and Thom separated in early 1992.  Thom moved to North Carolina and Jo remained in Tennessee with Robert and Veronica.  As with any divorce, life became confusing and all felt lost for quite a while.  Eventually the magical Elm Hollow farm was sold and Jo soon re-located to another nearby property that she and Thom had owned.  She remained at that property, the one we have all come to know as Hemlock Lane until this most recent unexpected event. 

The memories and stories continued to build on Hemlock Lane as time marched along.  Jo was occasionally challenged by certain domestic mysteries.  The rather inventive way she used cleaning products was the source of more than a few familial tales.  One of the most prominent of these involved young Master Robert in 2004.  It seems Jo felt that aerosol engine degreaser would make an exemplary oven cleaner.  Later in the day, Robert attempted to cook a pizza within that self same oven.  The air and the pizza became saturated with the fumes of overheated chemicals.  This was the first time both Jo and Veronica ever heard Robert curse. 

The moral of this story:  Don’t get between a boy and his pizza.

Jo never stopped caring about her daughter and son.  She and Thom inevitably came to talk and correspond again.  Most of the conversations revolved around the children.  Each member of the family had to move on with their lives, but none of them could ever leave behind the most precious concerns of their hearts, one another.  When Sydnie Hellane, Jo’s granddaughter, came into their lives, they had yet another common gift which re-enlivened communication.

Jo loved her mom and dad, her sisters, and all of her family from Washington State to New Jersey, with a healthy dose of Texas, Arkansas and Florida in between.  She loved to work and be outside.  She loved to mow; it seemed to be therapeutic for her.  Perhaps the only thing she loved more than Roan Mountain, itself, were the people she encountered living on it. 

The fact that she was taken from us cannot be understood.  We can only join together here as those who love her, miss her, and will always remember her.  May she have lasting peace.  We all wish her God speed.  Bless her memory. 

John, at this point we want to invite everyone to listen (and perhaps sing along) to Aaron Neville’s rendition of “The Lord’s Prayer.”  By the way, John, you should not be reading this part aloud and if you are ... now would be a good time to shut up. 

MY SISTER JO ~ as spoken by Ceci

I dearly loved my sister, Jo. 

Her sudden and tragic death left me shocked, stunned, sad, mad, confused and hopefully, ultimately at peace - much like the life of my sister Jo. For Jo was unique, unconventional and always seemed most comfortable choosing her own path in life.

Jo was always a true and loving sister, no matter what the turmoil in our lives as young children or through various life situations in our adult lives.

In the last few years since the passing of our beloved Daddy, Jo seemed to have more inner peace within her and wished that for others.

Jo was a giver and would gladly stop to help anyone who had a need. Jo’s spiritual strength seemed to come from the many selfless acts she did for others. But, Jo also had an amazing physical strength as well. If you were walking along the beach with her and collecting shells and hurt your foot, she would take the bag of shells out of your hand, throw it over her shoulder. Then, without missing a beat, she would bend down, pick you up and throw you over her other shoulder. 

Even as Jo’s physical strength faded a little in the last couple of years - her spiritual strength grew stronger to fill that void.

Those of you who have small children or grandchildren are probably familiar with the words and works of Hermie and Wormie. Hermie and Wormie is one of my favorite books to read to my grandchildren about two common little worms - who didn’t understand why GOD had made them so common. As they struggle through the many obstacles in their daily lives, they finally realize one day that “GOD wasn’t through with them yet”. 

Jo had so many obstacles in her life that would have broken most people but, Jo just seemed to take it all in stride. “It’s all in GOD’S hands,” she would say.

Today I feel a deep personal sadness, and that is my own selfish feelings showing. Not just because Jo is gone but also because I have lost another sister.  Jo was a true sister, who always remembered my birthday, ands would always call or text me with a wish for a “Happy_____ (day) whatever the special day was, no matter how insignificant the special day was. I personally will miss those texts and those phone calls from her. But, I will also always remember her especially on all those special days too!

Jo so dearly loved my son, Ryan. She understood more completely than anyone else just how special Ryan is. He was her ring bearer at her wedding to Thom Brock. Jo always kept a special place in her heart for Ryan and never missed a chance to ask about him or to send her love to him.

A few years ago I was relating to someone how thankful I am that even though Ryan survived a head injury, he is almost always happy, positive and helpful to others. As, most often persons with head injuries tend to be left with belligerent, difficult, and trying personalities.

That thought reminded me of an incident that happened to Jo early in her life. I am not sure if even her own family members know this. One day as my mother was driving the car, Martha and I were sitting in the back seat. As mother turned the corner close to our home in Freeport, Texas the doors on the old Lincoln were suddenly flung open. Mother exclaimed, “Oh my purse just fell out of the car!” I said, “No, mother, it was the baby”. Baby Joyce had been thrown out of the moving car unto the pavement. Head injuries weren’t taken as serious 60 years ago as they are now. I have often wondered if that accident so many years ago may have contributed to some of my sister Jo’s many obstacles in her life.

In closing, I would like to read a poem that to me is the essence of what I believe Jo would want us to come away with today. - Not to be sad at her passing but, to look into yourselves to seek a better you!

Somebody Has To Go Polish The Stars

Somebody has to go polish the stars,
They’re looking a little bit dull.
Somebody has to go polish the stars,
For the eagles and starlings and gulls
Have all been complaining they’re tarnished and worn,
They say they want new ones we cannot afford.
So please get your rags
And your polishing jars,
Somebody has to go polish the stars.

~Shel Silverstein

Words from Rev. Robertha Klauder, Spoken by Damon Steele

Friends,
we gather here in the protective shelter of God's healing love.
We are free to pour out our grief,
release our anger, face our emptiness,
and know that God cares.
We gather here as God's people,
conscious of others who have died
and of the frailty of our own existence on earth.
We come to comfort and to support one another
in our common loss.
We gather to hear God's word of hope
that can drive away our despair
and move us to offer God our praise.
We gather to commend to God with thanksgiving
the life of Joyce Elaine Parker Brock
as we celebrate the good news of Christ's resurrection.
For whether we live or whether we die,
we belong to Christ who is Lord
both of the dead and of the living.

From Psalm 46
 God is our refuge and strength,
a very present help in time of trouble.
Therefore, we will not fear
though the earth should change,
though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea.
Though its waters roar and foam
though the mountains tremble with tumult.
The Lord of hosts is with us. 

A PRAYER OF THANKSGIVING FOR THE LIFE

OF JOYCE ELAINE PARKER BROCK
O God, our strength and our redeemer, giver of life and conqueror of death, we praise you with humble hearts.
With faith in your great mercy and wisdom, we entrust Joyce Parker Brock to your eternal care.
We praise you for your steadfast love for her  all the days of her earthly life.
We thank you for all that she was by nature and grace to those who loved her.
We thank you that for Joyce all sorrow is ended and death itself is past and that she has entered the rest where all your people gather in peace.
Keep us all in communion with your faithful people in every time and place, that at last we may rejoice together in the heavenly family where Jesus Christ reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God now and forever.
Amen

La Luna y La Rosa

En el silencio estrellado la Luna daba a la rosa y el aroma de la noche le henchía —sedienta boca— el paladar del espíritu, que adurmiendo su congoja se abría al cielo nocturno de Dios y su Madre toda… Toda cabellos tranquilos, la Luna, tranquila y sola, acariciaba a la Tierra con sus cabellos de rosa silvestre, blanca, escondida… La Tierra, desde sus rocas, exhalaba sus entrañas fundidas de amor, su aroma… Entre las zarzas, su nido, era otra luna la rosa, toda cabellos cuajados en la cuna, su corola; las cabelleras mejidas de la Luna y de la rosa y en el crisol de la noche fundidas en una sola… En el silencio estrellado la Luna daba a la rosa mientras la rosa se daba a la Luna, quieta y sola.

~Miguel de Unamuno

At Times To Be Silent Is To Lie

At times to be silent is to lie. You will win because you have enough brute force. But you will not convince. For to convince you need to persuade. And in order to persuade you would need what you lack: Reason and Right.

~Miguel de Unamuno

Do not stand at my grave and weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die.

~Mary Elizabeth Frye

1 Corinthians 13:1-13 The Gift of Love

If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing. Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part; but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.

Throw Yourself Like Seed

Shake off this sadness, and recover your spirit; Sluggish you will never see the wheel of fate That brushes your heel as it turns going by, The man who wants to live is the man in whom life is abundant. Now you are only giving food to that final pain Which is slowly winding you in the nets of death, But to live is to work, and the only thing which lasts Is the work; start there, turn to the work. Throw yourself like seed as you walk, and into your own field, Don’t turn your face for that would be to turn it to death, And do not let the past weigh down your motion. Leave what’s alive in the furrow, what’s dead in yourself, For life does not move in the same way as a group of clouds; From your work you will be able one day to gather yourself.

~Miguel de Unamuno

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on that sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

~Dylan Thomas

Ballad of the Moon

translated by Will Kirkland

The moon came into the forge in her bustle of flowering nard. The little boy stares at her, stares. The boy is staring hard. In the shaken air the moon moves her amrs, and shows lubricious and pure, her breasts of hard tin. "Moon, moon, moon, run! If the gypsies come, they will use your heart to make white necklaces and rings." "Let me dance, my little one. When the gypsies come, they'll find you on the anvil with your lively eyes closed tight. "Moon, moon, moon, run! I can feelheir horses come." "Let me be, my little one, don't step on me, all starched and white!" Closer comes the the horseman, drumming on the plain. The boy is in the forge; his eyes are closed. Through the olive grove come the gypsies, dream and bronze, their heads held high, their hooded eyes. Oh, how the night owl calls, calling, calling from its tree! The moon is climbing through the sky with the child by the hand. They are crying in the forge, all the gypsies, shouting, crying. The air is veiwing all, views all. The air is at the viewing.

~Federico García Lorca

The Tragic Sense Of Life

The man of flesh and blood; the one who is born, suffers and dies - above all, who dies; the man who eats and drinks and plays and sleeps and thinks and wills; the man who is seen and is heard; the brother, the real brother.

~Miguel de Unamuno

The Snowfall Is So Silent

The snowfall is so silent, so slow, bit by bit, with delicacy it settles down on the earth and covers over the fields. The silent snow comes down white and weightless; snowfall makes no noise, falls as forgetting falls, flake after flake. It covers the fields gently while frost attacks them with its sudden flashes of white; covers everything with its pure and silent covering; not one thing on the ground anywhere escapes it. And wherever it falls it stays, content and gay, for snow does not slip off as rain does, but it stays and sinks in. The flakes are skyflowers, pale lilies from the clouds, that wither on earth. They come down blossoming but then so quickly they are gone; they bloom only on the peak, above the mountains, and make the earth feel heavier when they die inside. Snow, delicate snow, that falls with such lightness on the head, on the feelings, come and cover over the sadness that lies always in my reason.

~Miguel de Unamuno

AVAfuckingTAR

I would like to begin with this... I am riproaringlyfecking thrilled to no end that I (edited for content) this fookin' piece-of-shit revolting movie. It's work like this that exemplifies why no talent hacks should not be allowed to work. Anywhere. Much less in Hollywood. It's directors like this that give all of Hollywood (not to mention all film) a bad name. Fuck JamesFackDorkCameron and the Toruk he wishes he freakin' rode in on. Fuck him hard, shove it all the way up the elbow, break it off and do it again, backwards and sideways. This is only yet another example of a most incredible concept in a fully magnificent story that he could do nothing except wholeheartedly fuck. He ruins everything he has ever touched... True Lies, The Abyss, even Tifuckingtanic. He might have had a chance at going down in history with the masses convinced he had one iota of talent, but no more... no-fookin-more. What a complete and utter ineffectual misuse of millions!

Whom ever thought it was a good idea to give this putrid shallow example of a man money, not once, but repeatedly should be shot. Not just shot. Have them shot, mutilated, ripped limb from limb and eaten, shat out and blown-up. The story hidden deep within this wreck of a farce had the potential to be enlightening, balanced, and perhaps even a pinnacle of what film should be. Instead VapidFuckAssCameron chose to belittle and demoralize the (first Americans, then the world) public by wasting nearly half a BILLION dollars in this, possibly the most offensive embarrassment of the century. Maybe if we learned even one fuckin' ounce of the lesson that the film was screaming through ball gags to convey, the 'aliens' that were sent home might not have to face the unsettling fate that we are all doomed to experience. Maybe this is a possible reality, but the downside is... WE lose. That's the fuckin' message... we have no soul, no green, no connection because we are too consumed WASTING MILLIONS on a useless tritefest like this. Maybe instead of making this shit-flick, he could have donated this money to a useful charity... one that does something viable for the earth, the people, or the intelligence of mankind. For that kind of money I could have made a THOUSAND films each with meanings deeper than the endless-ignoramus-pockets funding yet another TaintCuntMasterCameron repugnant, counterproductive, disadvantageous good-for-nothing fresh turd of a movie.

My first instinct is to erase this festering rotting decomposing pile of dung from my HD and make room for something useful, something that I will actually really use, something that anyone might remotely learn from... but no... I want to watch it again, the next time I am so low that I don't think I can get any lower, so far down in the dumps, so depressed that I am ready to end it all... then this piece of rancid repulsive crapola will be there to remind me: someone has it worse than me. Someone like tired-ass JamesTardTwatCameron is actually so blind as to what real life and value is, he doesn't even deserve to live... and I must live on, so that one day I can prove to the world just how disconcerting directors like him truly are.

How many people could we feed for half a billion dollars? How many homeless could we house for HALF a billion dollars? How many acres of wildlife habitats could we preserve for half A billion dollars? Most importantly, how many students could we teach real life lessons for half a BILLION dollars? What are the youth of today supposed to take from this film? What is the moral buried deep within this trite and laughable failed effort at yet another NutBusterCameron attempt at world domination via his ass...? That we, as a film going society have learned less than nothing. In the future we will continue to lie, steal, kill and cheat until our last breath and beyond. What we have not learned, aside from how not to make a movie... is to not trust this man with another dime, not another whim, not another overblown expendable feckless film concept.

I was so disgusted with how this LameShiteIncompetentDirector has repeatedly, consistently thoroughly ruined every film he has ever touched, I swore off Titanic. A film which was like that of Schindler's List, which targeted one of the most embarrassing and painful moments in all of human history and should have had every right to be the most endearing and beautiful re-creation of real life, real world history that man (or woman) has ever seen. (Don't even get me started on the master on no talent formulaic ineptitude that we call Spielberg, btw) When you have the kind of power and influence that is endowed with the ability to make films that not only Americans will see, but the wholefuckingworld, you do not merely have the right to give it the respect that should be due, you have the responsifuckingbility to do it proper basic justice. This platitudinous wreck was beyond sickening, almost as sick as I felt after I finally relented and saw Titanic (more than 10 years after its inception... even though a legally purchased copy was allowed to survive in my presence for the majority of that time) I probably would have been better off if I had trusted my better judgment and turned both of them off the first time it made me say 'I expected that'. The audience should NEVER be able to expect what is about to happen, never ever, ever. The power of a good story-teller is to keep the public guessing, keep them wanting, craving more. If I had paid to see this in a theater, I would have headed to the lobby and demanded my money back immediately, based on the fact that this was no piece of film, this was a piece of notevenproperlyrecycled garbage.

If you remember my fifteen minute guideline from one of my last, far more pitiful attempts at a film review, then I bet you can guess how long this one took to disgust me. Nanoseconds... is that even a real word? If not, it is now... thankfuckingyou JamesFUCKINGCameron. Your filth and waste of societal attention has made the need for new more up-to-date terminology just to be able to explain to what depths your depravity has reached on this, easily your most worthless movie to date. There is no going back. I made the mistake once with Titanic; I should have known better with this one. I will not be fooled again. I hope he dies, painfully, before he his able to complete even one more shitpileload of fucktardedmeaninglesswaste of space, waste of money, waste of time excuses he would have us, the over-paying public, duped into believing to be it a film.

Film is art, preferably fine art. Art is in the eye of the beholder. Art is not regurgitated ick even single-celled organisms know better than to consume. If we are continually shown this rancor, it will be what we come to expect from all film, from all art, from all life. Art imitates life, and thus life returns the favor; and if this is what JamesAssMunchingCameron sees through his unimaginative-close-minded-jaded-rose-colored-pious-glasses he can suck my big black dick and he will like it... 'cause that's how I feel right now, royally fucked without a kiss, raped and most significantly embarrassed for all mankind, film-going and otherwise. This is a prime example of how the world view is shaped, this is how the rest of the world is able to view Americans as a blight on this planet, this is how we deem that some of the world's greatest televisual computer generated images should be harnessed in a manner that JamesMouthBreatingCameron would have as a legacy. IMHO, this film is now the numberfuckingone reason terrorists deserve to want to destroy us and everything for which we stand. Oh, he's Canadian, you say... nofuckingwonder. Go home! - before you get us all killed. Or better yet, go work for Disney... we have come to expect this brand of predictable, conventional one-sided banality from their pedestrian versions of kids' movies. Then, I won't even need to check to see who the director is, that film company will conveniently wrap it all up with a fluffy my-shit-smells-better-than-yours bow.

In spite of the mundane lip service treatment JamesShitMeisterCameron gives the depth of story that this unoriginal shitfest could have, or should have, evoked as potentially one of the most masterful films of all time, the special effects department did well (as well as can be expected, all things considered). Hopefully they made a minor shitload of money and take something useful away from this insipid film. Because I see no other viable option for any good to come from this stale-ass movie. He not only just made Aliens again, but made us pay (more) for it again, but now also he has soiled Sigourney Weaver. Not only does he demonstrate how we will fuck our future, fuck every alien we encounter, but also that we will do it over and over again, with no regret... and not even bother to disguise it as anything other than the uninteresting, uninspired, undeserving flat tripe that it is. It troubles me deeply that we, today's film-goers have not enough cojones to boycott something as weak and irresponsible as this.


So, let's see... to recap... the bottom line: Half a billion dollars translated into non-American speak... that would be about 307 Million British pounds, 344 Million Euros and in South African Rands, it's 3.7 Billion. Does the conversion make it any more disgusting?

And now to the stars (one out of ten) rating. I give it one star for the special effects. I detract half of that single star because although JamesStockFootageClichéCameron has repeatedly shown his exhausted ass - something I have come to expect... but, Sigourney Weaver, she should have known better. Then, I can relent to allow it to have that half star back again... 'cause Neytiri is hot. And no, I am not bothering to link it. This ridiculous dung heap is not even worth all the effort I have already put into this explanation.

Oh wait, did you say James Cameron? I thought you said John Carpenter. My bad. The end.

In Floatilla Lore, This Explains So Much...

1977: Bootleg Snacks: Swallowed Deep Into The Love: Track #: Lost

Toys:

We'll fade it in at this point, Jack.

Everybody lean in real close and listen up real good. It's Auntie Toys, searing sonnets and psalms in your ear.

Once upon a time, far away, years and years ago, screaming out my name as I went down, a young woman entered college on Labor Day evening of her nineteenth year... As pure and true as the driven snow.


Floatilla Men:

(Hey, what the hell!)


Toys:

She had never been kissed, she had never been fondled, she'd... god knows she'd never been wasted. She was a doe-eyed, rainbow-deprived virgin. Nineteen years old and still half-drunken with youth... In this century!

One Fourth of July she was out drinking on a fake ID in one of those tweak and freak disco dance joints...


Floatilla Women:

(Leather Bitch!)


Toys:

The kind of girl you want to know
From her head down to her toenails, yeah...

Super Freak, my ass; Blow daddy!


Floatilla Men:

(Break out the good shit!)


Toys:

Anyway, she was out drinking on a fake I.D. in one of those tweak and freak disco dance joints, underneath a Southeastern coastal city. When under the confusion of the flickering, upright line-of-sight disco ball and storming PA...


Floatilla Women:

(We’re gonna burn this mutha down!)


Toys:

Not to mention... not to mention, all the microdot and schnapps she ate and drank that night...


Floatilla Men:

(Pour yourself another round!)


Toys:

She got separated from her alabaster friends. And she was... stricken with fear.

When suddenly there appeared like a dark angel at her side, a thirty-seven year old sweet-talking suave smooth disco gigolo named Dr. Love.


Floatilla Women:

(He used to be mine!)


Toys:

Now, Love was a striking man, in fact, he struck her several times later on that very same evening, under solemnly obligated patriotic prescription circumstances.

There's some people engaged in flagellation back there.


Floatilla Men:

(Who the hell asked you?)


Toys:

Well, what would any red blooded American nineteen year old virgin female do when confronted with a thirty-seven year old domination-wedding-chapel-leather-bar disco gigolo named Dr. Love?

She went home with him!


Floatilla Women:

(Will you remember me?)


Toys:

It's not even midnight, and in an age old time honored right of passage, Dr. Love made a woman out of her.


Floatilla Men:

(Give it up!)


Toys:

It took three whole days and two whole nights, but he did it, he made a light-socket, bottle rocket woman out of her.

About halfway through the second day, they stopped, and he tried to make a man out of her, but she didn't like that part, so they swap playthings.


Floatilla Women:

(That ought to do you for now!)


Toys:

Don't look at me like you don't know how that could be..! The measure passed with ease.


Floatilla Men:

(Hypocrisy Gestapo!)


Toys:

And don't tell me you haven't thought about it. You haven't?

Is this your first summer in town? Let me show you around.


Floatilla Women:

(WWD Love do!)


Toys:

From there, the house call relationship went, um, downhill, if that's possible. It got really sick. It was one of those twisted night after night after night, all day long, all night long, kinda corkscrewed down the back of the night on two wheels kinda things.

I hear some twisted men out there that like that.


Floatilla Men:

(I’m right here!)


Toys:

There's hope! And that's the start of a sad mysterious story: a story of love... love, love, true performance artist love and full witch doctor regalia.


Floatilla Women:

(The best things in life are we!)



Toys:

Amen!




All Floatilla:

(Sasha!)

Girls' Night

She slides her heels off at the door and in her stocking feet
She glides across the floor while I pretend to be asleep
It's too late to take her makeup off
It's too dark to see
It's girls' night
She made a promise to me

Between the discothèques and lounges and martini bars
They ride in hansom cabs and limousines and new European cars
They pretend that they're still single
They pretend to be stars
When it's girls' night
You're free to be anyone you aren't

CHORUS:
It's girls' night
While all the haunted city sleeps
It's girls' night
And the unwanted spirits weep
It's girls' night
She made a promise I know she'd never keep

Don't fuck with me
Don't fuck with me
I'm not in the mood
Don't fuck with me
Don't fuck with me
I'm not in the mood

Every hair is still in place without a trace of sin
Her kisses don't taste anything like cigarettes or gin
She eases up the blinds to let the moonlight in
It's girls' night
We made a wager I knew I'd win

CHORUS

lowes

They can have their little feckin' apostrophe ... lowe's


but I am certainly not freakin' capitalizing them... Lowe's


and, I far'gain dare ya to even just ask me to use their proper fuh-reakin' name...

Lowe's Home Improvement Stores


so, don't even flipping consider fackin' mentioning their official f'ing name in my company...

Lowe's Companies, Inc.




I don't even know where to start.
But, I will say: dogs.
Fuckin' eh, I like daigs.


D-47

gots mad skillz

So, I have some new skills I can add to my resume, now. Though, I am not sure that these are items I particularly desired to have on my resume in the first place... but, I am sure it will come in handy, sometime, right.

Here goes: Painting (Interior, only, so far), Cement / Mortar (it's like clay - art therapy - without all the Patrick Swayzeick), Various Texture Applications (now that just sounds like a fine sextoy accessory), Electrical (never in the attic...never, I say, never), Bondo (I think I actually like racing the clock with this... I don't know why I was always so intimidated by it before), general Construction / Demolition (is that, really a skill? - demolition, man, that would be fun to list on your taxes, I suppose), and [I may be adding] Ceramic Tile [to that list] (but I hope not)... [among other things].

FYI: Thus far, I have successfully avoided all plumbing and cabinetry... I wonder where I'd add that to a resume. It feels like a skill / category: avoidance ... PS?


I think I will leave this last one off the resume, but it has become quite a mastered skill... and in a fairly short time. Experience levels really help with that, with the constant contact... it just becomes like a second nature. Born again nature? Blessed nature. At least that what they always say.

Skill: Crackhead Grounds Maintenance (it sounds only marginally better than calling it yardtrash)


Did I mention? No, t.v. Well, if you don't count NCIS reruns ... and old Fawlty Towers episodes on the laptop... that is, of course, no real, live t.v. atm.


And that, my friends is it...

D day:

D - 51

and counting...

universals

Every once in a while I am reminded that this blog site is still here. And I have yet to update any of the links I lost when I updated the template to the 21st century. I don't know why, but I just don't seem to have even the slightest bit of interest in doing html code any more. I guess it was just a phase. At least it lasted longer than the mo-hawk phase, although no where near at long as the vegetarian phase.

So, now I have this site I never update... a twitter, I almost never use... a myspace, I log in so infrequently I have to request the password every time I sign in... and what is the point, really. Sure, it's nice to re connect with some long lost friends... but must I have a bookmark folder full of these thingies in order to communicate.

So, what I am wondering... when do they create the one service that let's you unite all these varied 'message' services together. When can I sign into gmail and have it link to twitter, flitter, aol, yahoo, myspace, facebook, icq, etc... and all I need do is make one universal entry. Why must modern technology take so damn long to become mildly convenient?