God's hand on "The Thing's The Play"

"And then with a woman's reasoning (oh, yes, they do, sometimes) she leaped over common syllogism and theory, and logic, and was sure that her husband had come back to her. For she saw in his eyes love, which no woman can mistake, and a thousand tons of regret and remorse, which aroused pity, which is perilously near to love requited, which is the sine qua non in the house that Jack built."

(Taken from The Thing's The Play by O. Henry)

After reading a couple of short stories at www.short-stories.co.uk I must admit I was feeling a bit disappointed by the overall quality of the content. Line after line my eyes were left with the unforgiving feeling of boredom. But luckily it all changed with "The Thing's The Play" by O. Henry. The story itself is very well written, the plot is smoothly structured and the ending is nothing short of phenomenal. Thanks to this story, this assignment came out to be much more than I bargained for. Definetely a must-read!

American Psycho

There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable... I simply am not there.

(Taken from American Psycho, directed by Mary Harron, 2000)

Samuel L. Jacson & Chris Tucker in Jackie Brown

Ordell Robbie: Look, I hate to be the kinda nigga does a nigga a favor, then, BAM!, hits a nigga up for a favor in return. But I'm afraid I gotta be that kinda nigga.

Beaumount:What?
Ordell Robbie: I need a favour.

(Taken from Jackie Brown, directed by Quentin Tarantino, 1997)

Creative writting on "Home"

“Hiroshima Flick”

It was then when all hope had fainted and everything was totally and utterly lost that Travis “Silver Bottle” Jenkins made a decision that set in motion a series of events that would change his soon to be ended existence upon this Earth of ours.
- Ok… Let’s see… Johnnie? Check! Ring? Check! Grandma’s deck? Check! Cohibas…yes…the suit…perfect! –
You couldn’t spot a single trace of doubt nor fear in him, in fact, you couldn’t find the slightest bit of emotion in this Jenkins fellow. This was a determined man.
- Wait! – The first glimpse of fear…
- The case… Where the fuck’s the suitcase! –
How amazing it is the way the face of a man can change in a split second from absolute determination to pure raging desperation. Between mad screams and grotesque howls, good old Travis soon turned the tidy hotel room into a scenario worthy of a “Hiroshima After The Bomb” flick. The case, the beautiful black leather case was nowhere to be found.
He stopped and standing still in the middle of all that rubbish he’d created, he turned around to find one heart warming sight, against all odds, and as strange as it may seem, amongst all that mayhem and wreckage, there it was, unspoiled, just like he’d left it a few moments earlier, the little wooden table upon which rested the last belongings of Travis “Silver Bottle” Jenkins.
He stumbled towards it, wearied by defeat. Grabbed the bottle of Johnnie Walker, Black label like his father and grandfather before him, pouring the burning golden liquid into his thirsty mouth, straight into the depths of his wounded soul. Then took off all his clothes and put on the suit, a dazzling dark blue velvet suit with matching shirt. Picked a chair out of the floor and sitting on it smoked one of the Cohibas, shuffled his grandmother’s cards one last time and got up.
A crushed lamp in the corner lit the room, there wasn’t a noise in the air. He looked down at the table, drank the rest of Johnnie and staring at the golden ring his eyes filled with tears. And he cried, he cried like most of us don’t in a lifetime.
He put the ring on and walked out of the room with the deck of cards and the Cohibas by his heart, and the taste of Johnnie still in his mouth.
But something was missing, the black leather suitcase and whatever was inside it, a piece of him, of his soul, a piece of home.

Englishman In New York

I wrote "Englishman In New York" for a friend of mine who moved from London to New York in his early seventies to a small rented apartment in the Bowery at a time in his life when most people have settled down forever. He once told me over dinner that he looked forward to receiving his naturalization papers so that he could commit a crime and not be deported. "What kind of crime?" I asked anxiously. "Oh, something glamorous, non-violent, with a dash of style" he replied. "Crime is so rarely glamorous these days."

Sting (1951-), English musician.

Mortlake Terrace

Mortlake Terrace, 1827

Joseph Turner (1775-1851), English painter.

25th Hour... Ed Norton's Monologue

Well, fuck you, too. Fuck me, fuck you, fuck this whole city and everyone in it. Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back. Fuck the squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a fucking job! Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores, stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. SLOW THE FUCK DOWN! Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35. Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English? Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from! Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds! Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gekko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for FUCKING LIFE! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Worldcom! Fuck the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, 'cause they make the Puerto Ricans look good. Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, their St. Anthony medallions, swinging their, Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos. Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermes scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart! Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take five steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on! Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust! Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, fuck JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin' Otisville, J! Fuck Osama Bin Laden, Al Qaeda, and backward-ass, cave-dwelling, fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fuel fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal Irish ass! Fuck Jacob Elinsky, whining malcontent. Fuck Francis Xavier Slaughtery my best friend, judging me while he stares at my girlfriend's ass. Fuck Naturelle Riviera, I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back, sold me up the river, fucking bitch. Fuck my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar sipping on club sodas, selling whisky to firemen, cheering the Bronx bombers. Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row-houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue, from the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park slope to the split-levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it, let the fires rage, let it burn to fucking ash and then let the waters rise and submerge this whole rat-infested place. [pause] No. No, fuck you, Montgomery Brogan. You had it all, and you threw it away, you dumb fuck!

Thunderball

James Bond: That gun, it looks more fitting for a woman.

Emilio Largo: You know much about guns, Mr. Bond?

James Bond: No, but I know a little about women.


(Taken from Thunderball, directed by Terence Young, 1965)

North by Northwest

Now you listen to me, I'm an advertising man, not a red herring. I've got a job, a secretary, a mother, two ex-wives and several bartenders that depend upon me, and I don't intend to disappoint them all by getting myself 'slightly' killed.

(Taken from North by Northwest, directed by Alfred Hitchcock, 1959)

John with a J

John was sitting on the pavement, talking to his favourite voice, looking somewhat glazed when a young girl approached him,

- Are you alright sir?

John tucked his little red train wreck of a tie and changed into a pair of warm eyes. Poor little girl, you deserve a better truth than mine - he thought. And so he lied,

- Yes, I'm fine... I'm just taking a break. Today has been a good day.

She went away and John was once again left with his friendly voice,

- Today hasn't been a good day, has it John?

[No, today has been a terrible day. Everyday is a terrible day, with its never ending queue of hideous shards of time. Little miserable seconds that build up into this "thing" I now call life. How I loathe this existence, this natural progression of events. It’s all her fault…]

- Her?

[Yes, her, my wife. She ran away with death and she left me here, alone. And I can't breathe. So, most days, I find myself pounding the streets, trying to shake off this sense of numbness, this cold undisturbed feeling that things are never gonna be ok. I don’t know… most days I just... can't breathe.]

- It’s getting late John, why don’t you go to your house?

[I can’t, no matter how hard I close my eyes it doesn’t feel like home anymore. Too much silence I guess…]