Home Again, Home Again Jiggity Jig

I’ve returned to the city and it is good to be back. I missed the colorful scenery on my way to and from work, like that of a trannie prostitute preening and applying lipstick in a parked car's sideview mirror, her hips cocked saucily, or the groups of men loitering with casual menace on street corners. Perhaps I'm completely depraved but who cares? In any case, I'm not going to let it concern me that the sight of a matted haired, exposure burned street person in a lotus position rocking back and forth on the sidewalk screaming at the pigeons gave my spirit a nice little lift this morning.

I read some interview with Sam Peckinpah in which he was asked about the extreme, nihilistic violence of his films, what dark, profound statement he was trying to make about the state of current society. He replied dismissively, "Eh - I just like shoot-'em-ups." I find that lack of introspection refreshing.

I even have to admire grudgingly the psychopathic, cop torturing Mr. Blonde in Reservoir Dogs. He doesn't know why he likes torturing cops, and he couldn't care less. He just does, and that's enough for him.

Listen kid, I'm not gonna bullshit you, all right? I don't give a good fuck what you know, or don't know, but I'm gonna torture you anyway, regardless. Not to get information. It's amusing, to me, to torture a cop. You can say anything you want, 'cause I've heard it all before. All you can do is pray for a quick death, which you ain't gonna get.