Tweety bird

like a yellow beetle winds his lonesome way

over the movie screen. Unseen reels of

cellulose tri-acetate feed through the

hidden projector.


Winding river, winding mountains, winding
sprocket holes click the beat of base notes
counting filmic voices snatched from the
air singing Dies Irae. Volkswagen.

Requiem for the clouds, the trees, the cold
mountain peaks mirrored in the river's
curve. One man's ride in his own
crash machine. Not a car. A
movie running inside his
head. A personal


Neurons and dendrites entraining
each other as if a cartoon
Roadrunner could
actually be
a child.

The Green Zone.

Soaring aerial cameras picture Earth as

Landscape. Something to overlook.

Not the Living Land, but the focal

point for the Predator Lens

zooming in and down

for the kill.

Shrill electric metals gurgle and twang. Trumpets,

tubas, bassoons drone the funeral beat. Dark

sounds heading somewhere. Metrically,

mechanically. Pakistan.

The one glass eye of the great god
machine swallows Nature like a
dish of sun-dried scenery. Free.
Delectable. Gone.

It reels out moving shadows on
walls in warehouse caves
where happy slaves sit
in perfect rows anxious
to eat. Entertainment.
Entrainment. The
Hurt Locker.

Discordant audio snakes
voice their zigzag

mockery and we
fall down a

the monster's trap. Squirm
alone in our digital
seats. Chained.


-At The Movies.




Sounds like Calamity Jane -whoever she was, former
Queen of Asparagus, remembering now the day
Professor Plum lost his Clue to some other

card flashing quick streaks of lightning

through the maze Jack holds on his

tongue like the hot Royal Flush of

a poker. a hammer. an


Sounds like the understudy for planet Mars dreaming
buckets of red to dump on the prow of the good
ship Argo where all those heroes, muscles
bulging, spears poised for the kill, stand
fiercely denouncing the real stars like
Aquarius and Deoxyribonucleic Acid
who refuse to climb aboard
unless ...

Groucho Marx shows up willing to pilot, unless
Shirley Temple rises from her sugared sleep
dancing lollipops. Tapping her show biz

sticky. Splenda. Agenda.


Sorry, Shirley, but you'll never do. We'll take

Jack he's got déjà vu. All you got is your

famous Temple. Go back to it. Take

Lady Gaga with you. Forget this

place. It makes secrets. Talks

murder. House of too many

Gables. Lizzie




Come to our space, Jack, croon the blue

megabyte sirens. Bring your Argonauts

and your Facebook. Don't you have

any friends? Whatever happened

to Baby Jane, Hansel and Gretel,

Room 237 ?

The key in the lock.

Your life is cybernetic. It knows where it's going. You're just

coming along for the ride. That Fleece you seek rests

in the hotel's chat room. It’s private. You'll need

a password, an account with PayPal, your own

personal Visa if you hope to get in. Or

out. Try

being Mister Halloran. He shines. A good

third eye steers itself, opens elevator

doors, scans bathrooms full of

photo buckets where dead

butlers speak in red


Tell us, Danny …

when did you first start talking to your little finger.


Rio Rita and Carmen Miranda lived together
in a small hut where they choked
Muriel to death with a fine cigar
they stole from the Caretaker
whose left foot got stuck in
the Horse Head Nebula
causing him to groan, …

                                                                                    'I feel like the lead pipe. Like Mrs. Peacock,
a black hole in a broken elevator
down. It


Think I'll get off on the basement floor, be a
weapon of political confusion.
  a bumper sticker on my
yellow ribbon. Shave off all my

feathers. Wrap myself in dry
ashes. Float far, far


Then they'll be sorry. They'll come

running like ghosts through my

labyrinth where I'll cut them
both ways to
one. Up.'



Banana split. Opus

Dei. The sacred maze of

mystic murder. Holy Chiquita

swimming in whipped cream and chocolate

syrup. Bloody Corporate Cocktails mixed by United Fruit

drank Oscar Romero dry. A ghost called Consumatum Est.


El Salvador. Who shot the Archbishop at the altar. Who

hung God’s Banker off Blackfriars Bridge?


Watch out, Venezuela. The red eye special

stalks Hugo Chavez down the Overlook



It's not a hotel, it's a state of mind. Haunted.

Radioactive. Like the Lingering Half-Life of

a lethal mausoleum.



… at the movies. 









a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Cowboy

Ghosts crying ‘Salem’ shoot sinners

in the hands of an Angry God. It’s

purely economic.


They’re our best and holy Hit Men. Send

Scarlet letters to Ecuador. Brazil.



Toxic cherries bloom all over America like

mushroom clouds seeking high

paying jobs. Looking for






profits from witches burned,

preachers turned, and





Why not be our Caretaker, Jack. Just for the

Off-Season. Bring the wife and kid. Call in

your box office clout. Tap your magic

typewriter. Do some primal hexing.

Stop the dry rot. Overlook


the Overlook. For us. It’s got your number, Jack. Really

likes you. Have some fun. Joke away the time. Ply

the shifty bartender. Use your Hollywood Spirit,

your winning smile, your grinning



Relax, inhale the dry

feel of burning


                                                                                    - Hey, Hellboy, get out of here. This ain't the real

story. You're hostile. Sarcastic. Violent. Spoiling

our movie. Go find some fenced in free speech

zone. Mouth off over there, Voltaire! –



is nine points of the Law, said the Hotel

under its breath, squatting on

heaps of bones.


All the Best People come here like Movie Stars,

Royalty, Presidents!  We can't be having

dead bodies. Murders. Somebody call

the Pope, get the Exorcist. Ring

the god bells. Save the



    "Don’t worry, Mom, I know all about

    cannibalism. I saw it on TV."

Would you like some popcorn, a soda, some fresh

bottled water with your movie? Can you

see better now in the dark? It may be

a cheap trick, but there's no demon

here. What can we do? It ran off.

Shriveled by the bodies in the

hallways, bored by the terror

of it all. Gulped twice and

vanished into thin



Charmed our eyes. Left us dull, tending

empty aisles. Tearing tickets. Being

ushers. Shining flashlights. What

was that?


"I tawt I taw a puddy tat!"



Damn these dumb poets with their axes

stuck in my bathroom door. Who

says Shining is just a movie

game? A cryptic play on

clever Words:


Technicians of the Sacred.

Technicians of the Scared.


We're caught with Jack in the howling

snow. Doing the Rigor Mortis

Mudra. Sitting


Zazen. Hard as the Bald Eagle

frozen in the camera’s stare

outside some prop of a fake

nation where bullets hang

off our shredded flag.

Eyes bitten open.



Don't talk to me of Basho, Rimbaud,

or health care reform. I've had it

up to here with terror, ghost

ships. Elevator doors

gushing oil. Blood.

Flood of the


Flying Dutchman. Let's leave this

zombie labyrinth, said the

Gnostic Minotaur.


Deal me a different hand, cut me in all over

again. I say the Bunny Rabbit did it with
the candlestick in the backseat of
the friggin car. -No it wasn't a

Chevy. Wait a minute,

Uncle Sam


did it with the Calumet can and the
feathers. In the goldroom. Shook
baking powder all over the
corpse. Tried to raise it up.
In the Bathroom. Under
the burial grounds.

Whiteman's burden, Bartender, Whiteman's
burden. You set 'em up, I'll knock 'em
down. Bad medicine. Broken


Danny's shining finger talking Redrum like
killer drones wedged in the Scatman's
ribs. Death, in the open hallway.


I saw the blood, the Navajo rugs, the tennis

ball bouncing off the wall, the fireplace.

Sandpaintings shrunk to synthetic


Over the screen as the ball bounced along

we sang the false song called America.

Like caged tweety birds we chirped 

thrilling words in the dark movie

house of Murder. Look:

Redrum. Overlook


No qualms, no reservations.

Pine Ridge. Wounded Knee.

"Bye-bye Miss American Pie."




There was no levee and it never was

dry. There were full cash registers,

vast killing fields and lots of slave
labor. Yellow journalism. Paid

actors. Polished mirrors, and

heaps of fresh make-up.


Real blood and fake motives. The destiny of
movie stars manifestly staring down

innocence. Scapegoats. Mai Lai.

Afghanistan. Iraq. A fairy tale

masking genocide. 


Danny Boy tweaks his puppet finger. The Shining

talks through Danny’s mouth but hides in

Daddy’s belly.


Tony knows what’s going down. He rides his

bike on patterned rugs. Circles scary
hallways. Feels the cold maze
called Overlook, 

-the Corporation, not the dream. Remote
viewing at the Pentagon.  The business
mask of dumb Amnesia. A Terror State
where freedom ends and tasers rule.

The greedy grin that eats the fat
inside the only Party. There are





costumes for Preachers, gavels for Judges, and brooms

to sweep the houses clean. Mrs. White, in the

Conservatory, with the trick gun of her

cocked smile.


Beautiful dreamers, singing righteous

songs, smoking peace pipes,

breathing bated breath.


Settlers, carving destined paths

through wooden Indians.

Caretakers, bouncing tennis balls

off sacred treaties using

forked tongues.


Mockingbirds, chirping TV screens
hoping mimic tunes might free
them from their spin-off tales
once the bloody clouds

roll by. Listen up,




It’s Happy Hour, Time of the Facebook

Sing-Along: "We could make believe

I love you, only make believe

that you love me. Others
find peace of mind in



Couldn't you? Couldn't I? Couldn't
we make believe..."



Hey, Wendy, what's up with the cutesy pigtails?

You dealt me these four Aces and the Queen of Spades. Now open
the goddamn door, or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll Tinker Bell
to pieces that short wave radio you call your soul. Some
sad crocodile swallowed Peter Pan's clock, not
me. Wolfed it down, he did. Twittered it.
Tweeted it. Quiet.


I've been knocked upside the head. Locked with

Leftovers in the freezer,  -Cabin Fever, starring

Cryogenic Jack. Stifled. Waiting all these

years for some broken grail of a door

knob to set me free. Slip me the


bourbon, a glass, some ice. Let's go

on a Quest, Guinevere. I'll be your

Parzival. We'll find


I'd give my shining soul for a

drink. Swans singing in my

ears. Off tune, off

key. Pirates.



Stray dogs.




Me voici! Faust, voila!
Shazam. Here I am.

Captain Hook!

Your own HAL-9000 Series Personal Computer
and you're all under arrest for torture, illegal
renditions, pulling bags over my head,
watching while Super Bowls filled up
with genetically modified corn.
Popped. You think that's
funny? Think again.


I can read your lips. It's right here in

the numbers, the cards and clever

ads. Neuro-linguistics salted

like twisted pretzels. Tits

suddenly exposed. Stiff

nipples. Tavistock.


Snack on this fact:  Jack Nicolson

was never a dull boy, Amerika, he knows how to grab
cameras where the fabulous Witches of Eastwick fly
with George Clooney high up in the air watching
Wall Street balloons burst into hot arms deals
down in the smoke filled tunnels under

the White House where Holiness rests

with ten thousand special guests in

the secret Room #237.

Amerika's got drones. Red poppies. Movies. The best

and sharpest



I dreamed a dream of Porno Bunny Bear. He was

Tibetan, blowing a President in a room on a

bed down a hallway. Doors open, framing

cold sex in the moving camera. Don't

worry, it's Tantric. Holy. Like the

Pope eating Jesus at Mass.


Amen Brothers and Sisters, pass me the jackpot

and get the hell out of my casino.

I'm a hard working Capitalist. Seeking
El Dorado, Cities of Gold. Shambala.
My own retirement fund. The place
where Rainbows never end.
Stanley Kubrick closing

Eyes Wide Shut in one
blink of a quick,
verbal fuck.

"Baby did a bad, bad thing." 
"Open the pod bay doors, Hal."

Hey, I'm waiting, Doctor Jolly Strangelove. Tick tock. Tick.
Dies irae, dies illa. Twin days of death holding hands

down a different hallway. Dressed in matching

Latin dresses. Arms and legs akimbo.

Dismembered. Bloodied. Babes in


The shadowed hand that wields the axe
is not enlightened. It's heavy, always
swinging. Like that Tell Tale Heart
from Edgar Allan Poe. Like
Rosemary's Baby. Like
the National Security

firing hollow-tipped bullets straight through

John Lennon's great aorta. Ride the Devil

Bomb down to the place of horror.


Hop along back in your cradle

again, Dakota. Take your

trusty SUV to the

Overlook Hotel


born, bred and still living inside

The House Of Usher. They're

falling down together
along with Slim
Pickens to the

land of duck
and cover.

Don't just


Manchurian Candidates.

"I'll be seeing you in all the old familiar

places that this heart of mine

embraces all day through."


Enter the Na'vi. Hollywood
Trees talking digital
Avatars. So

many phony pictures
stuck in our virtual

 "I tawt I taw a puddy tat!"




Look, he's back. Honey, here's Barack! Come to hope us off
the fix of our lives. Mister fast lips. Tasers. His
ain't got no Security. We live in the time share called
Overlook. Painted white, pink and black on
shining velvet where Elvis dwells with

Crazy Horse and Colonel

Mustard. Custer.


Welcome to Nostalgia. I say the Magic
Bullet the Black Huntsman shot

sang its way



into the brain of the Nation, blew it

backwards, and to the

and to the left. O

Land of grassy knolls.



How to handle a Nation?  "Listen well, I will tell you sir....

Simply love them." Tell them they're a ‘People’! Digital

Angels! Give them flags to wave. Party favors. Use

rifles. Drones. An Ipod. Cell phones. Sing to the

simpletons. Excite them. Digitally rendered

voices need micro radiation. Mix


each particle of each person's voice with each

particle of every other person's voice. Make

electric fruit salads full of blackberry

ringtones. Bounce all the bits

off circling satellites. Call

it the virtual iTune of


... Twitter Democracy …

 " short there's simply not
a more congenial spot " -on....
They'll love it!

Make them buzz in their boxes like the

bees. (going. going. gone.) Amaze,

Radiate, Atomize them. They

can't really hear it, see it,
feel it. It gets them

under the skin.


Tell them it's costly, the sound of safe
sex. Make them pay. Sell them
streams of sterile notes, no
melody or memory just
discretely computer
-ized data. Sound


"But where in the world
is there in the world
a place still
and pure."

Not a question. Try the
Overlook, enter

Room 237.





Look! The naked woman in the curtained

tub. Eye her up and count the sum.

She’s a wet and curvy 12.  It’s

Occult, a blind count. A cold

feel in the rotting game of

fixed numbers.


Jack hugs a sexy corpse. Miss Insider

Trading. Miss Corruption. Mem, the

Hanged Man’s Key. The move

and murmur of the Ocean’s

letter: Mm. Mem. A short

sell for kissing waves


caught on the shores of insolvent

Banks. Fishing. Starched shirts

and silk ties. One eyed

flounders. Three

shells and a



Collared. Hung. Up-side
down. Mum’s the sound

that is the M that starts

the world called

Money. That
makes the
word go



One becomes two, two
becomes three and
out of the third
comes the
one as the


Trick derivatives.


Mirrors, Moons, and Memories. Feeling
out the rhyming realm of Neptune’s
mystic waters. Go figure, Professor



Sexy Room 237 hides the corpse

of number 12. Twelve lives

inside its secret life as

number 3, the letter



Count of the wet womb Door. Tides
of the Suns and Moons. Dance
of the Federal Goons.


The Key turning in the
lock. Writer’s block.

Jack Torrance kissing Alan Greenspan. Tight
asses and paper currency. The Overlook.
Caretaking a clue from Cryptic

Cabbala. You are what you
eat. Codex alimentarius.
Cold cash. Toxic





the door where naked Daleth mates

with sexy letter D.  It’s a quickie

credit swap. Done in the

Master’s default


Jack hugs his clever brain
the way the poet

hugs alliteration.

Trudges through empty hallways, pounds
his word machine dealing


“All Work And No Play Makes Jack A Dull Boy.”

“Peter Piper Picked A Peck Of Pickled Peppers!”


The Hired Hand types dying limericks. Like the

Hanged Man, head down, tranced out.

                                                                                    Trapped in a maze of Debt.                                                                                    


Go ahead, Jack, pretend you have some

clever 401k plan. But the Overlook

already ate that, Tweety Bird. Like

the Cheshire cat called


"It was only a paper Moon, sailing over..."


our cardboard eyes. Through the looking glass. Blinking

bullets covered broken pyramids. Don't kid yourself,

Sweetheart, on a clear day even you can't see



Yankee eyes are dollar bills, sawed-off shotguns. Shoot

scattered pellets. Mom and apple pie. Faced.


Lady Liberty waits for us in the Lobby
on the burning staircase of our

bombed out dreams. Holds

a sharp knife, wears

a spiked crown,



her own hard bat.




Drop your teabaggers, Sweetie!  We're not talking Fairy Tales
here. Wendy hated all those retakes. Getting the stupid
scene right. Up and down the same set of stairs.
Scarlet O'Hara turned suburban Squaw. No
extra pay. No Clark Gable. Just Jack
sneering through his clean white

       "Darling. . . light of my life. l'm not going to

        hurt you. You didn't let me finish my

        sentence. l said, 'l'm not going to

        hurt you.' l'm just going to

        bash your brains in. l'm

        going to bash them

        right the fuck in."

The Movie Family: Father, Son, and Sweetest Mom meet

the sacred ghosts of Overlook in Never-Never Land

somewhere between forgotten toys and daily

tv. Jack the giant killer, stares wide-eyed

through the blizzard maze jinxed by his

own typewriter. Wendy, watches her

lost boys. Danny screams his




scream. Bloody.

Shock and Awe. It’s Karmic. Just the way
the cookie crumbles. America
meets the Donner Party.


opens ravaged graves under Overlook on

Turtle Island. Blankets full of

smallpox. Letters full of

anthrax. Sealed and

half-baked like all


the other home spun apple
lies. Forgotten but always
Shining. The scent of
something left
behind. Burnt


Wait just a good goddamn minute now
my fellow citizens. This is your President
speaking. America ain't no
Turtle Island no more.

Overlook that. We got to move forward
people, suck it up. No time for worry
over spilt blood. No more clean
milk either.

We don't Torture. We use only
the best bovine growth

Clip our brand new 4th of July
electrodes to your cocks, your
cunts, your fingers and eyes.
Say cheese.


Stand still on top our Wheaties box
while we take your picture.

Watch Mister Habeas Corpus

jerk and twitch. (Snap.)
Swinging on a wire.

(Crackle.) In the

wind. (Pop.) Ku

Klux Klan.



Birth of a Notion. (Splice.) 

Breakfast of Champions. (click.)

Participatory (copy & paste ) Democracy 

"Singing in the rain, just singing in the rain,
what a glorious feeling I'm Happy again!"

Smile now, kiddies, our brand new cameras are

spying. You're in good hands with Korporate

Amerika!  We're Prudential. Progressive.

Like Guantanamo. Abu Ghraib.

Ichabod, the headless horsemen, rides off
to the Tomb joining Yale to Skull and
Bones. We dwell in the secrets of
Sleepy Hollow. O, Hamlet,
Look!  I pray you, look
who comes hither.

Jumpin jimminey, I'll be dammed, Jack! 
It's our very own Enchanted Evening.
Forget my Father's ghost....

"There's nothin' like a Dame!"




"Hello Dolly, well Hello Dolly..."

you sweet Ophelia, shining Spirit of our Mothers

past. No convent for you, Babe! Not with that

cleavage, those curvy hips, a voice so

cheery it launched a thousand

We're glad to get you back where

you belong. Back,
and to the left,

and there never was no 9/11

and there never was no

Lone Gunman either. Back to

Never-Never Land.

Sing out now everybody... "You're lookin swell, Dolly,
we can tell, Dolly..." Hey, are those boobs you're
bouncing real, or just a flip set of

False Flag Attacks? 

"We feel the room swayin'
while the band's playin'.... Happy talk, keep talking
Happy Talk."  (thermite, silicon, hope;
default, changes, swaps.)

Here's Rosemary for remembrance. Poppies,

for forgetting. Ruby Slippers for your hot

trot down the yellow brick

road. Backwards, and

to the Left. Ask not


what the Verichip can do for you. This is Oz. "Give up your

inquiries which are completely useless." Please,

Sweetheart, take your mask off my pillow and

lock it away. Somewhere. Anywhere.

When did you learn piano? Stop banging that
same shrill note so loud, will you? I hate it. It's
not funny. You're not Groucho Marks

It hurts my heart
like a knife: F-sharp, F-sharp,

F-sharp. Why can't

we just


Fidelio is not

your password, it's an old musical, baby. Buy us
a big Present in the Mall, please, pretty please.
Treat me nice, it's Christmas, honey. See
all the lovely lights glowing how they
twinkle oddly


back, and to the left. Back
and to the right.

Widdershins. The bouncing hedge funds

hidden in the Banker’s Maze. The

National Daze.

"That's correct, sir!  That is the password...
for admittance. But may I ask,
what is the password... for the


O how I love the Art of Tinfoil Stars
Illuminating our parties, the Rape
Of Persephone standing like a
marble sculpture in the
foyer! Tiny Alice. The
Zoo Story.

That cruel and delicate balance we seek, Bill
can only be found at the Somerton. The
Vatican. The Overlook. Parties
come and go so endlessly
when we're having fun,
eh darling? Let's

take a Taxi to the dark side where
the Rainbow always ends. Open
your wallet, pay the Man. Open
it, open it, Ovid. It's The Art Of

Love. Drum roll, crescendo,
full orchestra swells .....

"So take her wrap, fellas, find her
an empty
lap, fellas. Dolly
will never go away

"-Open the pod bay doors, Hal. 
I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid I can't do that.-"


It's a Full House. Feel it, taste it, Phantom
of the opera. Enticing music set to junk
food kingdoms laced with high
fructose lead.

Depleted Uranium, sex. Enriched
white bread, sex.
Impossible, mercury.

Good Will Hunting,

Dumbed down money. Some crazy
Archon from Jekyll Island. Abstruse.

     "Mr. Grady …
     you were the Caretaker here.”


     ” -l'm sorry to differ with you, sir. But you
     are the Caretaker. You've always been
     the Caretaker. l should know, sir.
     I've always been here.- "

The Ballroom, the Kitchen, the Hall
and all the other secret

The Rope, revolver and candlestick. The
aim of the game is deducing details.
Who was the killer. What was the

weapon. Where did the
murders take place.


Who put the Overlook in the Mountains
of Madness? Who hid the ghosts in
the walls?

Take your pick. Was it Judge
Pyncheon, Colonel
Mustard, or Moby

It’s a scary movie, a guessing game, all the
clues are on the House. You’re money’s
no good in our maze. It’s
Monopolyville, Project
Paper Clip, Bluebirds
eating artichokes.

  "Did you know, Mr. Torrance, that your son is

   attempting to bring an outside party into this

   situation?…A Nigger, -a Nigger Cook!"




Yes, indeed, Mister Grady, I’ve heard it all before:

Oswald did it, in the Book Depository with the

Mannlicher-Carcano when Porky Pig lit the

thermate fuse sending those free-falling

Towers down on Roadrunner's head in

that fabulous flag waving terror of a

cartoon frenzy: Mars Attacks.

No, wait a minute, it must have been
those Raghead Arabs,
the sand niggers

doing the nasty with the Xanax in the medicine

room. The bathroom. The Oval Office.

Handsome Syriana flashing his

celluloid charm? 


Maybe it was the Prozac Screen

stuffed in the pumpkin coach

where Cinderella rode her

glass condom down to

marry Prince


Dumbo, me. I've lost track of all this
Disney nonsense. Koyaanisqatsi.
Life out of Balance. Life that
wants a different way of

Hopi. People of the Peaceful
Path. Americans, People of
the haunting Lie. O,
Bippity, boppity,
boo and fiddle
dee dee, too.

I’ll think about that

They're amazing, these toxic bread crumbs

leading to the Witche's oven. Winner

of the Nobel Peace Prize publicly

pissing on the soul of Martin

Luther King. No more

Poor People's March on Washington. Shot that one

dead. Mister Hope and very Loose Change, the

Rich Man never able to smoke his Camel once

the camera buried the needle's eye. Too

jaundiced from sniffing cocaine, Rahm

Emmanuel's kosher ass. Away in a

manger no crib for his bed,


the Little Lord Fauntleroy ... Puck. Mickey
Rooney. A Midsummer Night's
Dream. Write, Shakespeare,


In America every word is a room full of

Paranoia and all the stars shine like

perfectly twinkling Conspiracies

crammed inside a boxed Flag

where red, white, and blue

stripes fade to yellow,

purple and



Thus grumbled Professor Plumb,
in the Study, with his checklist
and his clues …

Thieves of Bagdad. Fallujah.

Wag The Dog. Marjha.

There were no cowards, there are no wars. It was all

just a movie. White phosphorus falling through

shock and awe. Masque Of The Red Death.


Yeah, you cold blooded Amerikans, it's been
a short, fast run of a hot, cheap flick. The
Ghost of Bogart would say (with Basil
Rathbone, Geronimo, and Aldo
Ray)   -We're No Angels-  


Duh, it's not our fault, poor babies, it's those
nasty leaders we keep working for…
  "Have you ever thought for a single moment about my

   Responsibilities to my Employers? Has it ever

   occurred to you that l have agreed to look

   after the Hotel… that the Owners have

   placed their Complete Confidence in

   me, that I have signed a Letter of

   Agreement, accepted that

Hey, Pilgrim … Duke it out. A man’s
gotta do what a man’s gotta do.
All work and no play makes
paper money! Paths Of

Glory. Platoon. Full
Metal Jacket.

Johnny Got His Gun. Let's hear it for
Caretakers, Owners, Employers


Patriarchal Looney Tunes. 


That's all Folks. It was Just a ride. A Derivative. Another

Put option. Now for the rolling credit crunch ...

Lenny Bruce. Bill Hicks. George Carlin.

Lily Tomlin. Trudy, still searching

for signs of intelligent life...

O Jack, -Danny Boy, we hardly knew you, carried off

the way you were. Taken by the Empire's

Boogie Man over the Grassy Knoll

through the surgical Maze deep

inside the Pentagon! False

kingdom of 5 pointed

stars. Inverted.



Unspeakable. Your brain missing. Eaten.

At the end only a slow zoom
into a faked photograph.
It wasn't in the Stars, it wasn't in the
Cards either. It was an option. Put
there. Under the floorboards,
heart still beating.


Orders from the House. Hair
of the dog that bit us. Back,
and to the


"I tawt I taw a puddy tat!"  


You did, Amerika. Now wake up. The movie’s

over. Music ended. Lights out. You're not

You’re sitting empty in the
Overlook. The Catbird
Seat. Gutless




This rant has been brought to you by
Francis Donald Grabau.

Thanks to you, Faye Kicknosway,
for the kind of love that jolts. 

And thanks to you, Stanley Kubrick,
for your eyes that sought to see.

"The world is like a ride in an amusement park. And when
you choose to go on it you think it’s real because that’s
how powerful our minds are. And the ride goes up and
down and round and round. It has thrills and chills
and it’s very brightly coloured and it’s very loud
and it’s fun, for a while.

Some people have been on the ride for a long time and they
begin to question: “Is this real, or is this just a ride?” 
And other people have remembered, and they
come back to us, they say, “Hey, don’t worry,
don’t be afraid, ever, because this is just a
  And we kill those people."

Bill Hicks, (1961-1994)


Bill Hicks: The truth about the War in Iraq:

Bill Hicks on Marketing:

"A person incapable of spontaneous anger when confronted by acts of premeditated
evil or rank corruption possesses a void where their sense of righteousness should be."

In Praise Of Anger by Charles Marowitz

Stanley Kubrick.



You can download and watch the film legally free here:


JFK: Oliver Stone Film excerpt;

THE SHINING: DIALOGUE. Here is an on-line copy of the script/text.



Caliban to Prospero:


“You taught me language
and my profit on it is

I know how to Curse! 
The Red Plague rid you
for learning me your Language!”