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Scanners by ~joelravioli on deviantART

If you're ever incredibly bored, here's a short film I made back in the day, beginning less than a month after I watched Scanners for the first time. The influence is pretty overt at points, though I've always had a soft spot for both cranial explosions and psychic chicanery.

For years, I had a major aversion to violence and gore in films until I finally snapped and went headfirst into Tarantino and Cronenberg. I then realized the hilarity of exploding heads.

I'll certainly watch your short film when I'm able to.

Don't feel obligated to at all-- I don't want it to be one of those things.

Oh, I don't feel obligated, and it does look interesting; I'll most likely watch it Saturday when I'm at work in the library's Local History room. Currently, I'm being horrified at the circumstance of David Carradine's death.

What do we really know about that? Last I heard, it was rope around the neck (and "part of the body") with some people claiming it wasn't a suicide.

It's now being speculated by the police as "sex play accident":
http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/film/article6435604.ece
One of his ex-wives had a variety of claims about his sexual life:
http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/carradine1.html

I just find it all so awkward and it reminds me of Bob Crane and Michael Hutchence; the strange circumstances of their deaths will constantly loom over them.

I suppose we'll have to wait and see-- somehow I don't think that Carradine's death will come to partially overwhelm his identity in quite the way that Bob Crane's has, though I don't have much more than intuition to back that up.

What's that icon from?

Perhaps not on the scale of Bob Crane, but I think it's a shame that bizarre and/or tragic deaths can end up overshadowing the body of work left behind. But then, I'm no help with that, as most of my favorite public figures/celebrities are the tragic ones.

I made the icon from a Ben Whishaw photoshoot for AnotherMan magazine:

I knew he looked familiar.

Did you know that "grenouille" is French for "frog"? I just found that out the semester before last...

Honestly, I don't think that dying of autoerotic asphyxiation would be that bad. It'd make lots of people feel awkward, something I enjoy. Anything but a generic heart attack/stroke/etc.

I really need to brush up on my French, as I learned it throughout high school and then never continued with it after graduation. I still get a thrill out of correcting incorrect English subtitles, however, so I know I'm not completely lost.

David never did live a conventional life, so it would seem fitting to go out that way as well.

I, of course, am not speculating as to what he would have wanted. I expect that I'll eventually end up committing suicide-- which I say in the least emo/depressive/cry for help way possible. I really want to avoid car accidents. Cars are like guns; they make me uncomfortable.

I tire of people calling suicide an easy way out, as it takes a great deal of courage to carry it out, as well as being highly personal. Depression and anxiety run in both sides of my family, and in all my years of dealing with it, I could never fully realize my own attempts (well, obviously). I can now see myself living at some point past 30, which I certainly couldn't before. Perhaps I'd been watching Sid and Nancy and Abel Ferrara's China Girl a bit too much, but I found their deaths intriguing.

Car accidents are frightening, especially when you're not the one driving and you bear the brunt of it. My parents grew up in Indiana and have stories of State Troopers at the annual county fair displaying graphic photos of car crash victims.

I'd say that, while suicide can (and probably usually is-- you know how people are) a weenie thing to do, the way people react to it is totally reflexive. Everyone assumes that suicide is always the result of irrationality brought on by desperation. Everyone assumes that those who commit suicide have done so because of something banal and obviously fixable, such as romantic angst or fiscal trouble. Everyone assumes that, because they aren't considering suicide, they're fundamentally different from those who do-- they're sane, well-adjusted, strong... and so on. These are the same people who will fly into mental gymnastics in a heartbeat rather than confront the contradictory nature of their own beliefs, the same people who are too cowardly to tell the truth when doing so would precipitate even moderate discomfort. And this is yet another reason that their very existence makes me vomit.

Cars just make me uncomfortable. Call me the anti-Numan. The thought of killing myself or someone else purely out of an attempt to get from A to B more quickly seems very anti-me.

I've been told more than once "Get over it" when it's not that simple. My mom, bless her heart, thought one of my attempts was due to the stress of my classes (or so she seemed to; I've later learned that she has difficulties dealing with this as she's had her own issues with depression). I'm sort of amused by the fact that I've dealt with personal issues for years, but I've always been everyone else's therapist. I've just recently learned to be more selfish for my own sake. As it stands, I don't think I've accomplished enough with my life to die quite yet. Also all of the lamentations of the what-ifs after someone's suicide grate my nerves, as it seems so self-serving.

There was a girl I knew from junior high through high school, and I'd always found her to be unpleasant. Imagine my surprise when I was typing up obituaries at work and came across hers. She died in a car crash on the highway by plowing into the back of a semi. The funeral was the day after, as it was explained to me that she was either decapitated or burned beyond recognition. Or perhaps both.

I have no idea what kind of sense I'm making right now. I'm a bit of an insomniac and should probably try to get some sleep. Later I may post about Diane Linkletter, as her suicide infuriates me merely because of her father's behavior after her death.

Hah! The Captain Metropolis treatment.

It's 5:05 where I am. I'm lying in bed, listening to my shiny new iPod and desperately trying to find Neal Cassady's The First Third interesting.