Jan 182017
 

“a manifesto for a new kind of feminism that isn’t afraid to burn through itself to embrace the whole world.”

jacket copy, I Love Dick

 

The following plot summary is taken straight from the IMDb page for Kill Bill Volume 2.
Who writes IMDb anyway? It’s full of crazy. I don’t think I’m plagiarizing, because I’m telling you where I got this.
Anyway, I don’t care.

Chapter 7: The Lonely Grave of Paula Schulz

Budd goes to work at the strip club where he’s employed as a bouncer. He arrives 20 minutes late and sees that there are no customers in the club. He talks briefly with the bartender, Jay (Sid Haig), before he is called into the office by his hot-tempered, coke-snorting boss Larry Gomez (Larry Bishop). In the office, Larry argues with Budd over being late again, and Budd talks back, saying that there is nobody in the bar and there was no need for him to be there. Larry takes away Budd’s scheduled hours for several days and tells him in a rude tone not to come back to work until he hears from him. In the bar, Budd agrees to clean up after a broken toilet that a stripper named Rocket says is overflowing.

Budd returns to his trailer, but standing in front of it suddenly freezes. He enters the trailer but looks out the window. The Bride, who was hiding under the trailer, sticks to the wall so he does not see her. When she opens the door Budd shoots her in the chest with a shotgun loaded with rock salt. While she lies wounded on the ground, Budd, very pleased with himself, injects her with a sedative. He phones Elle Driver (Daryl Hannah) and offers to sell her the Bride’s Hattori Hanzo sword for a million dollars. Elle agrees to bring the money in the morning. Her condition is that the Bride must suffer to her last breath.

At a cemetery, Budd and an accomplice dig a large hole in the ground in which they plan to bury the wounded Bride alive. When the grave has been dug, the Bride is given a choice: if she does not resist, she’ll be given a flashlight; if she does, Budd will burn her eyes with mace and leave her buried alive in darkness. She chooses the flashlight, is put in a coffin and the lid is nailed down. “This is for breaking my brother’s heart,” says Budd. Budd and his accomplice lower the coffin into the ground, cover it with soil, and drive off. The Bride panics for a short time and recalls her training under Pai Mei.

THE END AND, again, I DIDN’T WRITE IT.
e.trundle

ps here’s a link for fun, although it’s not fun. it’s pretty depressing. but i’m trying to include more links:

this link is fun! but it might make you sick.

Nov 082012
 

 


“It is yearning that makes the heart deep.”
Augustine


 

Starting in first grade, my younger brother played little league baseball. His team was the Reds. I did not play little league baseball. It was not offered to girls, not optional, not done. I remember being very bored at the games, but I entertained myself by picking hardened chewing gum off the bottoms of the bleachers and attempting to soften it with various brands of soda. It was a magical world under there in the dust. I would also roam the fields with exciting, nameless girls, sisters of other players. We might have been happier playing in the game, but we didn’t know that, or really even care.

I have two friends from California, women who grew up in Los Angeles in the seventies. They both played little league baseball there, side-by-side with boys. They are proud of this and they should be. Neither one of these friends wears makeup on a day-to-day basis, if ever. They both have careers.

About ten years ago, I read about a female poet in a suburban newspaper. This poet was prolific, never lazy, always writing her poems and getting them published everywhere possible. She was rather well known for this reason. I got the distinct impression that the person who wrote the article, and the poetry-reading populace by extension, didn’t think the woman’s poems were very good. She had distinguished herself with the sheer volume of her output. According to the article, the poet’s boyfriend had a government job and he commuted into DC. The poet lived out in the wherever suburbs and did her thing. Her boyfriend paid the bills.

For some reason I always remember that detail about the commuting boyfriend, and the image of the lady poet in fuzzy socks curled up in her condo with a cat and a typewriter. It is stuck in my brain with the hardened gum on the bottom of the bleachers.

Go get ’em girls.
Do your best. Go out there, and cover your chest.

 

 

film clip is from That Hamilton Woman, 1941.