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| | I'd rather be the Hemingway of blogging, than the Spielberg of vlogging. | | | Wednesday, July 9, 2008 (4:24 PM)
(I'm feeling crappy) | | Sometimes, everybody is hunted down by the black dog of depression.
- Kris Kristofferson
Some food for thought, great quote though...
I'm starting this blog, because apparently I had nothing else better to do. I think I'm out of my mind with boredom, that's almost driving me nuts. Well then I wouldn't exploit this kind of emotion in front of a webcam, because it's not in my character anyway to do anything stupid in front of any camera, unlike most people here.
Recently, my box was flooded by private messages, all unanimously asking me : "how come you don't have a webcam, is it because of your appearance or something ?" or "Are you to ugly to get a webcam?". Well on all accounts from people and sub-human people alike around this site, everyone asked me about the webcam thing.
The thing is folks, I don't give much of a rat's rotten ass about recording my face in front of a camera for the public to gawk at, endlessly. Vlogging, for me is the poor bastard's filmaking. Some schmuck spilling his guts in front of a fix camera. I'd rather respect people who would make vlogs, but in adjurn have a total mastery of their medium, which is the cinema. I'd rather respect the users here who make their vlogs, like they were little short films. At least, what you would be doing would be really worth while and entertaining, because even Plan 9 from Outer Space is enternaining because it's a real movie to begin with, despite the fact that it's one horrendous piece of f**king garbage. If someone makes a video on any videosharing site, than they should have a good understanding of their medium, due to the fact that it's the CINEMA for christ's sake, MAKE IT LIKE A LITTLE MOVIE. Hell, if Fellini would be making vlogs while still being alive, he'd have the decency of making them into short films.
That's right folks, if I have to say something about myself, I'd rather write it here, and prove myself entertaining enough as a modern-day Ernest Hemingway. So I have a full understanding of my journalistic medium. And also for the simple fact, that I enjoy writing more than everything in this world. Even if it's to chastise douchebags like Greglions. To be a fantastically great writer, kids, you need to be a very smart person to begin with.
Furthermore, I believe that there is an advantage that blogging has over vlogging, and it's over copyright infringement. There is no company that can pluck you down because of what you write, while if you make a video and you take footage from someplace like a music video, they take the video f**king down.
Have a great one, and take care.
Max MacGuyver
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| | Lady Chatterley's lover - Mr. David Herbert Lawrence. I'm sorry to say: your book SUCKS ! | | | Sunday, July 6, 2008 (6:19 PM)
(I'm feeling cynical) | |
Seriously, at everytime I was turning the pages as I read, it felt like I was punching a cactus.
And yeah, I couldn't have believe it either but here am I, Mother of God, trashing D.H Lawrence's masterpiece like it hasn't been done before for the wrong reasons, but right now with me it's for the right reasons. Actually upon reading it, the book itself was written in tedious boredom, as almost as Lawrence himself wasn't interessted enough in his own story to say the least. I've quitted reading the book almost half-through, because it wasn't getting anywhere, and the story is just plain boring and dull.
I wanted to be shocked ! But I wasn't shocked for two quits, man, while in it's own day, this was the most shocking and the most lurid book ever written, making Lawrence, the Howard Stern of his own time. I wanted to read the infamous sex, but there is no sex to speak off. Well there is no graphic depictions of sex. making Lawrence a choir boy, next to Henry Miller. And you had to know why, simply because of the sexuality, that makes it rather tame compared to what authors are writing today.
The story is dull and his prose is dull, what a horrendous failure ! And also that it has the most cliched plotline ever.
The plot goes as follows:
Lady Chattereley, a bored, boring, horribly plain, rich as hell, blue-blooded housewife is bored to kingdom come ( like I am), with her husband who is a war veteran and a paraplegic, completely wheelchair-bound. She loves her husband but then again can't consume her mariage with him, her husband being a cripple who sits in a wheelchair with a paralysed woody. So she goes astray, looking around town, while by accident she meets Oliver Mellors, an hunting officer having a small house in the middle of the woods. Mellors is a widower who still lives with his mother for the time being, and his small 6 year old daughter Connie Mellors, a rambunctious kid. Knowing Mellors, Lady Chatterley becomes enamoured with him, and they mutually have a torrid affair with even the paraplegic husband's consent. And so they explore every position possible known to God and Man, but mostly Man.
Who gives a s**t about the ending right ? Right.
Good lord, this story is a pure hunk of s**t. I've read better stories from bazooka joe jokes for the f**king love of God.
But mainly I don't review these kinds of books, because I'm a sex maniac. Well alright, I am, happy? I confess : I am a sex maniac. I seriously need to get laid, BAD ! I'm suffocating !
LOL LMAO Okay, all jokes aside, this book is simply garbage to read that's all there is to say about it. The interest is really just minimal, into reading it, so don't bother.
Max MacGuyver
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| | I've blocked GregLions, and his other accounts ( no regrets ) | | | Wednesday, July 2, 2008 (11:06 PM)
(I'm feeling drained) | | Hey everybody, where do I begin in this confession?
Ah yeah...
And it feels DAMN GREAT to do it ! So should you, I encourage you to do the same, because no one has to stand to the utter complacent stupidity of this New-York idiot. And it's really a crying shame, because I love New-Yorkers, and this guy is just giving a bad name to them. ( Well, New-York only needs itself to have a bad name, come to think of it, just joking) But I think the people in N.Y. are conscious of their own dirty laundry that they have, I take it, lol. They know everything that's bad in their own city, and sometimes they can't even muster enough force about fixing everything about it.
Well there are many reasons :#1 the guy's a middle-aged troll who makes videos, and at least has the audacity to show himself to the world, and having the foolish temerity to be a stupid bastard to the world in the process. #2 This guy (or motherf*cker) wanted to flood my e-mail box full of hateful and mean-spirited mail, that is pretty much seems like the hateful verbiage of a 13 year-old. It's really something pitiful if you ask me. But I blocked him, stopping him dead cold in his tracks #3 this f*ck of a d*** calls me through a P.M a psychopath ( or some crazy assinine bullsh**) and that I should need to take a freaking "tranquilizer" as he so succinctly put it. Well, he's probably very confident to share his drug past or something with me, despite that I don't actually care for having any insight in his drug past and/or plausible growing schizophrenia.
And pathetically enough this is all about a joke comment on his photo channel. That's really low, that's sort a Fascism low, if you ask me. I could be wrong, but I doubt it.
At first, I've subscribed to his videos, because primarily of his comedic talent, that wasn't overwhelmingly great but satisfying to my own taste, in the same regard of a poor man's Don Rickles. Yeah I know what you're gonna say to me: the man has an extremely big ego, it's irritating we know, it's his persona, get used to it Helfgod. Well that's not an excuse, because the greatest creators in the world are the most simple, kind, warm people in the world. But indeed people come from all walks of life, some people have the capacity to be sharp wits due to long bouts of a hard and insane life. But they can still be friendly.
People who have GregLions's ego and maybe intellect, are not real artists to begin with. Ed Wood was an awful artist, but he was still an artist because he enjoyed and loved people to be with and to work with, in creating something in communion into the same cinematographic adventure. Tim Burton, it was the same, he enjoyed working with many people into making great films together.
To give you an example about a warm and kind artist is suppose to be, let's start with Italian new-yorkers, they're Robert De Niro and Martin Scorsese. Those people are very sweet people, especially De Niro he's a warm adorable actor to work with. Martin Scorsese is someone who was a film teacher at NYU for 10 years before being the film director that we all know today. De Niro, like me (who is also a leo btw), is a shy sweet man. People who are greatly talented artists know how to be friendly and diplomatic, but then again they don't put their own ego in the middle of socialising with people who can become in the long run, valuable allies, because in the film business, we are all a team, everybody is important. Sadly, GregLions is never going to know people like that, which is actually better for all of us.
But then again, nobody is exactly like Lions here, people are more grown and mature. LV is starting to show itself as an immondice. You have to find the precious nuggets of gold in this river of dung of humanity in LV, pretty much like the real world. :-(
As for the people who are blind fans to him, I actually pity you people, because I don't endorse this moron and anybody of sound mind is never going to endorse him anyway.
Yours very truly
Max MacGuyver | | | | 54 Views | 3 Thumbs Up | 4 Comments | |
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| | The Unloved - a long narrative poem by Maxime MacGuyver | | | Tuesday, July 8, 2008 (12:34 PM)
(I'm feeling contemplative) | | Just do like me people , awake the T.S Eliot that lies dormant within you. I have, and it has great results!
The Unloved - (circa 1st July 2008)
I've awoken into the stinging darkness
Of a murky swamp, filled with incandescent guileness.
At the few steps of this marsh,
My feet were stuck into the vase, filled with impudent garsh.
To a brusque mouvement of my leg,
My body has fallen into thy pond waste.
As I could not have any light to beg,
And there was no fodder of improper time to chase.
It was a marsh under the night ebony skies
There wasn't any problen for me to behold and lie
As if I would care at the pain of this dark, dreary ebony sky.
Conceived in this marsh, which became solely a pit of lies.
My soul was scarcely unscathed, bringing forth justice to might
It grew stronger, as if there are no punishment to be made brief or light.
For my eyes were in a daze into the vector of impenetrable solitude.
But suddenly, there were of bright and quaint ministrels and satyres,
To the minds that elude.
My heart stood ghastly at thy knights of enclosed infortitude,
Killing their spirits into the maelstrom of the damned
As I saw men of fire, glaring like roman candles, like human torches.
The men, burning alive, repudiated Iwas, at thy dreadful sight.
"You of all forebodding demon" said I "prophets of my insuring dereliction,
what gives you the visit, at the discovery of I, an aboading soul. "
One of the men of fire rose up and stood tall, and adressed me in his proeminent affliction:
"We are the unloved, the walking perishable, coming from
the river of souls for the tenure of our ways. And thy river of souls is the
purgatory, in which we will eternally burn with the fuel of hatred,
produced by our own living."
My heart, misericordious, has grown a faint compassion to this unnatural being
But my will was unmerciful, powerless to redeem.
The utter wretchedness of those quivering beings.
Then I witnessed an extraordinary anomalie
As though a sorcerer put a divine spell on this fallacy.
The men have burned out the living combustible of their flesh
And maintained immobile beyond the waters, at the crest,
As blacks statues of ash and coal.
A barrage, a gust, dare I say, of wind, bellowing through thy marsh
Blowing away their dark bodies, into large sporadic clouds of cinder in the marsh.
And I looked up at this ebony sky
Having a God of vanquished obsolescence for guide
Asking myself: " What have you done to the beings of your florid corruption?
Wasn't thy a God of the just and undying love ?"
Putting down my head, I said: " Thou has quenched the last pillering
fiber of Existence, for my God is no more. He is the Foresaker."
The beings of hatred, of truculent corruption
You have been of obsolent malignity
In this endeavor of necessary evils and delectation.
O, you have gone so miserably, my wretched humanity.
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| | There's a lobster on my dick (very soothing, albeit very cool) | | | Friday, June 27, 2008 (7:08 PM)
(I'm feeling chipper) | | Well no there isn't but I must admit that its quite eye-catching, even if you have to fantasise about a lobster on the dick of yours very truly.
Well let's get on a real topic, shall we ?
The real topic is that I visited a Red Lobster restaurant with my girlfriend. and MY IS IT SO FREAKIN EXPENSIVE ! I think it cost me around $250,00 Canadian dollars! Usually i dont eat seafood, but it's my girlfriend this time that wanted to make me explore brand new kinds of foods. I would remember one time when she would take me in Ottowa, to a fine-dining restaurant, and there's nothing quite fine-dining about it, besides making a gigantic hole of bills in your walet. There's nothing great about it, SERIOUSLY ! Just goes to show that you can be Gordon Ramsay, a maniacal control douchebag, and can still make ordinary stuff, even with the freshest ingredients
And I've tasted lobster (being the fact that it wasn't in my pants in the first place). You're not missing anything much. It's horrible. No kidding it's really f*cking terrible, and I'm litteraly traumatized. I'm still crying in my corner as we speak, in the midst of hugging a white teddy bear, like a big fat Michael Jackson, speaking in tongues.
But no need to worry people I saw the light. and the light is painfull.
The other thing about seafood, while you're eating it, you have a faint nausea. The food just seems alive and wants to crawl out of your plate. It happen to me once, the crab was still alive, and left the table to go on my pants, and I think it sprayed on me its green mucus all over me. It felt almost erotic...
But let's just stay on topic.
don't go to f*cking seafood restaurants, they're not worth it, because your walet and your tastebuds deserve better.
Max MacGuyver
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| | On LV, LiveShows on here, happen to bore the living sh** out of me ! | | | Tuesday, June 24, 2008 (11:50 PM)
(I'm feeling bored) | | I've done a couple of liveshows, and man do they happen to piss me the f**k off. THEY'RE BORING AS ALL HELL. You'll probably in the future never get me to get into the f**king liveshows, because some of the people that host most of these shows are stupid as hell. In the liveshows, there is just a few of inside stories that don't really perk up any of your interest, and people there in general talk about the most dumb things, and they're not even intuitive enough, (especially the discussions).
You'd be surprised about how people can talk about the most stupidest things, going from accident wounds to soft beverages, and discussing if Pepsi, or 7-up is satanic in every way possible. ( there is too much conspiracy theorists on this site). Furthermore, when you get into a liveshow, there is too many people who aren't interesting enough to be talken, but the only thing that is driving them to still make those freaking liveshows, is the fuel of their own narcissism. Which in any case sickens me, to high hell. What can also sicken me is the fact that nobody has any kind of authenticity, being that they just host these liveshows with moderators and all, simply becauses they want the people, coming to chat with them, admire them being completely googoo-eyed.
If somebody says something that isn't really rude, but it's nevertheless not admirable, you get yourself boot off the room. Well it happen to me on two different occasions, by pretentious f**ks on LV. And what I happen to say to those people will be this: f**k you assholes! I have enough of assholes
In my case, I don't give a flying fuck to be admired. The people who always need the feeling to be admired, are complete wastes of space, litteraly. They're douchebags from the ground up. And it never seems to stop, with most of them.
I've never done liveshows myself because I've never had a webcam, even they're sold out at Wal-Mart at throwaway prices, like Ashley would used to say this. So if you came to my "liveshow", the only thing you would have seen is a talking blackscreen that could have been the sound of my voice.
So in conclusion, smart people anywhere on LV, keep away from the f*cking liveshows, where the decadence of imbecility never stops. Yep my own feeling of hell.
Max | | | | 39 Views | 0 Thumbs Up | 0 Comments | |
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| | Going where the white trash comes to roast. | | | Monday, June 16, 2008 (7:05 PM)
(I'm feeling cranky) | | Have you people ever been to the southern states ? No not the red states, but the southern states. Are you sometimes like me when you are about to think that you can't stand the southern people. But they are not all bad, they're just incredibly misguided that's all. Mostly about everything.
I think that the last two intelligent people that were southerners, were actually writers: Mark Twain, and William Faulkner, but Faulkner is a very confusing author to read in the first place, and a less able writer. ( Yes I know he won the nobel prize, but a lot of nobel laureat writers don't happen to appeal to me that often)
Amongst the nobel laureates, I like of course Steinbeck, Hemingway, Saul Bellow, Kipling and Herman Hesse. That's about it, to name a very few. Sometimes the best writers are the ones that haven't won anything in their lives, and they are still famous. People used to make a lot of hoopla against litterary prizes and what not, but they are completely meaningless.
Now about the white-trashednes in question, it simply becauses that I've been to Virginia and Texas over the years, and over my long and extensive travels. But namely a small town, by the name of Evington, Virginia, that I simply couldn't stand. For me, I haven't lasted five minutes there. I left as quickly as I came. People over there, they often act like they've never seen anything in their lives, or they're simply have animal intelligence. And I really just have no patience at all for inbreds like that.
I mean let's face certain and simple things. They're no such thing as making religious cults in the north of the united states, as much as they're are no religious cults in New York City, that we all know of.
There is always a fucking religious cult in Kansas, Alabama, Texas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, Tennesse, Louissiana, and finally Mississippi. And they all are - tarata da - christian cults. This, just plain, sickens me to death. And there is always a stupid fuck of a priest that wants, and all that matters, to endoctrinate as soon as possible in their little religion web. It makes me proud to be a canadian, in some respect, because they are rarely religious cults in English Canada. As for the raelians themselves, they are a sex ufo cult from France who came to Canada.
Well in California, there is simply a lot of religious cults, but they are all in Los Angeles or San Francisco. But they are the new age kinds of cults, making Scientology the best of all evils in the entire state.
Why are people so incredibly stupid and weak, what makes them incredibly weak for the need to believe. ?
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| | Book Review - Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller | | | Monday, June 16, 2008 (12:49 AM)
(I'm feeling flirty) | |
French translation of Tropic of Cancer, 1986, Folio
Chief justice Micheal Musmanno proclaimed this, whenever he was talking about this famous book, in question, going along the lines of this: " "Cancer" (as the book was then called before) is not a book, it's a cesspool, an open sewer, a pit of putrefaction, a slimy gathering of all that is rotten in the debris of human deprativity".
Well it's not completely false as it isn't completely true either. Let's just say you have no leg to stand on in your complete and bias vilification. I just think of it, as an interesting romance novel for guys, which doesn't have the idiotic and predictable love story plot woven inside, like the confortable attaché-case you're accustomed to bring.
To Musmanno : Well no shit sherlock, you found that out, all by yourself, or you needed help from mommy and daddy. But I prefer to think that mommy and daddy were long freaking dead, before they could have helped you out with all that serious job for making your little senile book reports. Seriously folks. OF COURSE, the book is filled with rampart sex wall to wall, it was the man's life. Why would he lie about his life, because to me, everything seems true and the narrator - which is Miller himself - becomes a very genuine person, even though his person passes into sex the 3/4 of the time.. For the 1930, or the end of the 1930, every fact about the times seems true today as it was then.
Well moving on, according to a great novelist George Orwell, anyway, the author of 1984, and Animal Farm, Orwell went on to declare that the book was one of the most important books written in the mid-20th Century, and that for excellent reasons. The main thing is the rapport that the author has with his own friends and quite especially the women he meets that all happen to be prostitutes, and not often the girl next door. Miller was never himself interested in the girl next door, but the complete debauchery of perverted parisian hookers, during his immensely long stay in France.
For content, the book is suprisingly good, although the novel itself mainly focuses on the narrator's life in Paris, France and throughout Europe. But as much as for content, Miller's book is an exposé of the decadency of his own time, which passes through his life. It's also a confession of Miller's own personnal thoughts about the hypocrisies of every character in the book, to the people he sometimes befriends for the moment being, to the socialites and college friends whom he used to hang out. Actually, Miller speaks about the often disguised truth of the narcissistic evil of his friends and strangers. In the book itself, he nevers grows accustomed to anybody's company, and people will often piss him off, and starts to feel that he is being taken for "granted". What you can learn from the book, is Miller's exasperation with the mediocrity of the world around him, and being himself mediocre in the process : dead-end copytaking job, his huge alcoholism by painting the town red everynight.
Now I know, that some of you are going to start reading this because the abundant wall-to-wall sex that doesn't seem to stop. And of course, the sometimes funny and interesting sex stories contained inside, are simply awaiting your voyeuristic pleasure. LOL ! I can probably think that this book was way ahead of it's time, probably way ahead of Madonna before.
Finally for the style, Miller's writting style as a novelist, isn't something that is quite impressive, being the fact that larges portions of the novel sometimes lack a certain cohesion. Well at least for me. Miller's style has, of course, the sobriety of a journalistic style. Which for a novel, you're never quite suppose to do, in any way, because writing a novel is never like writing an article. Ever. Too much attention has to paid, and you need to know how to make your story and your characters alive, as well as consistant. Miller has the maddening habit of always summarizing, instead of going in depth through descriptions about the situations he present. To describe, sometimes it brings everything to life, as much as you can smell everything that is going on. And Miller does none of that.
The story itself is a compilation of Miller's own personal key experiences in Paris going, from his lavish partier lifestyle in brothels, to his many companionships, and his life at work, pretty much like an autobiography, but not being completely one, because you can tell easily that some parts are fictional. Why, because some sex scenes even border on the complete ridiculous, that you don't believe entirely what you're reading.
The book is a must, it's simply a great erotic piece of fiction that delves with great accuracy in the close relationships of men and women alike, could it be now or for Miller's day.
See ya.
Max
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| | R.W. Leary and Gordon Ramsay - Part II | | | Wednesday, June 11, 2008 (9:04 PM)
(I'm feeling contemplative) | | INT. - RAMSAY'S OFFICE - DAY
ROBERT: It's me chef
Ramsay opens a bit his own eyes, and sees Robert in the doorway, from looking up from his own desk. He frowns his look until it is an exasperated expression.
RAMSAY : Oh it's you Robert ! Top of the morning to you.. Come sit here.
ROBERT(grudgingly) : Yes, top of the morning and all that sort of crap.
Ramsay watches Robert in a quizzical fashion, not quite grasping. Robert still stands next to Ramsay's door. Ramsay waves to him to sit down to one of the chairs in front of a posh desk, made of dark oak and a glass surface.
RAMSAY : What's the matter actually ?
Robert sits down on the chair, with Ramsay's gaze still on him.
ROBERT : You're asking me that ?
RAMSAY: Of course.
ROBERT: God, what a fucking hypocrite...
Robert looks upwards, disparagingly at the sky.
ROBERT: Since when you could actually care of what could happen to me, you miserable dipshit.
RAMSAY: You're right, I don't. So here we are, now what is it you came here for ?
ROBERT: Well I came to make my dismissal here, because frankly your attitude as a boss is dreadfully wretched. Bastards like you are just meant to be impaled, and not to be endured.
Ramsay looks at Robert quite strangely, almost in confusion. From Ramsay, you can probably feel that he is a tad worried but he shrugs it off.
RAMSAY: Your dismissal ? Why is it only because of me that you're quitting. You know Robert, you're not quitting because you don't like me that's too easy. You're just quitting because you simply don't like cooking in general. Because you see in cooking, it's not about always pleasing me, you have to please the customers. If you don't please the customers, only then I get quite pissed off.
Robert's face turns red, but he still has a grasp on himself. Robert contains himself, though he shows that he is fuming in anger in his own voice.
ROBERT: Well then, maybe you just need to be pissed over. That'll probably sooth you down for what it's worth, you miserable English pommy bastard. And you say that "I don't like cooking in general". Well that's wonderful bullshit psychology that you have. Maybe you only need to keep that psychology with your own fucking mother or your wife and kids. Because who knows, if they are always gonna be in your company, they're going to need all the help they can get. But you're a rich ass guy right. You can afford EVERYTHING ! Even professionnal help for yourself or loved ones.
Ramsay's face turns blue. He stands up. And he yells traditionnally on the top of his lungs, like an escaped mental patient.
RAMSAY ( yelling uncontrolably ): Oh get out ! Now you're definitely fucking fired! GET THE FUCK OUT !
Robert calmly steps up, with the yells of Ramsay in his back that are barelly coherent. He moves to the office door.
INT. - STAIRWAY - DAY
Robert meets Jean-Phillipe in the stairway. Jean-Phillipe is holding plastic cabarets, and his hands are full. They're almost tipping to fall off on the floor.
JEAN-PHILLIPE : Well how did it go ?
ROBERT: Oh you know routine stuff. We yell at each other, and one of us leaves. And thankfully, it's me. Because I can't stand that fucking douchebag.
JEAN-PHILLIPE : What are you going to do now ?
ROBERT: I don't know I just feel like being a hobo.
JEAN-PHILLIPE : You're kidding right?
ROBERT : No, I guess not.
Robert goes down the stairs and leaves to the front door of the restaurant.
EXT. - HELL'S KITCHEN - DAY
Robert bounces down the velvet staircase, and goes back to the same commercial street from where he came in the first place.
MUSIC : Theme of The Littlest Hobo
( TO BE CONTINUED) | | | | 38 Views | 0 Thumbs Up | 0 Comments | |
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