Monday, June 18, 2012

The Bride and her Pride-Wagon

Quentin Tarantino is in my opinion -- an opinion which is rarely humble and I'm told quite self-righteous at times –– the greatest film maker of my generation. His brilliance is lost because he is misunderstood and brilliant beyond his time. 

The Pussy Wagon scene came to me while reading the Red Devil today, hit me like a rotten-toothed  orderly having his way with my limp comatose body. At some point The Bride bit his face off, stole his keys and drug her own limp-legged body through the halls, down the elevator and into the parking lot where the Pussy Wagon awaited. She got in, she moved, she got up, she got on. 

Now that's where the metaphor falls apart. I'm not interested in revenge and have no one to excise it on even if I was. But I do have some anger that needs displacement along with pent-up frustration and a serious amount of weighty masses hanging around the shoulders. Knife fights with the Black Mamba need not occur. I'm perfectly fine with a motorcycle ride, some time to write, a few books, D&D, time with friends, time with Cub and the spouse, and some yard work to get it out all healthy like. 

But first I have to get into my own Pussy Wagon and drive that damn thing off into the sunset. If I can just find the orderly and get his keys from him. He and I may have cuswords-cuswords but I'm hoping that's all. 

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