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Dan Carlson
Los Angeles, California

I'm a twentysomething white male with ambitions to be a professional film critic and generally spend my days getting paid to watch movies and write about it. I try not to think too hard about how I want to build my life around talking about other people's creations and not mine. A compulsive reader and stubborn cineaste, I take an often contrary stance to my more fundamentalist peers and upbringing by celebrating the pursuit of the good, and the Good, in life, love, art and film. If you watched enough episodes of a few TV shows ("The Hungry and the Hunted," "The Cut Man Cometh," "The Body," "The Zeppo," "Waiting in the Wings," "Out of Gas," "April is the Cruelest Month," "20 Hours in America," "Colonial Day," "An Echolls Family Christmas," and "Look Who's Stalking," for starters), you would understand me completely, and you'd also realize that much of my worldview and philosophical insights are heavily influenced by fictional works/programs, and many of the good things I've said in my life are just a regurgitation of someone else's imaginings. I guess I was made to be a film critic.

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« Pain Relief And Feeling Pretty: An Online Transcript |Main| September 2007 »

September 26, 2007

The Dangers Of Wealth: An Online Transcript

By Dan Carlson

me: don't tase me, bro
man
kid just had a good question about kerry being in the same super-secret super-powerful club as bush
and he gets shocked
lame
Sis: seriously
i mean, he was acting stupid, but the police shouldn't have been trying to tackle him in the first place
me: yeah. maybe he could've phrased it better, been more sly, but i like the premise, you know?
skull and bones guys were like the birth of the cia
Sis: it's true
me: just a bunch of rich scary new englanders
Sis: hehe
me: with their chowder and torture
Sis: :)
pastel polo shirts and wiretapping programs
me: freaking boat shoes and international webs of secret agents
Sis: using their rowing paddles to waterboard detainees on
me: choking immigrants with those camel-hair scarves
Sis: waxing their yachts with never-used writs of habeas corpus
me: powering their homes on martha's vineyard with the failed dreams of oppressed minorities
Sis: using their silver spoons to hook up the electrical wiring on enemy combatants, who have their heads covered with letterman's sweaters
me: with their rigidly patriarchal society and their distaste for the bill of rights

Comments: 1

LadyJane

I live for these conversations, man.

Sep 28, 2007 8:43 PM

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"The critic is the only independent source of information. The rest is advertising."
— Pauline Kael

"Film lovers are sick people."
— Francois Truffaut

"I hope I strike a blow for chubby bald men everywhere. I hope they rise like an army."
— Paul Giamatti, quoted in the Los Angeles Times, 12/14/04

"Let others praise ancient times, I am glad I was born in these."
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Remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When?

O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again.
— Look Homeward, Angel, Thomas Wolfe

Conservatives are not necessarily stupid, but most stupid people are conservatives.
— John Stuart Mill

We are all under the same mental calamity; we have all forgotten our names. We have all forgotten what we really are. All that we call common sense and rationality and practicality and positivism only means that for certain dead levels of our life we forget that we have forgotten. All that we call spirit and art and ecstasy only means that for one awful instant we remember that we forget.
— G.K. Chesterton

We were, for the briefest of moments, something greater than the sum of our uncertain parts; we were youth itself, in all its painful glory and sharp joy.
— Me, Fall 2003

There is a time in the lives of most writers when they are vulnerable, when the vivid dreams and ambitions of childhood seem to pale in the harsh sunlight of what we call the real world. In short, there's a time when things can go either way.
— Stephen King

Los Angeles, give me some of you! Los Angeles come to me the way I came to you, my feet over your streets, you pretty town I loved you so much, you sad flower in the sand, you pretty town.
— Ask the Dust, John Fante