Oh my. Does splurging give your conscience a rotten milk feeling? Some people like rotten milk, don’t you know. In fact, they like it so much they do not know they smell (like) rotten milk. I suppose the same goes for garlic. But let’s not confuse things. Ever smelled rotten milk? I mean really smelled it? Wait. Let me put that another ‘way. Ever been scared off by it? Btw, some call it cultured milk, others sour milk. Funny how the best word(s) to describe something aren’t used on account it has to be called something else so as to be able to sell it. Do they call that: palatable marketing? (Probably not; just made that up.) And then there’s butter milk. My mom buys a form of rotten milk, aka butter milk. And it’s chunky. The politically correct name for the smell of it is: tart. (I think.) If you don’t know the smell of rotten milk then go to Morocco. I almost lost my sh#? in a kitchen there once. My better half had organized a cooking class for us. The whole reason to go to Morocco was because we enjoyed cooking Tajine. Some people see fish, they go scuba diving. Others see snow, they go skiing. Our travels are based on kitchen utensils. (Or maybe not.) Oh yeah. Where was I? Rotten smells. In Morocco they call rotting dairy products used in the kitchen: rancid. A rancid butter almost forced me out of the kitchen. The chef-teacher kept telling me to go outside and take a deep breath and then return. Each time I returned my pale face darkened (although only ever so slightly). Eventually, the chef said: you’ll get used to it. He was right. Although I could still smell it, with a bit of training/conditioning, I continued with the expensive cooking class. Obviously I didn’t get use to the rancid (stinky) stuff to cook with.
And so, worst-writer has a question: can you become so conditioned to misogyny that you no longer understand what it is?
Ok. Me nose is sensitive. Seriously. And. At my age my eyes are getting weaker and weaker, too. My hearing is going. But my nose works great, though. (I think.) And you know what they say about the senses, don’t you worst-reader? They say that your sense isn’t the same as someone else’s sense. The old adage applies: Your blue isn’t my blue. Your blue could be my green and my green could be her red, etc. How do you/we know that to one person salt may be sweet and sugar bitter? Your sense of pain isn’t mine, either. But one thing does stand: Beethoven’s 9th is the same in your ears as in mine. Or? Which brings me to the idear of misogyny and how it is, like the senses, subjective and also quite rancid.
The first seven minutes of the film Gone Girl made me start to smell two things. The first was my conscience and the second was rotten, rancid, cultured milk. In case you’re wondering, the two do smell different, albeit they reek all the same. Gone Girl, btw, was film #2 that I saw while traveling across my beloved Atlantic. Usually when I fly this route I do a lot of reading. But this trip was different. I was/am preoccupied. Some crazy stuff about the world and where I’m from is on my mind. Also. I couldn’t focus on Das Capital or Infinite Jest. Perhaps both are not the best books to be reading side-by-side. But reading hasn’t been going well since the start of 2015. Not sure why.
Again. Gone Girl was the second film I watched on the trans-atlantic flight. The first film I watched was Interstellar—more on that here. After Interstellar I went to the Airbus A330’s mini bathroom for number 1 for about the sixth time. Upon returning to my seat I sat down, buckled my seat belt and tried to read. Btw, I’m actually impressed with Karl Marx’s ability to write. He’s easier to read than Milton Friedman. But it wasn’t happening. I didn’t even bother opening Infinite Jest (on my Kindle app). So. I gave in to the urge. Both Gone Girl and Instellar were on my to-see list since the beginning of the year. But since one had a Oscar winner in it, the other oscar nominated, the iTunes prices remained silly-high. (For you see, out of principle, I don’t buy stupid-priced digital content.) Even the DVD price in stores was high. Obviously neither one was worth that much to me. So when when I saw they were being shown on the flight and I knew I wasn’t in the mood for reading, I gave in. Something for nothing—is the old adage/saying. And so. On these long flights I try to do two things. 1) Busy myself (which is supposed to include reading). 2) Drink as much water as possible. When I leave my seat I either get more water or go for number 1. I unlatched and did my business in the cubicle bathroom. I wiped my diddle a bit (yeah, I’m at the age of post-trickle; sorry for so much info), flushed and washed my hands. Yes, in that order. It was time to watch film #2.
Say. How ’bout that flush mechanism on airliners, dear worst-reader? Does it remind you of those little rockets where you fill them with a bit of water and, using a little air-pump, you pressurize them and them shoot them off for a thrilling three seconds of nonsense. If it worked you could get under the rockets trajectory and feel a little rain on your head in July. But I’m off subject. No need to talk about sexual escapades either, which, once, where like rain in July, too.
That’s when my conscience hit me. I was splurging. As I said, I had just finished watching the movie Interstellar. I didn’t want to watch another movie. I wanted to read. But, as usual, I was tired. These flights are getting to me. Well, it’s not the flights that’s the problem. It’s the days before the flights. I guess I’m getting more and more nervous about flying. It’s not that I’m afraid. It’s more about the fear of my destination(s). After all these years I might have had enough. But I’m off subject again.
I was trying to compare the smell of rancid milk (products) with the film Gone Girl. Why, you ask. Well, this movie really took me for a loop. A loop of questions where women are at the centre. The center of what? The center of everything. And let me tell you, in this movie, the women can’t be at the center of anything. And yet, the story comes from a female. Which can only mean, at this moment, I must praise this female. What a grand piece of writing she has achieved. And I must also say, since this movie stirred me to nothing good (in my mind) I’m almost motivated to read the book. But the movie was directed by a male. So. Will I read it? Nomatter.
I paused the movie at exactly seven minutes, twenty seconds into it and asked this question: Will I be able to get through this movie? Oh no. Jump to 44:44 in the movie, several bathroom and water visits later and I’m still not intrigued. But I am a little bored and there were always various Airbus A330 bathroom visits. And so the question is: how it will this movie end? That’s all I kept asking myself. There was nothing else redeeming in the film. No character development. No cinematography. Nothing. For you know, dear worst-reader, when the vulgarity of film making is taking to this level—the other film that comes to mind is Django Unchained—the only way to sell it is to provide an absolute cliff-hanger ending. Or?
Ok. Let me get it over with. (That is, let me get over this pseudo-critic krapp I keep worst-writing.) The story behind Gone girl is ludicrous. Ben Affleck is still the Ringo Starr of acting. The dialogue is so bad that it actually makes the mediocre acting shine. Don’t get me wrong. There are moments when the movie is AOK. But that can also be the acronym for a German insurance company. Boring is the word at hand—and also the word I kept repeating with every Airbus A330 plastic bathroom visit. With all that in mind, here’s the jist of what I think about this movie. Suck can’t get any better. Or. If there was ever a way for a patriarchal society to channel misogyny then this is it. How else can a world driven to the realms of hell portray what it truly thinks of the modern, western, human (and #americant) females? Either that or the author of the book that is the basis of this movie… doesn’t actually like women. But I digress. Rant on. -Tommi
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