Warren is a sex addict, a total liar and sexual predator. he can’t read. He thinks that all movies are basically pornography, that all stores are based on a “character arc”, in which the movie overwhelms the identity of the viewer and pulls them into a sex fantasy. He believes the audience are only seeing themselves. He lurks in hollywood, going from gang bang to gang bang, sabotaging other filmmakers, especially women and gay filmmakers who want to portray characters who love each other. He’s known as one of the most progressive and visionary directors in hollywood because his movies use special effects to appear gothic and mysterious, like the paintings of H.R. Giger.

Version II with Grammarly:

Warren is a sex addict, a total narcissist, a liar, and a sexual predator. He’s known as one of Hollywood’s most progressive and visionary directors because his movies use special effects to appear gothic and mysterious, like the paintings of H.R. Giger. He can’t read. He viciously attacks people in public, but he gets away with it because one of his lovers is a high-ranking Republican official in the Department of Defense. If anyone criticizes him, he calls them homophobic, but he doesn’t care about right and wrong at all. He doesn’t care about anything but sex. Humanity is nothing but sexual darkness to him; all movies are essentially pornographic, and stories are nothing but fascist power based on a “character arc,” which overwhelms the viewer’s identity and pulls them into a sex fantasy. He believes the audience is only seeing themselves, and that the essence of film is nothing more than power. He lurks in Hollywood, going from gang bang to gang bang, sabotaging other filmmakers, especially women and gay filmmakers, who want to portray characters who love each other.

It was a typical Friday night in Chicago, with the streets thronged with people looking for a good time. For seven high school students, however, it was not just any night. They were going to see their favorite Goth rock band, Blackened Roses, at a dingy club on the outskirts of town. They had been looking forward to the show for weeks, and they were determined to make the most of it.

The group consisted of seven friends who had bonded over their shared love of alternative music, horror movies, and all things dark and macabre. There was Matt, the brooding lead singer of their own high school Goth band, who was rarely seen without his black eyeliner and leather jacket. Then there was Kim, the guitarist and the only girl in the group, with her jet-black hair and studded bracelets. Jesse, the bassist, was the quiet one, always lost in his own thoughts. Alex, the drummer, was the goofball of the group, always cracking jokes and making everyone laugh. Then there was James, the tall and imposing figure who played the keyboard and provided the atmospheric soundscapes that were a hallmark of their music. Rounding out the group were twins, Max and Maya, who were inseparable and always dressed in matching black outfits.

As they approached the club, they could hear the thumping bass of Blackened Roses’ music spilling out onto the street. The club was dark and grungy, with walls covered in graffiti and neon lights flickering overhead. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and sweat, and the sound of moshing bodies filled the air.

As they pushed their way through the crowd, they caught glimpses of the band on stage, dressed in all black and bathed in red light. Matt let out a whoop of excitement, and the others joined in, as they elbowed their way to the front of the stage.

The music was intense and visceral, and the crowd was swept up in a frenzy of headbanging and moshing. Kim was shredding on her guitar, her fingers moving so fast they were a blur. James was lost in his own world, fingers gliding over the keyboard as he conjured up haunting melodies. Alex was pounding away at the drums, sweat dripping down his face.

For the next hour, they were lost in the music, feeling the pounding beat in their bones and the searing guitar riffs in their souls. The energy of the crowd was electric, and they were swept up in a sea of bodies, all moving in unison to the music.

After the show, they stumbled out of the club, still buzzing with adrenaline. They walked in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. But as they approached the train station, they started to talk about the show, reliving the high points and discussing their favorite songs.

As they waited for the train, they started to notice that they were getting strange looks from the other commuters. They were all dressed in their Goth finery, with black makeup and leather jackets. But they didn’t care. They were proud of who they were and what they believed in.

Suddenly, they heard a loud crash and a group of young men in hoodies appeared, looking for trouble. They pushed and shoved the Goth kids, calling them names and trying to intimidate them. But the group stood their ground, refusing to back down.

Matt stepped forward, his eyes flashing with anger. “We don’t want any trouble,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Just leave us alone.”

The young men hesitated for a moment, then turned and walked away, muttering under their breath.

The group breathed a sigh of relief, then started to laugh and joke, their spirits

The seven high school students from Chicago had been planning this for weeks. They were all fans of goth rock, and they had heard that one of their favorite bands was coming to town to play a show. They had all saved up their allowance money to buy tickets, and they had spent hours getting ready for the concert, carefully applying their black eyeliner and putting on their studded leather jackets.

As they piled into a beat-up old van and drove to the venue, they could feel the excitement building inside them. They were going to see their favorite band, surrounded by other fans who shared their love of dark, moody music. It was going to be an unforgettable night.

When they arrived at the venue, they could already hear the thumping bass and the screeching guitars. The line to get in was long, but they didn’t mind. They were too busy admiring the outfits of the other fans, who were dressed in all manner of goth-inspired garb, from corsets and top hats to torn fishnet stockings and combat boots.

Finally, they made it inside the venue, which was dimly lit and filled with swirling smoke. The stage was set up at one end of a large room, with a dance floor in front of it and a bar along one wall. The seven high school students made their way to the front of the crowd, eager to get as close to the stage as possible.

As the lights went down and the band took the stage, the crowd erupted in cheers and applause. The music was loud and intense, with pounding drums and wailing guitars. The lead singer, a tall, skinny man with jet-black hair and a pale complexion, began to sing, his voice a haunting whisper that sent shivers down the spines of the high school students.

They danced and shouted and sang along with the rest of the crowd, lost in the music. They felt like they were part of something bigger than themselves, something dark and mysterious and beautiful.

As the night wore on, the high school students began to lose track of time. They didn’t care that they had school in the morning or that they were running out of money for drinks. They were completely absorbed in the music, in the energy of the crowd, in the feeling of being young and alive and free.

But eventually, the concert came to an end. The lights came up, and the band took their final bows. The high school students were exhausted and hoarse from singing and shouting. They stumbled out of the venue, feeling like they had just experienced something truly special.

As they piled back into the van and drove home, they talked excitedly about the concert, reliving their favorite moments and singing the band’s songs. They knew that this was a night that they would never forget, a night that would stay with them for the rest of their lives.

And as they drifted off to sleep, still buzzing with excitement, they knew that they had found a community, a group of like-minded individuals who shared their love of goth rock and the darker side of life. They knew that they had found something that would give them a sense of belonging, even as they navigated the ups and downs of high school and beyond. And they knew that they had each other, seven friends who had shared an unforgettable experience and who would always be there for each other, no matter what.

I saw The Fabelmans yesterday, and it was very nice. It was a complete dramatic film of the kind I have stopped expecting from Hollywood. It made me appreciate the life of Stephen Spielberg. When I was a kid he was the director the grownups were all raving about. As I got older he seemed more and more boring and he became a symbol of conformist mediocrity and apathy to me. But this movie about his life is so good that I can appreciate him as a person and I want to go back and look through his catalogue to see if there’s anything else there as genuine. I don’t know what it means but it gives me a sliver of hope for Hollywood, although I still think it’s a cesspool maybe there could be a few interesting people in it. There’s no doubt that Spielberg is a good director and I’m inspired to attempt to write rationally about film again, to confront the absurd horrors of the movie business and try to pick out those few examples of civilization that yet remain. We’ll see if this works. But for now at least I started this blog entry, which I plan to develop over time – an experiment to see if there’s anything meaningful to say about movies in these days when the industry seems so utterly devoid of life and conscience.

A darkness is pressing against my mind, but it’s beautiful. I’m very tired now. I wanted to write something to see if it would make sense tomorrow, or next week. My guides are eclipsed.

And now a day later I feel fantastic wanting to grasp every atom of bliss I felt tonight and preserve it forever, and what I want to preserve is the feeling of freedom from the oppressive hostility of the human race. Long ago I wanted to be a rock star. I mistakenly believed that rock people were cool people. Now I have enemies waiting out in the night to catch me. I have things to analyze tonight but I think I’m done just remaining silent about everything. I’m going to start taking little swipes at the public, testing the waters for whatever complete artistic gesture I might make in the future. I want to keep everything in balance, but what I really want to find out, what I’m experimenting with, is ways to make art that will make my life this beautiful all the time, so I never have to come down. How could I preserve the joy I felt tonight? I can’t tell the complete story because so many details of my life are private, but I can push the edges. What do I say that changes who I am in this world in such a way that I get more happiness, more magic transportation? At least I’m addressing the issue, trying to formulate a solution to the problem.

Dustin looked surprised. “Didn’t you know Warren hates us?”

“No,” replied Graylyn, “I always thought he was desperate to have sex with us, way too much of an asskisser.”

“Well he may be that, too,” said Dustin, “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t despise us and plot our destruction. But I guess there was no reason for anyone to tell you, and obviously he’s never talked to you around me. Do you remember Stereo Hut?”

“That funky place in the mall?”

“Right, back in junior high, Warren was trying to impress everyone that he was going to get into computers and make millions of dollars, but it was all bullshit. He’s too dumb, he just thought he’d figured out that you could find secret codes to everything and rip everyone off. All that ended when he tried to rob Stereo Hut. He looked at the alarm system on their door and found the model. Then somehow he got the instructions for it. He made a big deal out of taking us down there and showing us the Bang & Olufson Beocord 9000 in front of the clerk. At the time it was the coolest tape deck in the world. He wanted to make it look like we were after it so he could say we stole it. Then he tried to reprogram the alarm system and come back later to open the door, but he didn’t realize that it notified the police when changes were made and the whole thing was on camera. I’m actually the one who explained to them how he got the instructions off of the old bulletin boards we had been on together. He tried the usual trick of saying that I had got him involved in something shady, but he was too stupid to understand all the ways you can prove who has accessed something like that. He got in huge trouble, but of course his family kept it all secret. Freshman year he came back saying computers were boring and since then he’s been all about the movie business.”

This is the dialogue of the night the Sickies define themselves as a set at Easton Academy. Early 1980s, haven’t decided if it’s before or after the First Party at Stubby’s.

Dustin: Well, I think of us as a set, and if we’re not then I’m a hopeless failure, socially, so …

Drake: Dustin, if I have a set you’re in it. That’s definite.

Dustin: All right, then man (and they shake).

Drake: Chuck, I would have done that with you…

Chuck: No, man, this is totally the way it needs to be. I am in your set, but I couldn’t start anything because of my family. I’m basically dirt that my family owns, like any of their fucking skyscrapers, but now that you’ve started it, hell yeah! All for one, one for all!

Trish was petulant. “I don’t understand why you won’t just try a Sex on the Beach, not even a sip?”

Dustin was stubborn. “I don’t like to change my drinks in the evening. I’ll try one the next time we’re at Stubby’s, I promise.”

Trish, frustrated, “A Sex on the beach is just a Cape Codder with orange juice and peach schnapps.”

Dustin, “Look, it’s not about the ingredients, okay? It’s about how I feel about what I’m doing. When I was growing up in New England, every evening my father would prowl around the house with a Cape Codder in his hand. It was just the coziest thing, you know, the lamps would be turned down, and there were all these dark windows around us, barely keeping the night away, and the ocean whispering eternity out in the dark, and the TV would be on, with my sisters enraptured in their pajamas and my parents presiding on the couch and my father, always with this blood red Cape Codder in his hand. We were from New England, and this was the drink of our men, and this was how we drank it, snuggled up cozy in the half-light with our families, watching TV and grumbling about the dismal fate of America. So I just have this visceral feeling that as long as I’m drinking a Cape Codder in the evening, I’m doing the right thing, I’m not breaking any rules, I’m not even really drinking alcohol, I’m just staying the course. To drink anything else would violate the family honor.”

Trish raised an eyebrow. “I just want to state, for the record, that I think it’s absurd that at this moment, you have just actually had sex with me on a beach, that very beach of Lake Michigan right out there, which you know your great uncle the Episcopalian bishop would detest, but you will not take the smallest sip of a drink called Sex on the Beach because it would be breaking the rules.”

Dustin shrugged. “It’s my way.”

“Like Mr. Spock,” Drake chimed in.

“Exactly.”

Drake “I don’t care that he said it, I care that they believe it.”

boomer: “You just don’t understand, this country is going back to the way it was.”

Graylyn: “I love Catholicism. I was a princess in a former life and I loved going to Church and seeing all my wonderful subjects arrayed around me.”

Angela: “Do you know why I’m going to be a social worker? It’s because I have one. You didn’t know that about me, did you? I had to see one freshman year when my brother knocked out two of my teeth.”

Chuck: “My family has been Republican since the Civil War, but my father says the party’s gone bad now, with all these televangelists coming in. We went from being the largest creditor in the world to largest debtor in the space of three years.”

Mr. Crown “If America falls apart tomorrow, there will still be banks and real estate. And you, young man, are in real estate.”

[experiment]

“Fuck literary theory,” sneered Drake, “I want to write literature. Literature means respect for the past, for the creation of God, for the meaning of human experience and all the thousands of people god chose to say things that would carry forward the progress of the human race. Respect for literature means respect for history, for society itself. Now we just don’t have it anymore. There’s just Pynchon and Delillo left, and after that nothing. Academia killed canon and the publishing industry has killed everything that isn’t entertainment. I want to be an American writer. I don’t want to entertain people.”

“What do you want to do to people?” asked Chuck impatiently.

“I want to gouge out their eyes and skull-fuck them.”