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All about the privileged

Movies are our game

You watch it, we watch it. We write about it.

Hot chocolate for the musical souls

Location, Locations!!

Entertaining the masses since we were popping out of the womb

 

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Name: Melancholy Hauser.

e-mail: 
mel@whatever-dude.com

Sex: Pseudopod.

Date of Birth: Libratic Condition.

Hobbies: Spitting in the wind, throwing caution to the wind, breaking like the wind and painting with all the colors of the wind.

Favorite moviemakers: Tony Fuckin' Anthony, Terry Gilliam and Jim Jarmusch, among others.

Favorite "Friend": It's a tossup between Hodge and Lucero--the quotes are well-earned when they beat me up and take my lunch money every time we go on a drunken literary roadtrip into the black unknown.

Dawson or Pacey?: AKINO -and- Ayako Hamada.

Ideal Partner: A cross between Harley Quinn and Velma, with astounding pop culture knowledge and an unhealthy penchant for enjoying the films of Golan-Globus.

Pop Culture Heroes: Clint Howard. Hunter S. Thompson. Tony Fuckin' Anthony. Danny and Richard Elfman. Lester Knight Chaykin and his alien buddy. All the DJ bombadiers over at remix.overclocked.org.

A little about myself

I wish I had some clever train of serrated thought that I could lash out with here, but the truth is, it's four in the morning and my last two working braincells are barely making sparks. So I'll summarize.

You probably don't know me. You probably haven't seen my work. You might not care, but I respect you anyways. I'm a geek. It's been proven time and time again, and I'll let blood before I repent on that fact. I don't give a fuck about much. I hate any music that involves an angry young white man screaming about his girlfriend, or how much he'd love to kick my ass. I learned everything I know concerning grit from a fine malt blend of Los Angeles cornfed rap music and the teachings of the beat writers. I'm not a wigger. I don't tawk wit' uh accent. You'd walk right past me on the street. I spend half of my time inside my skull and the other half looking over the moment in anticipation of the future. I call Clint Howard to ask how his par was. The most stupified fifteen minutes of my adult life were spent on the phone with Susan Tyrell, who spit me up sex-side then regurgitated what was left into a shotglass and still smiled about it the next day. I'll drive all night into the black pitch of the desert, only to stand at the base of the world's largest thermometer and wonder silently.. what the hell all of it sums into.

I'm Melancholy Hauser. I'm nobody. And I thank you profusely for reading my grey matter given binary breath.

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