March 31st, 2012
tomshillue

typewrittenword:

The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien

Reblogged from Typewritten
February 28th, 2012
tomshillue

I Always Wanted To Be Wes Anderson

dcpierson:

I’ve thought about Wes Anderson a lot lately. 

I think there’s a trough, as your age becomes equidistant from Max Fischer and Steve Zissou, where it’s important that you act all better than Wes Anderson.  At least, it seems to be an important rite of passage for most of my friends and contemporaries.  It was probably most acute for people exactly my age (I’m twenty-seven) who were in high school when “Rushmore” and “Tenenbaums” came out, then went away to college only to discover that what made you unique in high school (you liked the films of Wes Anderson) made you the very opposite of unique at your hippie-dippie art school, or in the hippie-dippie arts clique at your gargantuan state school.  It was there you discovered that dudes who, like me, probably did not realize Max Fischer was more of an anti-hero than someone to be revered the first time they saw “Rushmore,” so blinded were they by the cool blazer and ambitious auteur school plays and girls whose highest aspiration was to be a third-rate Margot Tenenbaum were a dime a dozen and still overpriced.  In fact, Wes Anderson fandom was merely the tip of an entire iceberg of things that had set you so gloriously far apart from your peers in high school that, in college and then in your twenties, would only serve to make you so painfully like everyone else sharing in the well-educated-hipster mono-opinion.  

But to front on Wes Anderson, as I have, passionately, deliriously, running as far away from that opinion monolith as my skinny white legs will carry me, is to A) front on how important he was to you and to B) front on how, you know, great he is.  But I’m not here to defend Wes Anderson to you.  I’m just here to point out something I thought was interesting that I realized after recently seeing “Rushmore,” “Tenenbaums,” and “Life Aquatic” again on the big screen at The New Beverly here in Los Angeles (which is, by the way, the best place in Los Angeles).  This thing has probably already been observed a million times, but to my knowledge, never so hastily or so ill-researched, so it’s worth doing for that reason alone.  There may be more examples of the thing I’m about to describe in “Bottle Rocket,” but I haven’t seen it in a while, I only saw “Mr. Fox” the one time, and I’ve never seen “Darjeeling,” as it fell smack dab in the middle of my Anderson Effrontery Trough (or A.E.T. if you’re trying to save time while hitting on someone in a bar by passing this observation off as your own.)

 

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Reblogged from DC Pierson
February 28th, 2012
tomshillue

If you are like me, when your spouse is vacuuming, you will use the occasion to harmonize with the hum of the vacuum cleaner.

February 16th, 2012
tomshillue
It was then that I thought of the gondolas in Venice. I remember how expensive they were, how the old Italian mamas shook their heads at me from their balconies, how wrinkled old men laughed at the horrendous deal I managed to negotiate. I remember looking down at the immaculate black paint, at the pink, red, purple frilly cushions—meant for lovers looking for the ‘quintessential Venice holiday’.
I stood into the long, black narrow boat, precariously helped by my gondolier. He was young, and he winked at me. I remember blushing as he asked my name. “Nicola,” I said, and I was grateful that he didn’t make fun of me. Nicola is a male name in Italian, you see. I laughed when he said his name was Mario, and felt awkward in the silence that followed. “Do you want me to sing?” he asked, in fluent English. I stammered a negative. “Thank god,” he sighed. “I even hate singing for pretty ladies, you know?” I laughed, not sure who he was talking about.
So he took me around Venice in that gondola. He took me to the Grand Canal and laughed when I squealed, as motorboats wizzed by. He showed me the historical buildings, and even took me through and around his favourite cafe, that he hung out in his spare time. I paid for the full hour—he took me around for two and a half. When I stood out the boat, ready to wander back to my hotel to see my parents (who would be back from their dinner date at Saint Mark’s Basilica), he took my hand and kissed my cheek. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” he whispered. “Let me know when you’re back in Venice.”
I want to go back now, I want to find Mario again. All I have to go on is Mario, the gondola, and a kiss on the cheek—but perhaps that happens every day in Venice. Perhaps I’m not that special.
Reblogged from asymmetries
February 16th, 2012
tomshillue

fucked-up-kid:

to love and back - this century

Reblogged from empty beds bum me out
February 15th, 2012
tomshillue

Tom Shillue tells a story

February 15th, 2012
tomshillue

Hot Wheel

I remember when Hot Wheels® came on the scene. They seemed flashy and ostentatious. I was strictly a Matchbox® kid, being more traditional and not interested in hype. I didn’t need Camaros and Cougars with mag wheels and Spectraflame® paint. But everyone began to switch to Hot Wheels®. I still wasn’t taken in. Until the Splittin’ Image®. It was the coolest car I ever saw. With twin pontoons and bucket seats. I actually traded several Matchbox cars to get it. After that, it was only Hot Wheels®. Or rather, only Splittin’ Image®. I used to picture myself driving around the neighborhood alone, with only room for one more-who would I pick up? I still want one!

February 15th, 2012
tomshillue

welcome to storyboxer

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@tomshillue

We are some people who tell stories. Read, listen, watch. And then submit your own stories if you like. Pretty simple.

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