and i guess that i just don't know
вторник, 03 апреля 2012
and i guess that i just don't know
ЕБАНЫЙ СНЕГ! ТЫ ЗАЕБАЛ! УЙДИ НАХУЙ УЖЕ!
понедельник, 02 апреля 2012
and i guess that i just don't know
стукнуло мне в голову "Социальную сеть" пересмотреть. и не просто пересмотреть, а купить диск, коих у нас в Медии навалом за копейки. пошла я, значит, в Медию, обыскала все стенды, на которых этот диск мог быть. в результате, конечно, нашла. и знаете, где? правильно, в мелодрамах!
SWEET. Love this one!
SWEET. Love this one!
воскресенье, 01 апреля 2012
and i guess that i just don't know
кажется, я потеряла счёт времени. все дни слились в один. вроде бы только вчера все радовались наступлению марта, а тут - бац! - апрель уже.
эй, я не успеваю!)
суббота, 31 марта 2012
and i guess that i just don't know
Несколько драк между болельщиками футбольных клубов "Спартак" и "Зенит" произошло в московском метро до начала матча 37-го тура чемпионата России между этими командами, который проходит в "Лужниках".
Самой массовой стала потасовка на станции метро "Университет". Группа фанатов из Санкт-Петербурга в составе около 100 человек, спустившись с эскалатора, стала избивать случайных встречных со спартаковской символикой, в числе которых было много девушек и подростков. Из следующего прибывшего поезда высыпала огромная толпа болельщиков "Спартака", и побоище разгорелось с новой силой - оно длилось около десяти минут, на время которых движение поездов было приостановлено.
я как раз в это время сидела в Шоколадке на Универе, видела проходящих спартаковских. но с ними вроде всё нормально было. Лизку с её ребятами видела, всё хорошо. но всё равно. охуеть, пардонэ мон франсэ.
Самой массовой стала потасовка на станции метро "Университет". Группа фанатов из Санкт-Петербурга в составе около 100 человек, спустившись с эскалатора, стала избивать случайных встречных со спартаковской символикой, в числе которых было много девушек и подростков. Из следующего прибывшего поезда высыпала огромная толпа болельщиков "Спартака", и побоище разгорелось с новой силой - оно длилось около десяти минут, на время которых движение поездов было приостановлено.
я как раз в это время сидела в Шоколадке на Универе, видела проходящих спартаковских. но с ними вроде всё нормально было. Лизку с её ребятами видела, всё хорошо. но всё равно. охуеть, пардонэ мон франсэ.
and i guess that i just don't know
я считаю, я долго держалась) так что, думаю, пришло время флэшмоба по GK) всё равно писать больше нечего.
по большей части, это для себя. и я сомневаюсь, что вообще закончу его) поэтому заполнять буду по два дня сразу, иначе это опять будет длиться до бесконечности.
Day 01: Favourite minor character
читать дальше
Day 02: Least favourite character
читать дальше
по большей части, это для себя. и я сомневаюсь, что вообще закончу его) поэтому заполнять буду по два дня сразу, иначе это опять будет длиться до бесконечности.
Day 01: Favourite minor character
читать дальше
Day 02: Least favourite character
читать дальше
среда, 28 марта 2012
and i guess that i just don't know
слушайте, я реально прошу меня за это извинить, но меня прёт! это обязано быть здесь!
зашла я, значит, на тумблер.
Coincidentally I’m on ‘Combat Jack’ on my GK rewatch and I had to turn on the commentary now:
James Ransone: I look at myself and I feel like maybe I should get those invisalign braces sometimes. I think that.
Alexander Skarsgard: Why?
James Ransone: I don’t know. My teeth are so-my grill’s really fucked up.
Alexander Skarsgard: I love your teeth. To me, that’s the best thing about you.
They are so adorable.
я знала, что я не одна такая
зашла я, значит, на тумблер.
Coincidentally I’m on ‘Combat Jack’ on my GK rewatch and I had to turn on the commentary now:
James Ransone: I look at myself and I feel like maybe I should get those invisalign braces sometimes. I think that.
Alexander Skarsgard: Why?
James Ransone: I don’t know. My teeth are so-my grill’s really fucked up.
Alexander Skarsgard: I love your teeth. To me, that’s the best thing about you.
They are so adorable.
я знала, что я не одна такая
and i guess that i just don't know
Colbert’s team drives along a winding canal, watching for enemy forces, while Person discusses the band he formed after high school, Me or Society. A heavy-metal rap group, his band once opened for Limp Bizkit at a show in Kansas City.“We sucked, but so did they,” Person says. “The only difference is, they became famous right after we played together. I became a Marine.”
Colbert brings up a mutual friend in the battalion who listens to death metal and hangs out in vampire clubs in Hollywood.
“You remember that time he went out dressed in diapers and a gas mask?” Person says, laughing appreciatively.
Trombley, who seldom jumps into conversations between Colbert and Person, can’t hide his disgust. “That’s sick. Can you believe we’re defending people’s freedom to do that?”
Colbert corrects him, delivering a sharp civics lesson. “No, Trombley. That’s good that people have the freedom to do that.We’re even defending people like Corporal Person, too.”
Through the heightened alert, Colbert spends the night calming his team.When Garza takes the watch on the Humvee’s Mark-19, Colbert tells him, “Garza, please make sure you don’t shoot the civilians on the other side of the canal.We are the invading army.We must be magnanimous.”
“Magna-nous?” Garza asks. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“Lofty and kinglike,” Colbert tells him.
“Sure,” Garza says after a moment’s consideration. “I’m a nice guy.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus!” Colbert says, highly annoyed. He’s lying on the ground, glassing the city through binoculars, listening to the company
radio network on a portable unit. He turns to Fick. “Sir, our great commander,” he says, referring to Encino Man, “just had the wherewithal to inform me there seem to be enemy snipers about. He suggests we ought to be on the lookout for them.”
Person laughs. “Brad,” he says, calling Colbert by his first name. “Check it out, over there.” He points to a spot near the barricades into the city. Colbert turns his binoculars in the direction Person is pointing.
“Person,” he asks, “are those ducks . . . ?”
“Yeah, they’re fucking.” Person laughs.
While brewing it, he accosts Pappy, his team leader, who’s just finished shaving. “Pappy, you missed a spot.” Reyes takes his razor and cleans up around the edge of Pappy’s sideburns. “Sometimes before a big meeting with the boss, I have to clean him up a little,” Reyes explains.
“The battalion commander thinks I’m a bum,” Pappy says, tilting his head slightly.
“Brother, that’s ’cause he don’t know what a true warrior be,” Reyes says, clowning.
The close relationship shared by Reyes and Pappy is between two men who are complete opposites. While Reyes has so much bubbly effervescence that he manages to be flamboyant even in his MOPP suit, Pappy is a rangy, quintessentially laconic Southern man raised in a churchgoing, Baptist family in Lincolntown, North Carolina, a mountain town of a few thousand souls. Pappy jokingly describes himself as “your normal North Carolina loser,” and says he’d barely ever met a Mexican before joining the Corps. Now Reyes is not just one of his best friends but his assistant team leader, his spotter when sniping, his second in battle. Reyes quips that their relationship is like that of “husband and wife.” After Reyes finishes shaving him, he nudges Pappy’s head to the side for a close inspection and pronounces, “Looking like a warrior, Pappy.”
Walter Hasser, who shot the man in the blue car, is one of the most well-liked Marines in the platoon. He’s twenty-three years old, six feet two inches tall and knows the lyrics to just about every hit country song recorded between 1960 and 1974.Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash are his heroes. He has a beautiful country singing voice, and in his case Colbert makes a special exemption to his “no country music” rule.
Hasser, who has maintained his distant silence for days since shooting the man in the blue car, breaks into laughter. “Look at you, Ray,” he says, pointing at Person. “You’re a fucking mess, man.”
Person’s face is smeared with ravioli sauce, fluorescent orange in the sunlight. More of it’s splattered down his pale white chest, with drippings on his toes. “What?” Person asks, perplexed.
“You’re a fucking messed-up hick who can’t even eat ravioli.” Hasser doubles over, facedown in the grass, laughing.
Swarr is one of the more eccentric characters in the battalion. Tall and square-jawed, he looks like your average Marine, but in his off-hours Swarr is an artist who writes and directs ultra-low-budget videos. “I’m like the Ed Wood of my generation,” he says. “My goal in life is, people will go in the video store and find my movies in the Cult Film section by Toxic Avenger.”
Then the voice of Captain America comes over the radio, quavering and cracking. “Enemy, enemy! They’ve got us on both sides!”
“Oh, my God!” Person says. “Is he crying?”
“No, he’s not,” Colbert replies, cutting off what will likely be a bitter tirade about Captain America. In recent days, Person has pretty much forgotten his old hatreds for pop stars such as Justin Timberlake—a former favorite subject of long, tedious rants about everything that’s wrong with the United States—and now he complains almost exclusively about Captain America.
“He’s just nervous,” Colbert says. “Everyone’s nervous. Everyone’s just trying to do their job.”
“We’re going to die if we don’t get out of here!” Captain America screams over the radio. “They’ve sent us to die here!”
“Okay,” Colbert says. “Fuck it. He is crying.”
Colbert says,“You know, I don’t miss anything from home. The only exception is my bike. I miss that. Speed, solitude and no one can touch me.”
“You mean you’re out here in the middle of nowhere, and you miss being alone?” Person laughs quietly. He doesn’t say anything else, which
is kind of amazing. After a month of insane, nonstop chattering in the Humvee, he barely talks now. When Person detoxes from Ripped Fuel,
endless days of mortar fire, ambushes and sleepless nights behind the wheel of the Humvee, he turns into a soft-spoken guy from Nevada, Missouri, pop. 8,607. He now admits to me, despite his relentless mockery of the Corps, “When I get out of the Marines in November, I’m going to miss it.”
нет, всё-таки надо перечитать. некоторые моменты я всё же упустила.
перечитать и пересмотреть и вообщеееее
пардон, когда о них заходит речь, я начинаю вести себя как полная дура и ничего не могу с собой поделать) просто не обращайте внимания)
Colbert brings up a mutual friend in the battalion who listens to death metal and hangs out in vampire clubs in Hollywood.
“You remember that time he went out dressed in diapers and a gas mask?” Person says, laughing appreciatively.
Trombley, who seldom jumps into conversations between Colbert and Person, can’t hide his disgust. “That’s sick. Can you believe we’re defending people’s freedom to do that?”
Colbert corrects him, delivering a sharp civics lesson. “No, Trombley. That’s good that people have the freedom to do that.We’re even defending people like Corporal Person, too.”
Through the heightened alert, Colbert spends the night calming his team.When Garza takes the watch on the Humvee’s Mark-19, Colbert tells him, “Garza, please make sure you don’t shoot the civilians on the other side of the canal.We are the invading army.We must be magnanimous.”
“Magna-nous?” Garza asks. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“Lofty and kinglike,” Colbert tells him.
“Sure,” Garza says after a moment’s consideration. “I’m a nice guy.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus!” Colbert says, highly annoyed. He’s lying on the ground, glassing the city through binoculars, listening to the company
radio network on a portable unit. He turns to Fick. “Sir, our great commander,” he says, referring to Encino Man, “just had the wherewithal to inform me there seem to be enemy snipers about. He suggests we ought to be on the lookout for them.”
Person laughs. “Brad,” he says, calling Colbert by his first name. “Check it out, over there.” He points to a spot near the barricades into the city. Colbert turns his binoculars in the direction Person is pointing.
“Person,” he asks, “are those ducks . . . ?”
“Yeah, they’re fucking.” Person laughs.
While brewing it, he accosts Pappy, his team leader, who’s just finished shaving. “Pappy, you missed a spot.” Reyes takes his razor and cleans up around the edge of Pappy’s sideburns. “Sometimes before a big meeting with the boss, I have to clean him up a little,” Reyes explains.
“The battalion commander thinks I’m a bum,” Pappy says, tilting his head slightly.
“Brother, that’s ’cause he don’t know what a true warrior be,” Reyes says, clowning.
The close relationship shared by Reyes and Pappy is between two men who are complete opposites. While Reyes has so much bubbly effervescence that he manages to be flamboyant even in his MOPP suit, Pappy is a rangy, quintessentially laconic Southern man raised in a churchgoing, Baptist family in Lincolntown, North Carolina, a mountain town of a few thousand souls. Pappy jokingly describes himself as “your normal North Carolina loser,” and says he’d barely ever met a Mexican before joining the Corps. Now Reyes is not just one of his best friends but his assistant team leader, his spotter when sniping, his second in battle. Reyes quips that their relationship is like that of “husband and wife.” After Reyes finishes shaving him, he nudges Pappy’s head to the side for a close inspection and pronounces, “Looking like a warrior, Pappy.”
Walter Hasser, who shot the man in the blue car, is one of the most well-liked Marines in the platoon. He’s twenty-three years old, six feet two inches tall and knows the lyrics to just about every hit country song recorded between 1960 and 1974.Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash are his heroes. He has a beautiful country singing voice, and in his case Colbert makes a special exemption to his “no country music” rule.
Hasser, who has maintained his distant silence for days since shooting the man in the blue car, breaks into laughter. “Look at you, Ray,” he says, pointing at Person. “You’re a fucking mess, man.”
Person’s face is smeared with ravioli sauce, fluorescent orange in the sunlight. More of it’s splattered down his pale white chest, with drippings on his toes. “What?” Person asks, perplexed.
“You’re a fucking messed-up hick who can’t even eat ravioli.” Hasser doubles over, facedown in the grass, laughing.
Swarr is one of the more eccentric characters in the battalion. Tall and square-jawed, he looks like your average Marine, but in his off-hours Swarr is an artist who writes and directs ultra-low-budget videos. “I’m like the Ed Wood of my generation,” he says. “My goal in life is, people will go in the video store and find my movies in the Cult Film section by Toxic Avenger.”
Then the voice of Captain America comes over the radio, quavering and cracking. “Enemy, enemy! They’ve got us on both sides!”
“Oh, my God!” Person says. “Is he crying?”
“No, he’s not,” Colbert replies, cutting off what will likely be a bitter tirade about Captain America. In recent days, Person has pretty much forgotten his old hatreds for pop stars such as Justin Timberlake—a former favorite subject of long, tedious rants about everything that’s wrong with the United States—and now he complains almost exclusively about Captain America.
“He’s just nervous,” Colbert says. “Everyone’s nervous. Everyone’s just trying to do their job.”
“We’re going to die if we don’t get out of here!” Captain America screams over the radio. “They’ve sent us to die here!”
“Okay,” Colbert says. “Fuck it. He is crying.”
Colbert says,“You know, I don’t miss anything from home. The only exception is my bike. I miss that. Speed, solitude and no one can touch me.”
“You mean you’re out here in the middle of nowhere, and you miss being alone?” Person laughs quietly. He doesn’t say anything else, which
is kind of amazing. After a month of insane, nonstop chattering in the Humvee, he barely talks now. When Person detoxes from Ripped Fuel,
endless days of mortar fire, ambushes and sleepless nights behind the wheel of the Humvee, he turns into a soft-spoken guy from Nevada, Missouri, pop. 8,607. He now admits to me, despite his relentless mockery of the Corps, “When I get out of the Marines in November, I’m going to miss it.”
нет, всё-таки надо перечитать. некоторые моменты я всё же упустила.
перечитать и пересмотреть и вообщеееее
пардон, когда о них заходит речь, я начинаю вести себя как полная дура и ничего не могу с собой поделать) просто не обращайте внимания)
воскресенье, 18 марта 2012
00:10
Доступ к записи ограничен
and i guess that i just don't know
Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра
четверг, 15 марта 2012
and i guess that i just don't know
эх, я, конечно, могу сколько угодно говорить о канонных парах и о гете в Skins, но Тони/Макси - это навсегда. can't help it, как говорится. пересмотреть, что ли, как-нибудь s02e01 и избранные моменты из первого сезона?
пара клипов на тему
и вроде бы во всех видео используются одни и те же моменты, а не надоедает смотреть)
пара клипов на тему
и вроде бы во всех видео используются одни и те же моменты, а не надоедает смотреть)
среда, 14 марта 2012
and i guess that i just don't know
искренне желаю мучительно сдохнуть тому уёбку, который украл у меня телефон сегодня. сука, чтоб тебе руки и ноги переломали.
понедельник, 12 марта 2012
21:20
Доступ к записи ограничен
and i guess that i just don't know
Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра
пятница, 09 марта 2012
and i guess that i just don't know
захожу периодически к своим ребятам вконтакт и вижу всё время одну и ту же картину: мат-геи-мат-геи-мат-ГРЁБАНАЯ ШКОЛА ЗАДОЛБАЛА!!!
я люблю их
лапоньки, даже с 8 Марта поздравили))
я люблю их
лапоньки, даже с 8 Марта поздравили))and i guess that i just don't know
Мда. Вот насколько душевно мы встретились в январе, настолько же отвратительно получилось в этот раз. Ну, хоть с Дашкой увиделась, получила практически официальное приглашение на свадьбу XD Ухх, я буду гулять на Дашкиной свадьбе!)) Всё ещё не верю, что она выходит замуж. И я не имею в виду: "Не могу поверить, это же так прекрасно" и бла-бла-бла. Просто я же знаю Дашу, причём лет этак овер дохрена. Я просто не верю, что до августа она сохранит серьёзные намерения и не рассорится с этим парнем. Но я буду ужасно рада, если у них всё получится.
Она показывала мне платья, которые ей понравились, я сочиняла саундтрек ко всему действу. Боже)))
Если честно, всё это больше похоже на театр абсурда. И это не только моё мнение.
Ты ведь знаешь, если у нее все получится, я буду за нее рада, но сомнения разума точат мое сердце, когда я допускаю даже минимальную возможность подобного.
И завистью здесь и не пахнет.
В остальном, это были самые бездарные два часа в моей жизни. Я не видела этих людей около четырёх лет и ещё столько же не видела бы. Не, ну кроме Даши, конечно)
Она показывала мне платья, которые ей понравились, я сочиняла саундтрек ко всему действу. Боже)))
Если честно, всё это больше похоже на театр абсурда. И это не только моё мнение.
Ты ведь знаешь, если у нее все получится, я буду за нее рада, но сомнения разума точат мое сердце, когда я допускаю даже минимальную возможность подобного.
И завистью здесь и не пахнет.
В остальном, это были самые бездарные два часа в моей жизни. Я не видела этих людей около четырёх лет и ещё столько же не видела бы. Не, ну кроме Даши, конечно)
and i guess that i just don't know
Sorry, guys, couldn't resist)
Sergeant Rudy Reyes, thirty-one, the platoon’s best martial-arts fighter (whom the other men continually jump and ambush in order to test themselves against his superior skills), describes his passion for the Marine Corps in terms that blend New Age mysticism with the spirit of comicbook adventure. “I joined the Marines for idealism and romance,” he says. “Idealism because it’s so hard. The Marine Corps is a wonderful tool of selfenlightenment. Discipline erases all preconceived notions, and the pain becomes a medium of self-discovery. That’s the idealistic side. The romance comes in because we are a small band of hard motherfuckers, trained to go behind enemy lines against forces twenty or forty times bigger than us.
And brother, if that ain’t romantic, I don’t know what is.”
Reyes has the insanely muscular body of a fantasy Hollywood action hero. Before joining the Marines, he lived in a dojo, competed nationally
in kung fu and tai chi tournaments, and fought in exhibitions with the Chinese national team. He is the battalion’s best martial artist, one of its strongest men, and seemingly one of the gayest. Though he is not gay in the sense of sexual orientation—Reyes, after all, is married—he is at least a highly evolved tough guy in touch with a well-developed feminine side.
With his imposing build, dark, Mexican-American features and yet skin so pale it’s almost porcelain, he is a striking figure. His fellow Marines call him “Fruity Rudy,” because he is so beautiful.
“It doesn’t mean you’re gay if you think Rudy’s hot. He’s just so beautiful,” Person explains. “We all think he’s hot.”
By late afternoon First Recon has pushed fifty kilometers into Iraq, becoming the northernmost Marine unit in the country. Now no one has
slept for thirty-six hours. It’s in the upper eighties outside, and cramped in the Humvee in plastic-lined MOPPs and rubber boots, everyone’s face drips sweat. Between calling out potential targets, Colbert and Person stay awake by screeching pop songs—Avril Lavigne’s “I’m with You” and “Skater Boy”—deliberately massacring them at the tops of their lungs.
Though at times throughout the advance north, Colbert’s vehicle goes on point for the entire battalion, placing its occupants at the very tip of the Coalition invasion, as the heat and fatigue delirium sets in, the undertaking sometimes feels like a family road trip. Colbert is the stern father figure. Person is like the mom, the communicator, trying to anticipate his needs, keeping spirits up with his cheerful banter. Garza and Trombley are the children, happily munching candy, eager to please their dad.
As team leader, Colbert controls every aspect of his men’s lives, down to their bodily functions.
“Trombley,” Colbert shouts, leaning over his rifle, watching his sector. “Are you drinking water?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Are you pissing?”
“At our last halt, Sergeant.”
“Was it clear?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Good.”
The desert leading up to the tracks is littered with industrial trash—shredded tires, old fence posts, wrecked machinery, wild dogs and, every thirty meters it seems, a lone rubber flip-flop. Person calls each one out, “ ’Nother flip-flop. ’Nother dude walking around somewhere with one sandal on.”
“Shut the fuck up, Person,” Colbert says.
“You know what happens when you get out of the Marine Corps,” Person continues. “You get your brains back.”
“I mean it, Person. Shut your goddamn piehole.”
At times, the two of them bicker like an old married couple. Being a rank lower than Colbert, Person can never directly express anger to him,
but on occasions when Colbert is too harsh and Person’s feelings are hurt, his driving becomes erratic. There are sudden turns, and the brakes
are hit for no reason. It will happen even in combat situations, with Colbert suddenly in the role of wooing his driver back with retractions and apologies.
But villagers who come out by the trail greet the Marines with smiles.
A teenage boy and girl walk ahead on the trail, holding hands.
“Kind of cute,” Colbert observes. “Don’t shoot them, Garza,” he adds.
As they roll past the hand-holding teens, Colbert and Person wave at them and start singing the South Park version of “Loving You,” with the
lyrics “Loving you is easy ’cause you’re bare-chested.”
“As soon as we capture Baghdad,” Person says, “Lee Greenwood is going to parachute in singing ‘I’m Proud to Be an American.’”
“Watch it,” Colbert says. “You know the rule.”
One of the cardinal rules of Colbert’s Humvee is that no one is permitted to make any references to country music. He claims that the mere
mention of country, which he deems “the Special Olympics of music,” makes him physically ill.
Colbert returns from taking a dump, and Trombley, whom Colbert has relentlessly pestered about drinking enough water to maintain clear urine, turns the tables on him.
“Have a good dump, Sergeant?” Trombley asks.
“Excellent,” Colbert answers. “Shit my brains out. Not too hard, not too runny.”
“That sucks when it’s runny and you have to wipe fifty times,” Trombley says conversationally.
“I’m not talking about that.” Colbert assumes his stern teacher’s voice. “If it’s too hard or too soft, something’s not right. You might have a
problem.”
“It should be a little acid,” Person says, offering his own medical opinion. “And burn a little when it comes out.”
“Maybe on your little bitch asshole from all the cock that’s been stuffed up it,” Colbert snaps.
(c) Evan Wright, "Generation Kill"
и надо будет завести отдельный тэг)
Sergeant Rudy Reyes, thirty-one, the platoon’s best martial-arts fighter (whom the other men continually jump and ambush in order to test themselves against his superior skills), describes his passion for the Marine Corps in terms that blend New Age mysticism with the spirit of comicbook adventure. “I joined the Marines for idealism and romance,” he says. “Idealism because it’s so hard. The Marine Corps is a wonderful tool of selfenlightenment. Discipline erases all preconceived notions, and the pain becomes a medium of self-discovery. That’s the idealistic side. The romance comes in because we are a small band of hard motherfuckers, trained to go behind enemy lines against forces twenty or forty times bigger than us.
And brother, if that ain’t romantic, I don’t know what is.”
Reyes has the insanely muscular body of a fantasy Hollywood action hero. Before joining the Marines, he lived in a dojo, competed nationally
in kung fu and tai chi tournaments, and fought in exhibitions with the Chinese national team. He is the battalion’s best martial artist, one of its strongest men, and seemingly one of the gayest. Though he is not gay in the sense of sexual orientation—Reyes, after all, is married—he is at least a highly evolved tough guy in touch with a well-developed feminine side.
With his imposing build, dark, Mexican-American features and yet skin so pale it’s almost porcelain, he is a striking figure. His fellow Marines call him “Fruity Rudy,” because he is so beautiful.
“It doesn’t mean you’re gay if you think Rudy’s hot. He’s just so beautiful,” Person explains. “We all think he’s hot.”
By late afternoon First Recon has pushed fifty kilometers into Iraq, becoming the northernmost Marine unit in the country. Now no one has
slept for thirty-six hours. It’s in the upper eighties outside, and cramped in the Humvee in plastic-lined MOPPs and rubber boots, everyone’s face drips sweat. Between calling out potential targets, Colbert and Person stay awake by screeching pop songs—Avril Lavigne’s “I’m with You” and “Skater Boy”—deliberately massacring them at the tops of their lungs.
Though at times throughout the advance north, Colbert’s vehicle goes on point for the entire battalion, placing its occupants at the very tip of the Coalition invasion, as the heat and fatigue delirium sets in, the undertaking sometimes feels like a family road trip. Colbert is the stern father figure. Person is like the mom, the communicator, trying to anticipate his needs, keeping spirits up with his cheerful banter. Garza and Trombley are the children, happily munching candy, eager to please their dad.
As team leader, Colbert controls every aspect of his men’s lives, down to their bodily functions.
“Trombley,” Colbert shouts, leaning over his rifle, watching his sector. “Are you drinking water?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Are you pissing?”
“At our last halt, Sergeant.”
“Was it clear?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Good.”
The desert leading up to the tracks is littered with industrial trash—shredded tires, old fence posts, wrecked machinery, wild dogs and, every thirty meters it seems, a lone rubber flip-flop. Person calls each one out, “ ’Nother flip-flop. ’Nother dude walking around somewhere with one sandal on.”
“Shut the fuck up, Person,” Colbert says.
“You know what happens when you get out of the Marine Corps,” Person continues. “You get your brains back.”
“I mean it, Person. Shut your goddamn piehole.”
At times, the two of them bicker like an old married couple. Being a rank lower than Colbert, Person can never directly express anger to him,
but on occasions when Colbert is too harsh and Person’s feelings are hurt, his driving becomes erratic. There are sudden turns, and the brakes
are hit for no reason. It will happen even in combat situations, with Colbert suddenly in the role of wooing his driver back with retractions and apologies.
But villagers who come out by the trail greet the Marines with smiles.
A teenage boy and girl walk ahead on the trail, holding hands.
“Kind of cute,” Colbert observes. “Don’t shoot them, Garza,” he adds.
As they roll past the hand-holding teens, Colbert and Person wave at them and start singing the South Park version of “Loving You,” with the
lyrics “Loving you is easy ’cause you’re bare-chested.”
“As soon as we capture Baghdad,” Person says, “Lee Greenwood is going to parachute in singing ‘I’m Proud to Be an American.’”
“Watch it,” Colbert says. “You know the rule.”
One of the cardinal rules of Colbert’s Humvee is that no one is permitted to make any references to country music. He claims that the mere
mention of country, which he deems “the Special Olympics of music,” makes him physically ill.
Colbert returns from taking a dump, and Trombley, whom Colbert has relentlessly pestered about drinking enough water to maintain clear urine, turns the tables on him.
“Have a good dump, Sergeant?” Trombley asks.
“Excellent,” Colbert answers. “Shit my brains out. Not too hard, not too runny.”
“That sucks when it’s runny and you have to wipe fifty times,” Trombley says conversationally.
“I’m not talking about that.” Colbert assumes his stern teacher’s voice. “If it’s too hard or too soft, something’s not right. You might have a
problem.”
“It should be a little acid,” Person says, offering his own medical opinion. “And burn a little when it comes out.”
“Maybe on your little bitch asshole from all the cock that’s been stuffed up it,” Colbert snaps.
(c) Evan Wright, "Generation Kill"
и надо будет завести отдельный тэг)
четверг, 08 марта 2012
and i guess that i just don't know
а и правда что.
понедельник, 05 марта 2012
and i guess that i just don't know
- Знаешь, меня охватывают какие-то странные чувства, когда я прохожу мимо нашей школы.
- Что, тоже тошнота накатывает?
- Что, тоже тошнота накатывает?
четверг, 01 марта 2012
and i guess that i just don't know
А ещё у меня скопилась куча фильмов, которые надо посмотреть и пересмотреть, но вместо этого я уже в третий раз смотрю Generation Kill)) Hey-hey-hey, как говорит Рэй)) И главное, не надоедает ведь) То есть, если в первый раз я смотрела, просто потому что из трёх HBO-War Series не видела только его, во второй - потому что нихрена не поняла в первый (ну, война в Ираке - не мой конёк. И вообще, я девочка, мне можно XD), то сейчас я тупо пырюсь на них вот с такой физиономией:
Пожалуй, это можно объяснить тем же "я девочка, мне можно")) Что самое интересное, я, как бы это сказать, не хочу ни с кем этим делиться. Как говорится, "И своей смешною рожей сам себя и веселю". Я к тому, что мне очень даже уютненько сидеть одной перед нетбуком и тихонько подвывать) и не искать собеседников по этому поводу)
На самом деле, конечно же, я очень серьёзно отношусь к военной теме, но можно же иногда потупить?) Тем более, что GK не производит очень тягостного впечатления. По сравнению с теми же Band of brothers.
но Брэда и Рэя запостить надо, хотя бы картинки
Пожалуй, это можно объяснить тем же "я девочка, мне можно")) Что самое интересное, я, как бы это сказать, не хочу ни с кем этим делиться. Как говорится, "И своей смешною рожей сам себя и веселю". Я к тому, что мне очень даже уютненько сидеть одной перед нетбуком и тихонько подвывать) и не искать собеседников по этому поводу)На самом деле, конечно же, я очень серьёзно отношусь к военной теме, но можно же иногда потупить?) Тем более, что GK не производит очень тягостного впечатления. По сравнению с теми же Band of brothers.
но Брэда и Рэя запостить надо, хотя бы картинки
16:39
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and i guess that i just don't know
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вторник, 28 февраля 2012
and i guess that i just don't know
напрочь забыла, что пообещала Ане (ученице своей) поучить с ней какие-нибудь песни, чтоб немножко подтянуть произношение. завтра урок, а я только сейчас задумалась, что же выбрать. и тут мама подала гениальную идею, которая рано или поздно всё равно пришла бы мне в голову))
главное - не пустить слезу умиления, когда мы будем это слушать))
ну, хоть не Fatal Bazooka и не Stromae, и то ладно)
главное - не пустить слезу умиления, когда мы будем это слушать))
ну, хоть не Fatal Bazooka и не Stromae, и то ладно)