Screengrab by Various Today in Nerve's film blog: We list our greatest guilty pleasures. You can't imagine the shame!
61 Frames Per Second by John Constantine Today in Nerve's videogame blog: A piping-hot plate of Tim Curry, Half-Life for a dollar and adventuring with Adventure.
We're
leaning up against a car. A stranger's car. It's eighth street,
or fourth street, or some street divisible by two. It's an old car, got no
alarm, no blinking red lights, no protection. That's what being old
means: fewer defenses. If you lose it, so what. He's got me up against
this car, and he's tall, he's so tall, he's so much taller than I am,
than the car is; his head is the size and level of the streetlamp, only
the light coming out of his head is infrared: you can hear it. Halfway
between a mugging and a seduction, this struggle: the metal against my
thighs, something under my short skirt, either a hand or a mirror. I
think of the expression: shocks and struts. These are car parts, but
I'm not sure what they do. I think shocks are what keep you from
bouncing too hard in motion, but struts make me think of peacocks, and of
men. And there's the expression: parking. They went parking. So old,
that expression; so stupid, so innocent. I've got these things in my
mind, sitting on the floor of my mind like rotten metal under a
riverbed.
The car is warm. Day ended so long ago, but the metal is warm,
not with use but with sun; it's high summer midnight, someone has parked
this car, and we're up against it, struggling; a Biblical struggle, like Jacob wrestling the angel God
sent to him on a mountain. Only our mountain is a car, old and hot like
I am, unlit and still, like he is. Against this car I moan out something
delicious, pointless; I love this car; I leave my smell on this
car, like a cat; this car held me up bearing down, this old car: I'd
never recognize it if I saw it again.
, featuring curious yet marvelous infusions of cucumber and rose petal.
