Actually, really knowing someone doesn’t mean anything. People change. A person may like pineapple today and something else tomorrow.
(Source: spaghetti-brain)
Actually, really knowing someone doesn’t mean anything. People change. A person may like pineapple today and something else tomorrow.
(Source: spaghetti-brain)
— Giancarlo Esposito to The A.V. Club when asked if Breaking Bad’s Gus had creeped into his personality. (via popculturebrain)
(via bbook)
Martini Scorsese!
And then — of course — the episode changed. It didn’t just become unbad; it became incredible. The more I think about it, the more I suspect the interaction with Dane Cook might be the strongest seven-minute stretch I’ve ever seen on television: It’s realer than any reality show, more emotionally complicated than most 300-page memoirs, yet still awkward and severe and (somehow) easy to watch. I want to know everything about this scene — I want to know if this conversation truly happened, I want to know Cook’s views on his involvement, and I want to know C.K.’s deeper intent. And I can tell I’m not the only one who feels this way. What’s so distinctly compelling about this season of Louie is how everyone seems to collectively realize that what C.K. is doing is not only cool, but also authentically artful and unnaturally profound. There’s no debate over its value because there’s no contradictory position to take. It’s not polarizing in any important way: If you’re watching this show, you intuitively know it’s fantastic (and substantially unlike the way fantastic TV typically is).
And babe thought he had problems then.