Red Mosquito

wease wrote:

JuanHamm wrote:Blue Monday or Love will tear us apart?

Who's a worse person - Logan Roy or Tony Soprano?

Is Jurassic Park a great film?

Logan Roy. He is absolutely terrible to his family. Tony at least tried to be good to his family.

Yes Jurassic Park is great.

The Argonaut wrote:You could make the case that Logan thinks he's the hero of the story (and millions of people in his world would agree with that). He doesn't do everything cynically, he has sincere political beliefs that he pursues. Alongside his pursuit of power and wealth. He calculates that all of that is more important than his family.

Tony makes a lot of the same choices, but for a lot less money and for goals he knows not to be noble. He also just often aims guns at people and shoots them. That's just not nice at all

Bammer wrote:Here’s a question

WhoTF is Logan Roy

BurtReynolds wrote:

Bammer wrote:Here’s a question

WhoTF is Logan Roy

It's Wolverine

Bammer wrote: WhoTF

Carl Sandburg wrote:There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.