the difference between critique

OK, Mohandas Dewese taught 
me the proper power correct 
use of English, so please 

take what I say now as white 
and clear. I only hate rap when 
dad's around, and only for his 
part in it (so unconsensual) and
I never openly diss by word 

either way. His taste, nor the 
genre so wide it has only one 
issue to pick incessantly on. 

The cause? Recent action movies, 
it seems, tart up the dish by a liking 
foul to big dad's ol' ear.  

Or he claims so openly.

My big wise shutmouth
is pure sympathy no emp.
Or...anyway, let me plea, 
OK? 

Cut the old guy a big pair of 
slacks! This is his time, okay? 

His taste in music is so ancient
it cuts exactly this racist in 
tone: by mouth, okay. He lets 
on divinely: he does not like
what is called or sounds like 
rap music. By implication, his 
false colored bigotry shows LOUD 
though!  

He loves practically any black
musical performer who is willing
to sing, not TALK over it! So...how's
that for hypocrisy? If sound only, he
apparently goes colorblind! The old
bigot trick, fools none these days,
thanks. For lo, plastered over his
beloved action movie time, so 
full of flat hope, an occasional 
gem pops out of his mouth while 

I'm trying 
to watch 
the film 
for some reason 
unrelated to background music, 

usually? OK, we differ lots 
and tons, love to both sides 
of our same-tails, different 
coin. Or whatever. Genetically? 

Close call. In science fiction, 
I could have turned out like 
that, but who's prophesying? 
Maybe I might yet!  

It galls the guy so hard we have 
sit through that piece of rap, and
though nobody turns a movie off
on that score, sometimes the relief
picture ends up being squat. A big
dump bin reject disc, in the so much
(USUALLY) safer space Steven Seagal
creates, by efforts too late, too hindsightly
to save legacy from its current dominant
ass note. He makes music for his 

own films. Not always. Not at
least. Just. 

Hard to tell that so hard/soft
spoke boss no, not when he signs
checks that presumably skip the whole
pond in one chuck. Like a still, zen-
esque stone across a filmy, depthless
but quite still, violent surface. Apart
from how little fighting he does himself
these days, in between drama scenes he

scowls at all puffed up at us. Me, dad, 
share a look in those moments. 

Point is.

Point is. 

I love rap. 

Dad is aware of that, as in: he was so
familiar with my own early work as
M.c. Voltage, he even took time and
pain out to critique some of it!

This good guy is not unfair, people.

But as lip service, and only for THAT
old man when we catch up on barrel
scraping flicks, 

together (family time quality? GOOD, 

put on any damn thing we can see between
us, I might possibly be moved some way, and
who cares for the score unless it fits so good?),
I say

absolutely, 

nothing 

in response to his clever, loud tag "crap"
- as in "(c)rap music," (c) on Dad. In his rights 
to claim, apparently. Oh, yes father you are
that original. The only thing

worse
than a dad joke
spun so pun is the
neighborhood-class martial
arts critic sitting next to him, 
perched by own ass through

so much 

I swear, junk,
about any time one
of us 

visits.
It's on. Its home. 

A tradition that kept itself - for good!
What a loud, banal night, but some
of the movies are surprisingly 

not what you think, quality-wise?
Not exactly what you foresaw, going
in! Surprise? Well, interesting to plump 
for what exactly surprised you about...
what? No, not what, per se. More just 
how they did that, there. A touch, I do
confess. Nice touch?

Kind of. Surprised me! Perhaps for me
to ask me: "What DID I expect, just
there, from so modern a take on a one
-man self-defense rampage played 
largely weaponlessly (sometimes, dad
prefers guns be used. Where available
in-plot? Implaudible, if not picked up
on, shot. If they're so 
serious against
each other,
why all 
the unarmed slam-dance danking 
around? God, dad
criticizes who leaves
guns on the ground 
with bodies tying
the rest of the room
together, and then bolts 
off to look for more people 
trying to kill him - him? 

Oh, pretty safe bet. Him usually. 

Runs off leaving gun-toters beaten, 
senseless, right by what appear to be 
usable tools for this! Dad packs a wry 
crack on that. I demur. Or...well, I chime 
in, if and when. Why? Well, wing it I say.
Carefree breeze occurs to you? BOOM!

What if that's the one shot this crock of
cinema gives you? Ow. If and as it hits me
in the funwise, or a barn-size bull's eye, 
or a cross, hairsbreadth interesect absurdity
-mark! On pull, loose!

I quip, okay? But just. Usually I'm too
into the zone-in immersion film trick
to help hecklers egg.    

Surprise! I am not the one doing that,
normally. I'm other one some pull stinkeye
at: the seer of twist endings before they
show, ONLY if the writers are up to the
untwist-straight shot I plot, only reveal
by short, flat, direct literal hint. 

To the wise, this could be rude. So I shut up
about if, when I know this date's norms
are boundary specific on the shush tip,
please.

Tips? No? OK! Just ajar then, if 
no tips you have - want a couple? 

Sure, I give up freely. I recommend:
go early if it all on the Seagal oeuvre,
if at all, but...that BALD hard guy Jason
Stat or sometham? He picks scripts on

shrewd basis. Apparently "How literally
written-for-me does this play?" 

Not a bad punch-stunt person either. 

And he can rap. 

Any pro actor can. The writer just 
makes your lines rhyme for you.