Godzilla Quotes

Hey, Mr. Nakata. Gramps. Fire! Flood! Earthquake! Revolution! Godzilla's on the loose! Get up!

I spun and jogged around the SUV. Climbing in I readjusted the seat from Godzilla setting to Normal so my feet could reach the pedals.

You have cable?” He nodded toward her TV. She tossed him the clicker. “Sure do. And if I remember, there’s a Godzilla marathon on TBS tonight.” “Sweet,” the vampire said, kicking his legs out. “I always root for the monster.” She smiled at him. “Me, too.

Feeling scared yet? Want to go somewhere safe?" "It won't help, will it? We'd just run into Godzilla or the Vampire from Hell. Trouble just follows you around." "Hey, Trouble. Let's find out what your mysterious Indian wanted us to know.

Every scene should be able to answer three questions: "Who wants what from whom? What happens if they don't get it? Why now?

If Donald Trump and the Wicked Witch of the West had a kid, it would be Jayne-Anne. She looks like a librarian with some money and good taste in clothes but underneath the Verace, she's Godzilla with tits.

I imagined Martha Stewart trying to take over Pops kitchen. That would be better than Godzilla vs. Mothra

Where you think I’m goan?’ ‘Well,’ Eddie said, ‘what was behind Door Number One wasn’t so hot, and what was behind Door Number Two was even worse, so now, instead of quitting like sane people, we’re going to go right on ahead and check out Door Number Three. The way things have been going, I think it’s likely to be something like Godzilla or Ghidra the Three-Headed Monster, but I’m an optimist. I’m still hoping for the stainless steel cookware.

He stomped away like a pint-sized Godzilla looking for Tokyo.

Like Godzilla.’ Alex considered. ‘Or maybe my dad. I have trouble telling them apart.

I mean, come on. He’s kind of cute, in a Godzilla sort of way.

Hollywood Expressed his inner Godzilla again” V to Z

[Kevin and Molly's adorable banter] "I'm not carrying anything until I see what's on your panties." "It's Daphne, okay?" "I'm supposed to believe you're wearing the same underpants you had on yesterday?" "I have more than one pair" "I think you're lying. I want to see for myself." He dragged her deeper into the pines. While Roo circled them barking, he reached for the snap on her shorts. "Quiet, Godzilla! There's some serious business going on here." Roo obediently quieted. She grabbed his wrists and pushed. "Get away." "That's not what you were saying last night." "Somebody'll see." "I'll tell them a bee got you, and I'm taking out the stinger." "Don't touch my stinger!" She grabbed for her shorts, but they were already heading for her knees. "Stop that!" He peered down at her panties. "It's the badger. You lied to me." "I wasn't paying attention when I got dressed." "Hold still. I've just about found that stinger." She heard herself sigh. "Oh, yeah..." His body moved against hers. "There it is.

This mission was about as stealthy as Godzilla at a petting zoo.

Ansel: Is it on? John: It is on. Shailene: Ansel paints miniatures. John: Do you really paint miniatures? Shailene: You're going to freak out when you see what he does. Ansel: Do you paint miniatures too? John: Miniature what? No, I'm sorry. Honest to -- I'm sorry to disappoint you though. Miniature whats? Shailene: Uh, miniature Godzillas. Ansel: No I don't paint Godzillas.

I’ve always harbored a fondness for monsters. Even as a child, I had rooted for Godzilla and King Kong instead of for the people trying to kill them. It had seemed to me that these monsters’ irritation was perfectly reasonable. Nobody likes to be awakened from slumber by a nuclear explosion, so it was no wonder to me Godzilla was crabby; as for King Kong, few men would blame him for his attraction to pretty Fay Wray. (Though her screaming would have eventually put off anyone less patient than a gorilla.) If you took the monsters’ point of view, everything they did made perfect sense. The trick was learning to think like a monster.

I bet when Godzilla first came out, God was like: "Damn, that name is way cooler.

It’s like howler monkeys crawled up a gorilla’s ass and had a dinosaur baby that fucked a radioactive Godzilla… and had an even worse baby. If any of that makes sense.

Frankly, Hadley, you look like a fucking Cabbage Patch Kid fighting Godzilla.

She looks like a librarian with some money and good taste in clothes, but underneath the Versace, she's Godzilla with tits.

During the last few hours of the trip, he and Tess had drilled procedures and done a whole lot of worst-case-scenario type war-gaming. He was now as convinced as he'd ever be that she knew what to do and where to go if Godzilla attacked Kazabek...

JACKIE. I swear to God: Being in love with Veronica - it's like feeding your love to Godzilla every morning, and every morning you go "Yo, 'Zilla, these shits are very delicate so please chew softly", - and every morning - the motherfucker just goes crunch!

Sometimes I wondered exactly what it might take to break Andy out of his math-nerd turret: a tidal wave? Decepticon invasion? Godzilla tromping down Fifth Avenue? He was a planet without an atmosphere.

Now he was gone. She said a silent prayer. Sent it up to heaven. Sam, if you can hear me, I hope you’ve got nice food where you are. Some vegetables like these. They’re meant to be good for you. So eat them all up, like I’m doing. When I die I’ll come and see you, and we’ll be together again. But for now I’m going to think of you safe and happy and playing knights with a friend. Love from Ella. Your sister. P.S. I got a good long turn with Godzilla today after we got here. Godzilla is very happy. P.P.S. I forgot, you never met Godzilla. He is a puppy and is very cute. He belonged to a boy called Joel who got killed by monkeys. I think the monkeys were sick. Monkeys are usually nice. At least in stories. P.P.P.S. Maybe you’ll meet Joel where you are. Say hello. He is nice. P.P.P.P.S. Good night, Sam. The others call you Small Sam. To me you’re just Sam—my brother. I miss you. I wish I was with you.

A couple of weeks later my dad and I were in the car and we passed by a McDonald’s. I screeched and kicked and pointed like Godzilla was coming down the street. Dad must have thought I was nuts. Finally, he said, “Would you like to stop and get a Big Mac and a shake for dinner tonight as a treat?

Monster stories are powerful. They explore prejudice, rejection, anger and every imaginable negative aspect of living in society. However, only half of society is reflected in the ranks of the people who create these monsters. Almost every single iconic monster in film is male and was designed by a man: the Wolfman, Frankenstein, Dracula, King Kong. The emotions and problems that all of them represent are also experienced by women, but women are more likely to see themselves as merely the victims of these monsters. Women rarely get to explore on-screen what it's like to be a giant pissed-off creature. Those emotions are written off. If a woman is angry or upset, she'll be considered hysterical and too emotional. One of the hardest things about misogyny in the film industry isn't facing it directly, it's having to tamp down your anger about it so that when you speak about the problem, you'll be taken seriously. Women don't get to stomp around like Godzilla. Someone will just ask if you're on your period.

It is 10 PM now, and Godzilla has been sitting at his desk in front of his laptop for six to seven hours. He has accomplished hardly anything today. Godzilla is drinking a lot of beer. He can not stop smoking cigarettes. His room is blue with cigarette smoke, and Godzilla sits on a chair in there, minimizing and maximizing Mozilla Firefox repeatedly. He is not over his girlfriend's house because she said on the cell phone that she needed time, alone, to think about their relationship. Godzilla worries that he will not be able to take care of himself if they break up.

Hey, like Godzilla always sez to Mothra—why don’t we go eat some place?

What, you think Penryn’s sister can take on Godzilla instead?” asks Dum. Dee thinks about it. “Meh, probably not. Maybe her mom can, though.

I want a gun, Happy said immediately. "A really big gun. I want a fully functioning Death Star gun." "Not even if Godzilla himself were to show up," said JC.

There was going to be a battle something like if Godzilla met King Kong, or if Frankenstein met Dracula, or like when champion wrestler Bobo Brazil meets the Sheik!

When I was six, I cried for almost an hour in the parking lot of the King of Prussia Mall because my mom wouldn’t buy me a Godzilla DVD.” She actually looks up at me. “What?” “To be fair, it was King Kong vs. Godzilla, the old one. I just thought the cover looked cool. It was only five bucks in the bargain bin. But yeah, almost an hour. And she sat there in silence the whole time until I finally started to calm down. Then you know what she did?” Cara shakes her head and reaches out for the water. I try not to look at her as she drinks. “She queues up a song on her phone and hits play. And it’s the Rolling Stones. ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want.’ I cried for another seven minutes while she sang at the top of her lungs.

Here at the end of the world, with the climate crisis bearing down like Godzilla over downtown Tokyo, U.S. taxpayer subsidies for oil and gas drilling are now almost literally insane.

Oh, and a huge Federal Building that looked like it was being molested by a giant steel pterodactyl, but evidently that was just the government trying to get away from their standard bomb shelter architecture to something more aesthetically appealing, especially if you liked Godzilla porn.

These are lines from my asteroid-impact novel, Regolith: Just because there are no laws against stupidity doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be punished. I haven’t faced rejection this brutal since I was single. He smelled trouble like a fart in the shower. If this was a kiss of gratitude, then she must have been very grateful. Not since Bush and Cheney have so few spent so much so fast for so long for so little. As a nympho for mind-fucks, Lisa took to politics like a pig to mud. She began paying men compliments as if she expected a receipt. Like the Aerosmith song, his get-up-and-go just got-up-and-went. “You couldn’t beat the crap out of a dirty diaper!” He embraced his only daughter as if she was deploying to Iraq. She was hotter than a Class 4 solar flare! If sex was a weapon, then Monique possessed WMD I haven’t felt this alive since I lost my virginity. He once read that 95% of women fake organism, and the rest are gay. Beauty may be in the eyes of the beholder, but ugly is universal. Why do wives fart, but not girlfriends? Adultery is sex that is wrong, but not necessarily bad. The dinosaurs stayed drugged out, drooling like Jonas Brothers fans. Silence filled the room like tear gas. The told him a fraction of the truth and hoped it would take just a fraction of the time. Happiness is the best cosmetic, He was a whale of a catch, and there were a lot of fish in the sea eager to nibble on his bait. Cheap hookers are less buck for the bang, Men cannot fall in love with women they don’t find attractive, and women cannot fall in love with men they do not respect. During sex, men want feedback while women expect mind-reading. Cooper looked like a cow about to be tipped over. His father warned him to never do anything he couldn’t justify on Oprah. The poor are not free -- they’re just not enslaved. Only those with money are free. Sperm wasn’t something he would choose on a menu, but it still tasted better than asparagus. The crater looked alive, like Godzilla was about to leap out and mess up Tokyo. Bush follows the Bible until it gets to Jesus. When Bush talks to God, it’s prayer; when God talks to Bush, it’s policy. Cheney called the new Miss America a traitor – apparently she wished for world peace. Cheney was so unpopular that Bush almost replaced him when running for re-election, changing his campaign slogan to, ‘Ain’t Got Dick.’ Bush fought a war on poverty – and the poor lost. Bush thinks we should strengthen the dollar by making it two-ply. Hurricane Katrina got rid of so many Democratic voters that Republicans have started calling her Kathleen Harris. America and Iraq fought a war and Iran won. Bush hasn’t choked this much since his last pretzel. Some wars are unpopular; the rest are victorious. So many conservatives hate the GOP that they are thinking of changing their name to the Dixie Chicks. If Saddam had any WMD, he would have used them when we invaded. If Bush had any brains, he would have used them when we invaded. It’s hard for Bush to win hearts and minds since he has neither. In Iraq, you are a coward if you leave and a fool if you stay. Bush believes it’s not a sin to kill Muslims since they are going to Hell anyway. And, with Bush’s help, soon. In Iraq, those who make their constitution subservient to their religion are called Muslims. In America they’re called Republicans. With great power comes great responsibility – unless you’re Republican.

History shows again and again how nature points out the folly of man.

Going to see Godzilla at the Palais of the Cannes Film Festival is like attending a satanic ritual in St. Peter’s basilica.

He smiled. “Happy anniversary, Samantha Jellicoe. So, Godzilla, or sex?” Samantha laughed. “How about both?” “I like that. I get to be Godzilla.” “I guess that makes me Tokyo.

Godzilla was coming...

I have a picture of him from California. I’ll forward it up to you. A big guy.” “Big, like bodyguard big?” “Try Godzilla.

Oh, Raffe versus Godzilla. Now that’s a fight I’d love to take bets on,” says Dum.

La focalización obsesiva en una cosa terrible llamada «inquisición» nos ha llevado a menudo a evocar a un Godzilla histórico que no coincide con la verdad ni con la realidad.

A plastic axe, surely the Godzilla of all plastic axes, was slung over one shoulder, and he grinned unceasingly at the northern skies,

Good thing I left my Godzilla in Virginia.

The troll’s back had beams and pipe from the Green Mill Recycling Center melded into it, which gave him a dinosaur-like appearance. Someone screamed, “Godzilla!

Be not an insect of indifference, be the godzilla of zeal and deeds.

Given the choice between finding Godzilla and David Chambers on her doorstep, she'd have opted for the reptile, and never mind it wasn't the one who had the law degree.

You have your fear that might become reality, and you have Godzilla… which is reality.

Everyone will just figure this week was Evie’s red-light at the Y. When I’m OTR, I scourge the halls like Godzilla. Your little la-la-land thing is cute compared to the breathing of actual fire.

The apocalypse was supposed to be cliché drama, Godzilla roaming the streets and zombies crawling from graves to devour the living. I guess all of humankind wanted to believe they’d end with a bang instead of unnoticed silence. We all, deep down, want to believe in a future where our historical monuments and literature hold significance. We want our deaths to be important. We want to matter.

To be a damn genius, you are so obtuse. I don’t care if it’s Godzilla or Frankenstein or fucking Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. It doesn’t matter what’s on the screen, Banner. I just don’t want you to leave.

10) La novela breve apela al silencio, a la intimidad, a la prudencia misma. Si cada obra busca a su lector, convengamos que la novela-godzilla convoca más al consumidor de libros ladrillo que al lector gozoso.

Bukkake,” said a voice in my ear. “Multiple ejaculations onto the face. It’s the new thing.” It was the tattooed girl, crouched behind my chair. “This is the only genuine and authentic Godzilla Bukkake night in America.

She'd fall back asleep dreaming of hurricanes whipping the palm trees around her childhood home, trying to run from the Godzilla-sized beast that rushed to devour her. But her feet were stuck in invisible cement. As she struggled to scream, she'd startle awake and feel the staccato beats of her heart thumping double-time. Only then would she remember: she brought him into this world. - The Monster In Her Bedroom, Havok Magazine, Issue 1.1

Yes, I know there is a fashion nowadays for these Hitler's-valet type memoirs, and many people are against, they say we should not humanise the inhuman. But the point is they are not inhuman, these Mainduck-style little Hitlers, and it is in their humanity that we must locate our collective guilt, humanity's guilt for human beings' misdeeds; for if they are just monsters - if it is just a question of King Kong and Godzilla wreaking havoc until the aeroplanes bring them down - then the rest of us are excused.

 It’s weird being alone in the museum. It’s dark and eerily quiet: Only the after-hours lights are on—just enough to illuminate the hallways and stop you from tripping over your own feet—and the background music that normally plays all the time is shut off. I quickly organize the flashlights and check their batteries, and when I don’t hear Porter walking around, I stare at the phone sitting at the information desk. How many chances come along like this? I pick up the receiver, press the little red button next to the word ALL, and speak into the phone in a low voice. “Paging Porter Roth to the information desk,” I say formally, my voice crackling through the entire lobby and echoing down the corridors. Then I press the button again and add, “While you’re at it, check your shoes to make sure they’re a match, you bastard. By the way, I still haven’t quite forgiven you for humiliating me. It’s going to take a lot more than a kiss and a cookie to make me forget both that and the time you provoked me in the Hotbox.” I’m only teasing, which I hope he knows. I feel a little drunk on all my megaphone power, so I page one more thing: “PS—You look totally hot in those tight-fitting security guard pants tonight, and I plan to get very handsy with you at the movies, so we better sit in the back row.” I hang up the phone and cover my mouth, silently laughing at myself. Two seconds later, Porter’s footfalls pound down Jay’s corridor—Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! He sounds like a T. rex running from Godzilla. He races into the lobby and slides in front of the information desk, grabbing onto the edge to stop himself, wild curls flying everywhere. His grin is enormous. “Whadidya say ’bout where you want to be puttin’ your hands on me?” he asks breathlessly. “I think you have me confused with someone else,” I tease. His head sags against the desk. I push his hair away from one of his eyes. He looks up at me and asks, “You really still haven’t forgiven me?” “Maybe if you put your hands onme, I might.” “Don’t go getting my hopes up like that.” “Oh, your hopes should be up. Way up.” “Dear God, woman,” he murmurs. “And here I was, thinking you were a classy dame.” “Pfft. You don’t know me at all.” “I aim to find out. What are we still doing here? Let’s blow this place and get to the theater, fast.

Godzilla, you see, is toppled, is depleted, is immobile and breathless, the non-conversative dictator and his polemical primeval tyranny dashed to social smithereens... for some his demise will evince agitation, adulation and appraisal, but for me, Yasuhiro Dustin T-Bird, it returns the lingering largesse of an inconsolable fear. The fear is this: that there's a thing as big as pirate continents in the China Sea that we've together mythologised up to now currently obstructing the procession of metropolitan traffic all the way to Yoyogi. His formidable draconian jaw with its legend of gargantuan teeth slacks open like a lifelong foe's long-withheld liability, and sulphur rents the air in acrid, acid plumes as though the most cultured and violent yellowcake fart in categorical memory.

Azdaha were no joke. ... Not much is known about this dragon [the aforementioned Gandarw], except that he apparently had yellow heels. I wonder why that was such an important detail. I mean if I were describing Godzilla, the color of his heels wouldn’t be the first thing I would mention.

Neither one of them being confident enough to share that news with you because you are, in fact, the monster of this picture. Godzilla got to be the title role, but, my God, he was still the monster. Still the antagonist. Still the wickedest. That is me. The creature who destroys villages and has to be tiptoed around.

My life was every bit as fine as hers, so I ordered the same thing. Because we were regulars here, and had been coming here most of our lives, the aging, unshaven waiter snatched away our menus with a face that might have been the role model for Deborah's, and stomped off to the kitchen like Godzilla on his way to Tokyo.

Zoe returned her attention to the map of southern Argentina on the computer. “What on earth could possibly be worth using that much nuclear power on? There’s nothing around there but mountains and sea.” “There’s guanacos,” Murray said helpfully. “What the heck’s a guanaco?” Zoe asked. “It’s a relative of the camel,” Murray explained. “It kind of looks like an anorexic llama. From what I understand, the pampas down there are full of them.” “And you think SPYDER wants to nuke them all?” Zoe said. “What good is a whole bunch of vaporized guanacos?” “Suppose they only nuked one,” Murray said ominously. “What if they focused all that nuclear energy on it? If a single irradiated iguana could turn into Godzilla, just imagine what a giant guanaco would look like. It’d be terrifying!” Zoe gave him a withering look. “The only terrifying thing about this plan is that you actually think it’s possible. Godzilla never existed!” “But maybe he could,” Murray countered. “Or worse . . . Guanacazilla!” He gave a roar that was probably supposed to be half llama, half monster, but it sounded more like an angry hamster. We all considered him for a moment. “Moving on,” Erica said. “Does anyone have a suggestion that isn’t completely idiotic?” “Ha ha,” Murray said petulantly. “You mock me now, but we’ll see who’s laughing when there’s a thirty-story guanaco running rampant through Buenos Aires.

Big Jason walked into the club, stared at the band beginning their sound check and quickly walked over to the bar. Lily looked up from her rinsing and smiled. "Big Jason Gulliver, back in town. Raquel said Godzilla returned to Tokyo, I wondered how soon you'd drop by here". "Front me a soda, Lily. How's the night club racket?" Jason barked over the noisy band. "Guys still hitting on me, including your stupid friend King Steve", Lily shot a jet of soda pop from her beverage gun into a water glass. Jason chortled. "He's slow on the draw. You're a fuckin' dyke but a cool fuckin' dyke. I don't even care if you sleep with my girl". "Why thank you, Caveman", Lily smiled, handing him the soda with a cherry on top.

There’s guanacos,” Murray said helpfully. “What the heck’s a guanaco?” Zoe asked. “It’s a relative of the camel,” Murray explained. “It kind of looks like an anorexic llama. From what I understand, the pampas down there are full of them.” “And you think SPYDER wants to nuke them all?” Zoe said. “What good is a whole bunch of vaporized guanacos?” “Suppose they only nuked one,” Murray said ominously. “What if they focused all that nuclear energy on it? If a single irradiated iguana could turn into Godzilla, just imagine what a giant guanaco would look like. It’d be terrifying!” Zoe gave him a withering look. “The only terrifying thing about this plan is that you actually think it’s possible. Godzilla never existed!

Godzilla lovers to this day still wonder precisely what attracts them. Part of the appeal is the surprising sophistication in what seems at first glance to be simple-minded Saturday matinee fare. In the wreckage left in the wake of this awesome beast lies the tattered remains of human hubris, a moral lesson left smoldering in the ruins. As series producer Tomoyuki Tanaka put it, “As long as the arrogance of human beings exists, Godzilla will survive.

Samantha,” he murmured, reaching out to tilt up her chin, to gaze into her bottomless green eyes, “I love you more than you love Godzilla.” Her burst of laughter sounded surprised and delighted – two things he most prized being able to give her. “Even the new Godzilla?” she asked him, leaning in to give him a kiss that ended with her nibbling on his bottom lip. “I love you quadruple the amount you love the new Godzilla.” “Wow. That’s a lot.” “Shut up and kiss me again, Yank.

I saw a post the other day, where someone wrote that, when they walk through a library, they touch the spines of all the books they’ve read , as a way of greeting their favorite characters . . . Try that with one of my novels, and you’ll walk away counting your fingers!

Along with Batman v. Superman and Godzilla vs. Kong, I suppose we’ll get Frankenstein vs. Dracula, and perhaps Transformers vs. G.I. Joe in the HasbroVerse, and Warcraft vs. Angry Birds in the GameVerse — not to be confused with the BoardgameVerse of Battleship vs. Risk and Chutes and Ladders vs. Candy Land. And eventually all of these shared universes will collide with all of the others, including Alien vs. Predator and Freddy vs. Jason, in a Brobdingnagian rumble pitting Jedi against Pirates of the Caribbean, Terminators against Borg, and Muppets against Smurfs, world without end. Even if for some inexplicable reason that doesn’t happen, the LegoVerse will make it happen

Speaking of which,” he said, unable to help his abrupt smile, “I had John Stillwell track down an item for me during his Los Angeles trip.” “A bottle of Botox?” “It’s behind your seat. Another anniversary present, I suppose.” “Okay,” she said slowly, and undid her seat belt to lean around behind her seat. “Oh…my…God.” She giggled. Actually giggled, as she freed the clear-plastic fronted box. “He roars, and walks with the remote control.” Samantha settled the two feet of boxed Godzilla onto her lap, refastening her seat belt. “He roars?” “There are some mini frightened Tokyo residents taped to the inside of the box. And the background forms into a skyscraper he can knock over.

hero’s gotta do. Even if he’d rather be doing anything else—like algebra or going to the dentist. I hang a right at the corner bakery and make a beeline for Keystone Police Station. Why the police station? Well, it’s not because I’m trying to stuff this Godzilla wannabe into a human-sized jail cell. That’s impossible, although it sure would be nice. No, I’m heading for the police station because that’s where TechnocRat told me to meet him. He said he had a big solution for our not-so-little problem. And he better be right, because we’re coming in fast, so I hope he’s ready to deliver on his end of the deal. THUMP! My feet fly off the pavement. Every time that over-sized lizard takes a step,

Even the most recent IPCC report, dire as it is, spells out solutions of a sort. There are ways to mitigate things, there are ways to fix them. Ban fossil fuels. Stop eating meat and dairy; according to an IPCC report from 2014, animal agriculture contributes at least as much to global greenhouse gas emissions as the combined exhaust of all the world’s vehicles. What’s that you say? Too difficult? Can’t switch to an oil-free economy overnight? Okay, here’s something that’s effective, simple, and as convenient as a visit to the nearest outpatient clinic: stop breeding. Every child you squeeze out is a Godzilla-sized carbon bootprint stretching into the future—and after all, isn’t 7.6 billion of us enough? Are your genes really that special? If even half the men on the planet got vasectomies, I bet we could buy ourselves a century—and as an added bonus, child-free people not only tend to have higher disposable income than the sprogged, they’re also statistically happier.

How I Got That Name Marilyn Chin an essay on assimilation I am Marilyn Mei Ling Chin Oh, how I love the resoluteness of that first person singular followed by that stalwart indicative of “be," without the uncertain i-n-g of “becoming.” Of course, the name had been changed somewhere between Angel Island and the sea, when my father the paperson in the late 1950s obsessed with a bombshell blond transliterated “Mei Ling” to “Marilyn.” And nobody dared question his initial impulse—for we all know lust drove men to greatness, not goodness, not decency. And there I was, a wayward pink baby, named after some tragic white woman swollen with gin and Nembutal. My mother couldn’t pronounce the “r.” She dubbed me “Numba one female offshoot” for brevity: henceforth, she will live and die in sublime ignorance, flanked by loving children and the “kitchen deity.” While my father dithers, a tomcat in Hong Kong trash— a gambler, a petty thug, who bought a chain of chopsuey joints in Piss River, Oregon, with bootlegged Gucci cash. Nobody dared question his integrity given his nice, devout daughters and his bright, industrious sons as if filial piety were the standard by which all earthly men are measured. * Oh, how trustworthy our daughters, how thrifty our sons! How we’ve managed to fool the experts in education, statistic and demography— We’re not very creative but not adverse to rote-learning. Indeed, they can use us. But the “Model Minority” is a tease. We know you are watching now, so we refuse to give you any! Oh, bamboo shoots, bamboo shoots! The further west we go, we’ll hit east; the deeper down we dig, we’ll find China. History has turned its stomach on a black polluted beach— where life doesn’t hinge on that red, red wheelbarrow, but whether or not our new lover in the final episode of “Santa Barbara” will lean over a scented candle and call us a “bitch.” Oh God, where have we gone wrong? We have no inner resources! * Then, one redolent spring morning the Great Patriarch Chin peered down from his kiosk in heaven and saw that his descendants were ugly. One had a squarish head and a nose without a bridge Another’s profile—long and knobbed as a gourd. A third, the sad, brutish one may never, never marry. And I, his least favorite— “not quite boiled, not quite cooked," a plump pomfret simmering in my juices— too listless to fight for my people’s destiny. “To kill without resistance is not slaughter” says the proverb. So, I wait for imminent death. The fact that this death is also metaphorical is testament to my lethargy. * So here lies Marilyn Mei Ling Chin, married once, twice to so-and-so, a Lee and a Wong, granddaughter of Jack “the patriarch” and the brooding Suilin Fong, daughter of the virtuous Yuet Kuen Wong and G.G. Chin the infamous, sister of a dozen, cousin of a million, survived by everbody and forgotten by all. She was neither black nor white, neither cherished nor vanquished, just another squatter in her own bamboo grove minding her poetry— when one day heaven was unmerciful, and a chasm opened where she stood. Like the jowls of a mighty white whale, or the jaws of a metaphysical Godzilla, it swallowed her whole. She did not flinch nor writhe, nor fret about the afterlife, but stayed! Solid as wood, happily a little gnawed, tattered, mesmerized by all that was lavished upon her and all that was taken away!

Some days you are Godzilla. Other days you are Tokyo.

David and Donna were scene partners in Jean Shelton's class, and also extremely nice people, but they were in growing danger of raising Samuel Beckett from the dead and compelling him to stomp through San Francisco like Godzilla.

Before exploring other critical implications of the subtleties at the interface between capillaries and cells, such as how they influence your growth, aging, and subsequent death, I want to briefly return to the issue of Godzilla.

You’re hungry, Denis?” “Really. Hey, like Godzilla always sez to Mothra–why don’t we go eat some place?

I WANDER THE film criticism district, formulating theories, grinding axes; it keeps me sane in these insane times to return to my roots, to praise those films and filmmakers worthy of an audience’s attention, to destroy those filmmakers who loose self-satisfied garbage onto the world. Consider Stranger Than Fiction, I say to my imagined lecture hall full of cinephiles: a wonderfully quirky film starring William Ferrell and the always adorkable Zooey Deschanel. The work done here by director Marc Forster (who directed the unfortunately misguided, misogynistic, and racistic Monster’s Ball) and screenwriter Zachary H. Elms is stellar in that all the metacinematic techniques work, its construction analogous to that of a fine Swiss watch (no accident that a wristwatch figures so prominently into the story!). Compare this to any mess written by Charlie Kaufman. Stranger Than Fiction is the film Kaufman would’ve written if he were able to plan and structure his work, rather than making it up as he goes along, throwing in half-baked concepts willy-nilly, using no criterion other than a hippy-dippy “that’d be cool, man.” Such a criterion might work if the person making that assessment had even a shred of humanism within his soul. Kaufman does not, and so he puts his characters through hellscapes with no hope of them achieving understanding or redemption. Will Ferrell learns to live fully in the course of Stranger Than Fiction. Dame Emily Thomson, who plays his “author,” learns her own lessons about compassion and the value and function of art. Had Kaufman written this film, it would have been a laundry list of “clever” ideas culminating in some unearned emotional brutality and a chain reaction of recursional activity wherein it is revealed that the author has an author who has an author who has an author who has an author, et chetera, thus leaving the audience depleted, depressed, and, most egregiously, cheated. What Kaufman does not understand is that such “high concepts” are not an end in themselves but an opportunity to explore actual mundane human issues. Kaufman is a monster, plain and simple, but a monster unaware of his staggering ineptitude (Dunning and Kruger could write a book about him!). Kaufman is Godzilla with dentures, Halloween’s Mike Myers with a rubber knife, Pennywise the Clown with contact dermatitis from living in a sewer. He is a pathetic—

In this sense, grocery is a story still being written. In the beginning, there was nature, powerful and cruel—that original destroyer of worlds—drought and predation, wind and disease. And so we built tools to subdue her: from jamming sticks into anthills to charting out agronomist tables and plows. And we built these tools so well and for so long that now nature, real nature, is mostly a dream, an uneasy longing, repressed and turned kindly by submission, the way terrible fathers crumble into grandfathers. Then somewhere, after centuries, we woke to the fact that our tools had become too powerful—our monocultures, pesticides, and mine scalings—the tools just as fearsome as the nature they set out to rein in, and we found ourselves cowering once again. This is the typical end point, with our Frankensteins and atomic Godzillas. A daily alienation updated almost as a background app into our iPhone addictions and queasy feelings about social media we just can’t quit. But what we’ve begun to see, what I certainly learned writing this book, is that we’ve undertaken a new project. We decided that, caught between two awesome external forces—nature everlasting, and these new tools of our own creation—the one piece in the whole operation that was most malleable was us. Our selves. That we would happily trade away aspects of our lives—be it community or duty or eccentricity or care—for an ability to survive between them.

Universal’s change of heart wasn’t only due to the failure of The Frighteners. Disney were putting out a (as it turns out ghastly) remake of Mighty Joe Young, the King Kong copycat from 1949, and now the all-conquering Emmerich had announced that for his next trick he was planning to remake Godzilla. ‘And Universal didn’t want to do another monster movie,’ laments Jackson.

the Godzilla brand was soon losing its bite. One online discussion group even included a list of 63 fundamental flaws within the movie (typical example: ‘Godzilla can outrun helicopters but he can’t keep up with a taxicab’).

Wait... we... you... you mean... we...” I spray words around the room, taking out innocent bystanders with my abrupt enthusiasm. “This is huge! This is enormous! This is like the Godzilla of breaks. It’s the sort of break that destroys large chunks of Tokyo!” I stop, take stock, try and gain perspective. Punctured lung and all that. “Who is it?” I ask, unable to stop one toe from tapping.

And then, standing there in my Godzilla t-shirt, her blonde hair combed to the side, she says, “Supergirls stand together.” I had to say the rest, “Supergirls stay together.

        Godzilla’s famous roar is from a wild animal. Most movie monsters sounds are from animals. King Kong’s roar is an edited lion roar and Jurassic Park’s T-Rex roar is from the ferocious….walrus… huh… Godzilla has the most iconic roar. Strangely, it isn’t from an animal. Akira Ifukube came up with the idea for the sound by stroking a violin chord with a leather glove. I don’t know if Akira has waaaaay too much time on his hands or if he is a genius.

Strong women, no, but Sally’s like the Godzilla of women.” Tyler

Godzilla sized dick.

The next Friday, I went to visit my favorite Englishman for game night. Justus groaned when I bragged about our plans for an all-night Godzilla marathon, but I knew he was glad to be rid of me. He liked to go out and get his freak on, whether he’d admit it or not. Every man has needs, and his were never satisfied when I tagged along. Maybe I was a little mean to the women, but it irritated me that he didn’t have standards.

Act One: Get your hero up a tree. Act Two: Throw rocks at him. Act Three: Get him down out of the tree. - attributed to George Abbott, on playwriting

Booms and sirens and loud noises carry from far off. Some of them I can place: a fire engine, gun shots. Others are guesses: A grenade? Gas line explosion? Godzilla?

Years and years of nuclear waste and radiation leaking from Fukushima, Japan. And still no Godzilla. It's like... it's like they're not even trying.

Godzilla— A skyscraper-sized, radioactively mutated lizard. Grocery

The Godfather, A Place in the Sun, Dodsworth, Galaxy Quest--these are perfect films. They start with a simple premise and proceed logically, and inevitably, toward a conclusion both surprising and inevitable. [From the chapter "The Script."]

What are you going to do?” Cindy asked as we walked home. “You can’t keep missing recess. We need you on our soccer team.” “I can’t keep missing homework,” I added. “I’ll have all F’s on my report card.” Cindy’s eyes got big. “Your parents will kill you.

The Hollywood version contains only two muted references to radiation. And it ends on a much happier note: “The menace was gone,” the narrator concludes. “The world could wake up and live again.” The Japanese Gojira was a protest film, hammering away at the dangers of the U.S. testing in the Pacific. The English-language Godzilla, by contrast, was just another monster flick.

Okay, Godzilla,” Lola snaps from across the table. “Let’s not take down the tower before everyone’s naked. Jeez.

And to be honest, a man could only watch Frozen or The Hobbit so many times before he was ready to murder a halfling or strangle a princess, so I picked a Godzilla film I knew we all liked.

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And he had this glamour cast over him, so he looked extra terrifying.” “Like Godzilla.” Alex considered. “Or maybe my dad. I have trouble telling them apart.

A few more seconds passed before someone in the group began to stir. A man. He got to his feet slowly, moment by moment, a huge man, rising off the floor like Godzilla wading out of the water, his entire being expanding and filling the room. When he stood all the way up, the top of his head nearly scraped the ceiling. The big man shuffled toward them like a planet with two feet.

Sharing Godzilla with the rest of the second grade wasn’t the best part about Mr. Morris’s plan, but it was better than what Margaret had in mind. She wanted to cook Godzilla for dinner. I didn’t like Mom and Dad’s idea of taking Godzilla back to The Wagging Tail Pet Store, either. So when Mr. Morris said Godzilla could be a class pet, I decided it was the best idea of all. I did the responsible thing. Now Godzilla lives in Mr. Morris’s classroom.

I asked Roth what that was, and you know how he responded? He said it was just a house spider.” “A house spider?” I exclaimed. “For whose house? Godzilla’s?” “Exactly.” She led us through a short, narrow hall. “He then proceeded to tell me that there were even bigger spiders.” “I would literally set myself on fire if I saw a spider bigger than that,” Jada said, and I shuddered.

Cindy thought Godzilla was great. She liked him better than her ant farm. After all, there wasn’t much you could do with pet ants except watch them work. We played with Godzilla all afternoon, and all the next day, too. Godzilla liked it when we made tunnels out of grocery bags.