Looks like a nice week-end ahead — even better if it rains. I wish.
Julie & Julia is too slickly produced but undeniably fun and entertaining. I may review Friday or let it wait until closer to its opening next week.
Saw my fave new band this evening — well worth the trip. I’ll write about them too, soon. Very powerful, very creative.
Several projects plus general survival demand my attention for the next few days — thus I’m basically chilling and not signing on for any unnecessary stresses. As it’s not even August yet, I’d like to feel some degree of order and efficiency in my life — it can’t all be seat-of-the-pants (can it?) — prior to kissing Summer goodbye and then getting slammed in the face by the busyness of Autumn.
Today, Friday, is the final day — this afternoon, actually — of the sensational Secret Policeman’s Film Festival, in New York City. If you can make it over to the Paley Centre for Pleasure at Her Majesty’s at 1 pm, DO! You’ll thank me; and I thank Martin Lewis. Very sincerely, he’s one of the fabbest cats in the Universe.
And speaking of the Universe, a couple of years ago, who but Martin trotted out almost the entire cast, the writers, plus of course Julie Taymor for a gala screening of Across the Universe! I’ll admit it — I was very sceptical of the project (though I had already seen it at a press screening) — but although I liked it at the first screening (alongside Daniel Waters, master screenwriter and friend who shushed everybody at his party earlier that year when the AtU trailer was TiVo’d up), I LOVED it at the second. Residue of my prejudiced resentment toward it (leftovers of my strong affection for the movie of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band — doubt me? View it tonight: It WILL make you happy!) somewhat hobbled my review — but y’know, I gotta say, Across the Universe is one of the greatest movies of the new millennium. Oh, and being at the Viper Room afterward, as cast and crew took the stage for a night of thrilling Beatles covers! — I reminisce most fondly here. So magical and wonderful was that evening that I’m still not sure how to put it into words. I promise I’ll do my best, as soon as I can. The world deserves to know.
Meanwhile, I’m not in love . . . and I’m still pounding out some dents from a couple of years ago (unlike some, I’m not so blithe and soulless that I can just fuck whomever is around the next corner) . . . but I am allowing myself just a bit of tentative fondness for someone. When someone so lovely and wonderful comes along — even if it is incongruous and improbable (I’ve known her for five years) — I admit it: I wish I could hug her every day. She probably doesn’t know, and she has other business in her life — but I get to see her face for a little while Friday night.
She’s more hardcore than this song (one of the few Beatles covers to surpass the originals), but ’tis to her I dedicate this splendid number. And to you, bon week-end.
Seeing her face tonight even for a few moments was as slurping cool water from a deep, dark, prehistoric well; I am refreshed.
Let’s see . . . how about seven updates and seven months recounted? Sure. Here:
UPDATES:
1. All projects for the foreseeable future are outlined and being cultivated; while this security does not rule out spontaneous creativity, it does mean that “boredom” — not felt by me since I was a child (not even working shitty jobs in recent years) — has become fully incomprehensible. So much to do! (etc.)
2. Almost all useless vestiges of the past have been shucked; it’s not that I like to cling — but when there’s no new trapeze in sight, it pays to hold onto the old one, even if it’s swinging nowhere, rather than slamming into the sawdust floor for all to enjoy. Anyway, I’d look back — but there’s almost nothing there anymore.
3. The Universe has seen fit this evening to bestow upon me literally hundreds of books! Neighbours moving, releasing the fruit of their bookshelves, and I got first picks through most of it! Astounding! I’m already almost obscenely stacked (you may quote me) — but complementing my collection via smart people with exceptional taste just brings me great joy. (Included: One of my fave movie soundtracks ever — which is extremely rare and I only had it on vinyl — on an import CD. Better than spontaneous fellatio. Well…)
4. That said, have noted actual semi-exodus from region. People are failing financially here; it’s real. Clearance-sales and close-outs, lots of ‘For Rent’ signs, purgings such as the one described. There used to be several mama-san ‘n’ papa-san Chinese restaurants around here; they’re all gone; couldn’t make the rent. I wonder if this place is going to die — or if there’s enough life (and sophistication) here to sustain it.
5. Have decided to spend birthday in Europe this year. Or something like that.
6. Amusing crap: Although I’d rather not write about her anymore, “the actress” (who is a human being — just a severely misguided one) calls me up today, sounds like she’s near death, claims to be stuck in fetal position, requests my company. She’s nicer to me than usual, but the long and short of it is that she’s contemplating screwing around with a third rich guy this week because the second rich guy hasn’t called in a few days. Doesn’t seem to grasp that none of this is fair to the first rich guy. I just shrug, treat her as well as possible, say the smartest things I have available on a hot, semi-stupid afternoon, and obligingly sniff all the overpriced shampoos she proffers. The whole time I’m thinking: “Why would anyone ever do any of this?” Now that her behaviour completely obliterates anything I could feel approaching desire, it’s actually quite easy to waft along for a little while, striving to be supportive — like charity-work. She shockingly mentions an esteemed author dumb people would never know. I continue to give her the benefit of the doubt. I’d also rather be doing my own work.
7. My own work is going well, thank you. I wish I had the “time” to be supportive to everybody in my life I like — but if you feel like you’re needing a little more from me, just ask. Until people speak up, I just strive to maintain a balance amongst ostensibly random variables.
THE FIRST HALF OF 2009 — + — IN REVIEW:
JANUARY, 2009:
The New Year is duly rung in amongst pub-revellers, with T. and a few familiar faces. I finish reading Andy Summers’ thrilling One Train Later (my companion on holiday travels) and take several photos of my vinyl collection for facebook — which I use too much but whatever.
FEBRUARY, 2009:
I don’t actually recall anything particularly interesting from February of this year. As in the previous year, T. and I made some good strides with a great script we’ve been creating — and mutually agreed not to meet on Valentine’s Day to discuss it. Was the Superbowl in February? Like I would know. I went to the annual Superbowl party — at which I never watch the game because I don’t care about televised sports. Oh, wait, maybe I didn’t. Maybe it was the Oscars. Something, some party, same faces, thanks.
MARCH, 2009:
I attended screenings of several great films at my beloved Aero Theatre, among them Kurosawa’s Kagemusha (not quite as good as I had recalled) and The Hidden Fortress (better every time), plus a cast’n'crew anniversary screening of The Last Starfighter (new to me; quite fun), and a delightful in-person tribute to Carl Reiner (in the vein of last year’s excellent Mel Brooks tribute-retrospective; can you believe it? Grant has interviewed them both!), including such treats as The Jerk, The Man with Two Brains, and Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid (all slightly better even than my fresh memories thereof). I also fumbled my last chance to see David Carradine alive when he turned up (and threw crazy tantrums) for a screening of Bound for Glory I opted to skip [snaps fingers in mild consternation] — oh, and the lot of us friends attended the heartfelt and jam-packed memorial tribute to Forrest J. Ackerman (who became one of my Honourary Grandfathers just in “time”). We also skipped The One and Only to go do something better that evening. What that “something better” was, I wonder.
APRIL, 2009
Kind of an interesting month. I did a lot of my usual social and creative rounds — and also sat through several ugly but energetic and incongruous movies, including four by Pasolini (nice shit-eating!) and the meaner, less-funny mall cop movie. Decided I don’t like Seth Rogen — like the world needs another fat obnoxious asshole; thank you, no. Also viewed one of my all-time faves, The Mosquito Coast, again — and it really is Harrison Ford’s best film, not to mention one of the best adaptations and movies-from-the-’80s ever (not surprisingly, hardly anybody was there) — and I finally got over my crush on Martha Plimpton (she’s okay; whatever; smoker). Speaking of crushes, seeing Beetlejuice in its entirety for the very first time reminded me how hard it is not to love Geena Davis with all one’s heart — and, saddled with it, Tim Burton’s Batman is fun, but too long, and never quite alive enough (he’d improve with Batman Returns). I also met Atom Egoyan — he’s nice. Um…oh, and then there was the big L.A. Times Festival of Books at UCLA — which I always attend — and this year my sensational friend Richard (does he want to be name-checked?) put me on his VIP list. So I got to cavort with diplomatic immunity: I got in and got close for the likes of Michael J. Fox (who’s doing MUCH better than any lying tabloid would tell you); Ray Bradbury (Honourary Grandfather) doing his spiel and leaving out some parts this year, but also adding some parts; and the riotously witty Gore Vidal — whose intelligence and presence really impressed me. The second day carried over into the COL-COA film festival, at which I viewed one of the best films of this year (or last — it’s French — plus it’s one of the finest domestic dramas literally ever) — and met a pretty and kind of intense Russian woman who kind of became a friend for a little while there (does anything last in L.A.?) — and got into a disturbing emotional situation on the ride back with a male friend, who blew his stack and lost his temper at me and didn’t exactly scare me, per se — but worried me very severely for what is considered acceptable behaviour these days. He then had a rough situation a few days later — its impendingness had gone quite unmentioned — so I can pardon the outburst but it has also made communication rather weird. Fuckin’ weird April.
MAY, 2009:
Offhand, I’m not sure I could tell you what happened in May — I mean, as opposed to other months. I’m sure I went to some cool movies, played the guitar a few times, made sarcastic comments on facebook a lot (for by this point it had become apparent that facebook fully intends to exploit users’ property for company gain — the shitbags), and sold this or that in order to continue eating (more than condiments off the salsa bar, that is). I think it was also in May that I accidentally provoked two longish-term friends to shout and screech at me with bloody hysteria — because I had dared to suggest that there is a distinct difference between Loving (meaning: respecting and supporting your partner) and “Being In Love” (which is a cheap narcotic to which most people — particularly Americans — frequently become addicted). Apart from the guy blowing up at me in the car, I haven’t beheld such rage in a long time — maybe ever. It was very upsetting. I quit the establishment in which this happened — and a month later it closed. The region really isn’t the same anymore. There’s a strong whiff of the-death-before-the-rebirth in the air. If there’s a rebirth.
JUNE, 2009:
Happily, I started writing about Martin Lewis’ Mods & Rockers / Secret Policeman’s Film Festival again/anew — and although it’s not exactly easy for me to swoop around this insane city and view long evenings of documentary and then write about them promptly (I like writing slowly and thoughtfully), I really must make this clear: I ADORE THIS MATERIAL. Another sensational author friend of mine, Michael (does he wish to be name-checked? — I know another sensational Michael, but he’s not technically an author yet) celebrated a birthday in June, and we did some Secret Policeman’s viewing as part of the party (it takes a brilliantly skewed mind to appreciate how awesome this material really is — and Michael is one of the most brilliantly skewed people I’ve ever met) — oh, and somewhere in there I got to experience and meet Alex de la Iglesia (his The Oxford Murders sucks in an interesting way; but generally he’s very talented) and Agnes Varda (prolly needs no introduction — though both should have accent marks). And then I went to New York! ‘Bout time! Been ages! Flipped and flopped between L.A. Secret Policeman’s Film Festival and New York Secret Policeman’s Film Festival — didn’t cover as much as I would have liked (it’s very challenging as a solo operation) — but attended indeed, and loved it, and got to meet some great Amnesty representatives, and we all rocked out, and blessed be the Mods. And Rockers. Some actual family (!) (?) and I actually got to do not only the NYC thing (played; reluctantly co-viewed the actual Mall Cop movie — and I liked it; it’s funny and clever) — and also a delightful little getaway — and if you’re still reading this, friend: thank you: One of the highlights of the year, loved every minute of my/our visit!
And then as June concluded and July began, I had just viewed most of The Paris Concert for Amnesty International at the Cinema of Lincoln Center, then zoomed all over the City, and did Thai in the Village with an old-young friend (funniest line of the year, so far: “You should move here! I mean, I’m busy — but it would be nice to have another person with a brain around.” Ha!!!) — and felt quite proud to have navigated Manhattan solo (only my second time — but highly successful), and loved it. I’d move there instantly if I didn’t already know that it would quickly become claustrophobia-inducing. Better than L.A.? Ask me again sometime. I was just pleased to be snapping my own photo on my cell phone at 1:30 a.m. with the Empire State Building in the background. Not smooching on some schmuckette in some faux-romantic farce — but blessedly it wasn’t about that. The romance was strictly mine this time around. I felt great happiness — much of which sustains.
JULY, 2009:
Hm — this sort of feels like The Month That Got Away. I did unpack my suitcase in a record two weeks. Sleep has been extremely erratic. The summer heat has moved in — and I never like that. Upside was attending both nights of the terrific Labyrinth of Jareth Masquerade Ball — asshole on the door the second night tried to mess with me (this was particularly funny as he was dressed like a poofter-sandwich) — but overall totally fantastic fun, and being amongst friends and also with She-Whose-Face-I-Totally-Adore (although her face was, of course, concealed both nights) brightened and blessed my summer magnificently. I wrote some fresh new movie reviews this month, too (Harry Potter 6 was worth the pointless wait) — and I skipped two Python classics and two Robert Wise classics (all movies I greatly dig) — but at the moment I’m not sure for what I skipped them. Hm. Oh, yeah, Joan Baez live in concert for the latter. Worth it — she was cool. Oh, and very pleasingly: I got to hang out with a fine long-term friend (visiting) and his family, and shoot some comedy together, and talk shop (something big is brewing), and head down toward San Diego, and delight in all their company, and then take the train back up. So basically, between June and July, I’ve seen a huge amount of Greater New York and Southern California.
Anyway, that’s all in no way comprehensive — I also received some soul-squashing romantic news, and I posed for snaps with Pat Boone, and my aunt died, and I frequently lay about reading, and I sold more things so I could eat more. Saw the wildest sky phenomenon ever, attended truly awesome films as part of massive Hollywood trilogy retrospectives, and experienced what bug-up-the-butt morons people can be when you encounter them in Midwestern airports on connecting flights. Recently, I have cleaned up thousands and thousands of silverfish turds. Oh, the life I lead. (Despite their annoyingness and the threat they pose to books, however, I have arrived at some terms with the little monsters: After all, they were here thousands and thousands — or probably more like millions — of years before we showed up. I would welcome the arrival of a blizzard so they’d all freeze and die — but in general they’re not too plentiful or menacing.) What else? Oh, yeah: T. and A. and I (and other friends) hung out with Lucas and Spielberg at the grand opening of USC’s shockingly high-tech School of Cinematic Arts. And other friends and I romped through the debris of the old film school (which is mostly razed and gone now — Memories…). Oh, and I/we beheld an actual hour’s worth of too-slowly-paced fireworks down by the L.A. Coliseum — which was the reason I skipped the Python films (and it turned out to be worth it — although my philosophies and politics lean not nationalistic but Pythonward).
And none of this really reveals the subtle moments that actually make up a life — but these details sum up much of what I’ve actually done this year; so far.
And I had some skull-crushingly frustrating computer problems, too — but now everything works! Upon me smiled the spirits of the computer have. Yeah!
A childhood friend noted this evening (by text, alas — but I try to hang in there even as humanity collapses around me) that he was watching ED WOOD — presumably for the first time. Brought me cheer.
Naturally, having embraced ED WOOD for nearly fifteen years (and the mindset behind it for far longer — literally as far back as I go), I am proudly reminded of interviewing its fine writers and Oscar-winning star, last year at the glorious Aero Theatre.
(Of course, since I also tend to reflect on the big picture, it is unfortunate that one wannabe tried to spoil it — and another wannabe hastily tried to emulate the experience. One just doesn’t expect to encounter Short Man Syndrome in women, and in men [?] who aren’t technically short. But whatever.)
Many of my mind’s tentacles lash at me this evening; nonetheless, I’m sure my readers could use a reprieve, thus I merge the metaphors here by presenting One of the Greatest Scenes in the History of Cinema:
P.S. Also: Accidentally flipped open a recent New York Post, and learnt that Orlando Bloom has attached himself to an actual woman (a younger Aussie actress who appears to have been created in a CG lab), they’re eyeing a 14-mil house in Malibu in which to spend their brief marriage viciously debating who’s prettier (plus whom he blew to land Wilde), and ol’ Orli is allegedly bowing out of the Pirates franchise — leaving ED WOOD star Depp (who could have guessed this in 1994? and who’d he blow to land A Nightmare on Elm Street?) to soldier on in The Continuing Adventures of Captain Jack Sparrow (though of course it is all ruled by The Mouse).
Kinda popular today. Wondering, is it: “Who does this guy think he is, writing about Mel Brooks?” Or is it mere kawinkydink?
I love Mel Brooks; any sensible person does. Viva Mel!
Otherwise, my elements are probably as jumbled and random as your own.
(Write back, J!)
It is nice, though — especially in a city that’s all about self-obsession (oh, yes it is — just you look) — to be generally good with other people, and yet to find the balance of: “While I don’t technically believe in ‘time,’ I cannot help but note that days, weeks, months, years, decades slip away and are gone unless one chooses action within them; thus it is that while I respect others’ rights to do things I consider to be total crap*, I’m going to dedicate my alleged ‘time’ to what I actually like, Q.E.D.”
(*Not infrequently, I find forced upon me entities such as pro sports and gossip websites and alcohol-addiction and leaf-blowers and gangsta and grunge and shocking movie-asshole vitriol; all crap; g’bye.)
Unrelated (or is it?), rather than attending Comic Con I simply partook of it online (pretty comfy), and in particular examined the website(s) for the allegorical sci-fi movie District 9. Not hugely interested, but looks okay — maybe along the lines of Cloverfield in its creation (Name encourages Not-Name to make verite-esque sci-fi enhanced by a lot of digital junk) only probably better produced, with better actors.
I’ve only seen the trailer for District 9, but today upon waking I felt how it ends (or, more accurately, how I would like it to end): That DNA-altering stuff the aliens sneakily use on humans is — when the tough, insectoid aliens reach their snapping point — liberally applied to the entire human population of Earth — thus making everybody a tough, insectoid alien — no more boundaries, no more xenophobia, and we all live happily ever after as huge, hideous bugs who can mate and produce offspring with ourselves.
That’s rather adolescent, but I think it would be a good ending for that movie. (I wonder if they go there?)
In movie news of a rather different stripe, this is the closing week for the fab Secret Policeman’s Film Festival in New York City. Fortunately, you can check out some of the very best material from this series this week. Go, go, go!
It’s funny — I’ve just Googled myself (my current legal name, anyway). This is something I rarely do, really. I’m not that kind of guy.
What I discovered is mostly what was expected: Movie stuff, review stuff, HuffPost stuff hastily rising due to its overall popularity — and, weirdly, there’s still a link to a review I never considered particularly significant: some Kevin Costner baseball movie I reviewed ten years ago and wouldn’t even view under normal (non-paid — which seems to be increasingly “normal” for everyone) conditions. Why is that silly thing still prominent?
It’s also kind of odd how hastily the popular material is shuffled over to other websites (other than its source); or, I guess it isn’t odd at all — but it’s really not something I consider while I’m working.
Anyway, as it’s one of those quiet, “unplugged” Sundays, I’m going to Update via these FIFTEEN . . . (ka-chunk) . . . TEN! Ten Updatey thingies:
7. I went back to Damiano’s (the pizza place) and — under no illusions that they need my review — I choose to praise and raise them: Their pizza (Vegan Sicilian) was as magnificent as it was previously — but the service (as perceived by me) improved markedly between the two visits. Hostess-cashiers were quick and friendly (and pleasingly busty — and actually smiling), waitresses checked on not only my status (”He doesn’t own a car — don’t date him!” Heh.) but everyone’s, the service was quick, the drunk assholes actually moved aside (though one was caught attempting to steal a beer — smart fellah), and the cooks back there — or whatever one calls pizza-makers — they were literally setting high new standards. Could have done without “Panama” while I was waiting — but that’s JACK-FM for you (or not). Thus: Service: 90% / Pizza: 98%. (Congratulations, Damiano’s! You may stay in business!)
2. I have re-confirmed that Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom is the finest film in that series. Viewed it last night, big-screen, awesome print, (almost) full house — loved every frame, note and nuance. Obviously, Raiders of the Lost Ark is no slouch, either (the two may be Spielberg’s very best films) — but Temple of Doom is my fave: It is absurd in exactly the ways I find pleasing — unlike Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, which is absurd in exactly the ways I find irritating. As for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, I grant it a mostly-enthusiastic pass, even whilst acknowledging that it is in many ways an inferior copy of redundant iconography. And I’ll tell you this: It’s ALL enormously superior to the new, alleged “Star Trek.”
4. My life rarely has many people in it — and then, suddenly, it has lots of people in it, albeit briefly — and then it has almost no people in it again, for long stretches. Thus, the people who somewhat know me (better than most, anyway) probably find it very weird that I despise my legal surname and wish to have it — like some malignant growth — removed. People I enormously appreciate scowl as politely as they can when I speak of changing “my” name (it ain’t “mine” — I sure as hell didn’t request it). So here’s the thing: Although the transition will very much lift my spirits and bring me increased ease and pleasure in my actual life, it has nothing whatsoever to do with taking on some different, altered or amplified personality, or anything like that. I just totally hate this last name, always have, always shall. It sucks. Please do not call me by it — unless you want for me to like you less. I don’t like it, I never liked it, I don’t want to hear it — and it chagrins and pains me to see it tagged onto all of my published pieces up to this point. Change is not encouraged in America (apart from cosmetic and fiscal change) — generally, people seem to feel that “authenticity” lies in sitting with your lot until you die, Amen. Me, I just feel that “authenticity” lies. Most things in America are false — if you dig deep enough. I hate my name. It is officially and legally my name (up to this point) — but I hate it, and it makes me terribly unhappy to see it, hear it, and have to spell it out. Otherwise — I’m mostly good. Women get to fucking change their names as often as their hair if they want — so I claim that same right for myself (whilst knowingly splitting an infinitive). I guess I’ll just have to do something about this, alone, and without a reasonable context — but all you have to do is never call me by my current last name. Call me “Gregory” or (if you can’t handle that) “G”. I loathe “Greg.” Thank you.
9. A fine friend from my uni days just got in touch; this is good. (Although she calls me “Greg,” those were good days, and nights, for me; everything then and there didn’t feel like a crazy joke.)
1. From New York to L.A., I’ve seen more grown men urinating in the streets this year than ever in my life. Just openly pissing. Surely this is not a good sign. Tempered slightly by amusing sight last night — of skinny homeless guy collapsed in doorway of closed video shop, clad in black goggles and knee-high shiny black-edition “stormtrooper” boots (looked expensive).
8. While admittedly out-of-sorts to a significant degree, I have managed to surround myself with elements I actually like — whilst remaining reasonably current — rather than being forced, constantly, to tolerate irritating crap. This may seem a vague or confusing comment — but the residue of the toxic ’90s has taken nearly a decade to erode, plus people still actually enjoy watching sports, listening to rap, whatever. I admit it: I like not having to deal with other people’s extremely stupid crap. I like my stuff.
3. After several months of using facebook, I find that what seemed like life itself in the wintertime feels more like purgatory in the summertime. Some people I truly love are on there, and it’s always a pleasure — but I’d rather just hear them or see them for real. In other ways, I find that the site (owned by shitbags) mixes and matches people who’d be better off not mixed and matched — or, at least, the combined chemistry is not necessarily a good thing. Thus: A useful tool — but an extremely limited (and limiting: Where’s the DISLIKE button???) one.
10. As it is nearly August and inertia has ruled more of my summer than I would have liked, I’m striving to generate some motion. This — just as most people are abandoning their frivolous escapism and returning “home” — but: “Home!? I have no home! Hunted, despised, living like an animal! The jungle is my home!” (grains of salt, all round) I do need a life, more than this. May as well help use up the jet fuel before it’s all gone.
6. Here is one of the best pieces I’ve written in ages; I am very proud of it (especially having turned it around in under twenty-four hours! — which would have been utterly impossible under the social constraints of a so-called “normal” life [nobody understands writers -- or even tries]).
5. And here — this is funny — the credibility of my actually 100% factual piece (not that the writer can be trusted to judge) is debated.
Hi. Ever since the post-punk pointlessness of Nirvana first ruptured eardrums and scrambled brains (which is not to mention their hundreds of imitators — and imitators-of-imitators — and imitators-of-imitators-of-imitators — which, indeed, I won’t mention), I have felt bludgeoned and bruised by “EXTREME” pop culture or “STUPID” pop culture — or whatever you wish to call it. You know: Loud, fast, petulant, ignorant, and probably severely tattooed.
It just makes me sad.
Thus, below, we have my little slap at “actress” Megan Fox, the inspiration for which is probably threefold:
1. She reminds me of all this era’s sneering, leering “EXTREME” girls — who are perceived by me as an highly acidic alien species, best neither seen nor heard.
2. She came to fame via total junk.
&
3. She reminds me most acutely (along with that horrid “new vampire” crap) that Comic Con — which I have enjoyed massively in the past — has been co-opted not so much by “Hollywood” (as a launch-pad for their bazillion-dollar geek franchises — which are now pretty much countless), but by the lamer aspects of Hollywood: The hasty iconic marketing and the quick buck — usually for “extreme” stuff which is basically LOUD, irritating empty calories for the consumer.
Now please note: Star Wars has been marketing itself via Comic Con since 1976 (!) — and I generally like anything fantastic, including all the overmarketed superhero movies and whatever. Pretty sick of Roland Emmerich by now — but generally, I dig it all.
It’s just — ugh — some dumb chick sneering at the camera for some dumb movie.
It bugs me.
Thus the insult, below.
However — and here’s the actual point of this post — I was very fortunate this evening to attend a tribute to Mel Brooks at the Academy Theatre. And it was star-studded and stellar. Better, it was emotional and genuine (some patter I’ve heard before — but it’s good patter, so that’s fine).
Mainly, someone made a point of Mel simply never being mean. He’s absurd, he’s zany, he may even be offensive (no, really?) — but he doesn’t do mean.
See, I’ll do mean if something seems irredeemably stupid, horrible or antagonistic. We get a lot of these things in America, so mean is not difficult for me. I’m evolved enough to know that there are superior tools — but nonetheless sometimes we fall back upon the tool that gets the job done.
Well — I’m going to work on this. Mr. Brooks (Kaminsky) has been an inspiration to me since early childhood (mine, not his), and as he is very much one of my esteemed Honourary Grandfathers (perhaps you’ve heard this before — the others include Christopher Lee, Ray Bradbury, Ray Harryhausen, Forrest J. Ackerman and Kurt Vonnegut — and I’m on the verge of inducting Nelson Mandela [I'm a little slow sometimes]) — so it just makes sense to follow his lead: Ease up a bit on the mean — even if it means slamming the pedal to the metal on the absurd.
This will not — and cannot — be an absolute effort; but I’ll cultivate it as much as I can.
So — sorry Megan Fox — “actress” who means nothing to me — for calling you ugly. In fact I don’t find you even slightly aesthetically appealing — dime-a-hundred around here — but I should be finding creative ways to irritate those who consider you significant — rather than picking on you yourself.
That said, a very intelligent (and gorgeous) female friend of mine sent me this yesterday — and in the spirit of both sharing and flicking what Con has become, I present it here:
Astute readers will of course note that the title of this post comes to us from Shakespeare by way of Star Trek. The good Star Trek. Back when it wasn’t hyper and stupid. VI is a great movie, actually.
In fact, although Essays about various cultures and a band I dig and even how fun my recent New York trip was have all been on my mind, you may wish to brace yourself — as this post is about death.
Not in any particularly obsessive way — as I don’t particularly wish to die (although I’m sure I will). Nor in any flagrant, adolescent way. I’m not actually all that interested in death, as I feel confident that there isn’t anything on the other side of it: You go, and that’s it; thanks for playing.
Thus, although it’s a terrible cliche, one could say that this Essay is actually about life.
That’s fine.
I called my mother today, and in a rather businesslike fashion she informed me that my Aunt E. died a few days ago, and that my cousin (her nephew, from another sibling) has the ‘c’ word.
A cunt? No, alas — for we all know he’s been needing one of those around.
The other ‘c’ word.
Apparently that’s not very far along, and he feels totally fine, and early tests are indicating that it’s treatable.
It was big news when a Beastie Boy got it recently — but I’ve never liked the ugly, annoying “music” the Beastie “Boys” have been pushing all these years, thus my thought was: I hope he makes a full recovery, but it’s also nice that those guys have to shut their fucking annoying mouths for a while, whew.
Like an entire band of Adam Sandlers. Nightmarish.
Anyway, I wish my cousin well — it’s obviously never a good thing — and we can proceed straight to death.
Reincarnation? I think that’s poor people deluding themselves. Heaven? Shyeah, right. Some sort of “limbo” — I mean, maybe — in terms of our bodies harnessing energy, thus that energy has to go somewhere when it’s no longer powering us. But really I think, of all the stories people tell themselves about what happens when our bodies die (and, very probably, our spirits with them), they’re all pretty much hogwash. Or big business. Or mass hypnosis. Or all of the above. But mostly I feel that if you’re going to do something, you’d better fucking do it now, because odds are very, very, very, very, very slim you’re going to get any other chance, ever.
Anyway, my Aunt E. was married to my Uncle J. for longer than most humans are alive. Like, seriously, they married around when Paul McCartney was born, or thereabouts. Plenty of people die broke and broken and miserable and much, much younger than Paul McCartney is now. But I am proud of my Aunt E. and Uncle J. — for they sustained their relationship for about that long.
Imagine that!
(You can’t — can you?)
I recall being asked to videotape their 45th (40th?) wedding anniversary — and I was just a kid then! (I had a beard like Prince’s when they celebrated their 50th — I still recall my cousin, their son, sneering at me for it. People sneer a lot, in families.)
Since literally only ONE of either of my parents’ siblings EVER gets in touch with me (Why don’t the elders ever TRY??? What the fuck is it with this country and its code of silence/ignorance???), I admit with some dismay that I never knew my Aunt E. all that well.
Oh, I can see her now, her pretty face, her sparkling eyes (eyes which gave out on her, near the end) — and I can hear her voice. She had a very nice voice: Strong and firm yet very pleasant, and even a little chirpy. She laughed easily.
I like to think that Aunt E. gave Uncle J. a very long span — relative to human life — in which to learn to love.
They seemed to get very good at it, actually.
Bravo and brava!
My memories of Aunt E., alas, have much to do with her just generally being kind. I don’t know what kind of art she liked, or if she drank wine, or if she hated anything. (It’s perfectly okay to hate things, you know.) She was mainly, to me (mostly a boy or very young man), a polite and congenial hostess; she made her guests feel comfortable and happy.
Unlike some people I’ve met, I never sensed anything off-putting about Aunt E. She was a nice lady.
Astoundingly, my last encounter with her — which, it now turns out, was actually my last encounter with her — took place two summers ago, in the ghastly heat and humidity, in front of a Staples superstore. I was with some family, and our run-in with Uncle J. and Aunt E. was entirely coincidental — we just happened to be shopping nearby, en route to a county fair. I was delighted to see them both, as I hadn’t planned on such an occurrence — and, as with most of my older relatives, I am often forced to wonder when the death notice will show up, and that’ll be it for another one.
We chatted for about half an hour, the lot of us. It pained me a bit, because neither Uncle J. nor Aunt E. could remember my name (I seemed to be vaguely familiar to them — and that’s all) — but they warmed up quickly enough. We took a few photos — or, rather, I think it was low-res video on a friend’s borrowed camera. I should probably look for the clips.
Oh — I know where they are.
Although we never discussed it, chances are my Aunt E. was religious — so although I am most confidently not, I sincerely wish her whatever she was hoping to get after the body failed.
My Aunt E. was possessed of a very pleasant spirit. Thusly shall I remember her.
*
Now, as deaths go, this year seems, thus far, a bit lighter on the mortality than last — which is a relief. Losing two of my most influential (at different ages) female friends within a span of a few months is a thud to which I still haven’t grown accustomed. They were both too young to go. It doesn’t make any sense.
This year, it’s Aunt E. and my fave Thai restaurant. They’re both gone. I’m sure the two would have proven incongruous — but it’s possible that they might have enjoyed each other.
As for me, I’ve kind of kept death nearby for the past couple of decades. I really don’t mean to wax sappy like some teen girl’s journal or early Tori Amos lyrics or whatever — but when my life fell apart in 1990 (all professional, romantic, friendly, social and even geographic goals and hopes seemed to terminate then), I definitely lost something.
Actually, it’s a good thing the movie The Fisher King came out shortly thereafter — because at least I was able to lay a paradigm over my experience: Here, you found your way to the castle, you almost claimed the throne, you blew it, have a nice wasteland.
If I could do the past two decades over again, I most assuredly would. But for someone who doesn’t believe in an afterlife (whatever that ridiculous term means: like George Carlin mocking “pre-boarding” — “Do you get on before you get on?” — I ask: “Do you live after you live?” Ha. Maybe there’s a coupon for Bonus Life. Ha ha.), I do strangely believe in fate — or, let us say, predestination. Not precisely, not as though one were on some track. But rather, as much as we like to tell ourselves we have free will, I think we all have obstacle courses to traverse. If you get going, you do the course, you end up stronger (before you die and dissolve into nothingness). If you sit on your ass watching shit TV and eating MSG-cakes, then you get what you deserve for that.
My life, honestly, has felt like a nearly-full two decades of Obstacle Course, since 1990, when everything blew up.
This is not to say that I lack compassion — as I am fully aware that people (particularly religious ones) reproduce too much, and thus there are a great many people suffering in this world — people who need our help, yours and mine. Some of them don’t have the mental or spiritual reserves to endure whatever torture they’ve gotten or earned for themselves. They may be in very little actual danger — but because they’re unprepared, they’re the ones screaming the loudest — so they get help first (usually). But everybody deserves help. Not attention — you’re just gong to have to fucking learn to live without attention (I have, mostly — the irony here acknowledged); but help; actual help.
Returning to the selfish theme, though: Yeah, nothing has felt real for me since then — not for long. I don’t mean closed-off, no-feelings, delusional or whatever (though I do thrive on creativity, especially when shared with smart, pleasant people — something boring people might consider delusional) — I just mean there’s a sort of dejection built into most of my perceptions now. Sort of. I’m quite capable of cutting a rug — but if something feels false or fucked-up, I find it very difficult to dance, with that entity, anyway.
For the past twenty years it has seemed to me — really, honestly — that if I were to die, it wouldn’t make all that much of a difference to anybody. Maybe this is why so many people have kids (or at least pretend that dogs or cats are human — which they very much are not) — to feel needed. Propelled, even.
I have certainly wanted to make a difference — but my experience has shown that nobody really wants me around all that much — plus I hate being around boring and/or obnoxious assholes (much of the population of Earth — or at least America, which most Americans have convinced themselves is Earth) — thus come the conundra: Why bother? Should I bother? Am I bothering somebody?
Oh, bother!
Actually, I know how horrid it is to have to tolerate some know-it-all white guy pontificating all the time. I’m almost as bad as “Bono.”
Pardon.
I’d rather not be hit by a car, or fall off a building, or get shot (I despise guns with every fibre of my being — if you own one [or more], you are a very stupid person; Q.E.D.) — and yet the notion of death hasn’t bothered me — for myself, I mean. Like, if I were to go out in my sleep, I’d be, like, okay.
Nobody would miss me for a couple of days, and then the authorities would show up and wrap the body in the sheet (for, I have heard, this is how it is done).
What does bother me is that any and all arrangements thereafter would probably have irritated the formerly-living me. For instance, it is likely that my body would be transported to the Midwest for burial. That’s two wrongs, right off the bat: I don’t like the Midwest, and I don’t like burial. Then, above my chemically-preserved corpse in some mid- to low-end cedar box, there would be some stupid chunk of granite, with “Our Beloved Son” or some such shit carved into it. Fuck that! Fuck that really fucking hard! “Beloved Son,” my ass! Why not LISTEN to me once in a while, while we’re all actually breathing? Why not THINK a little, before your precious inevitable comes along?
I like the way — where was it, the Himalayas? the mountains of Afghanistan? — the less insane people deal with death: The ground is frozen solid, so let’s just chop up the body, fling it out there, and let the vultures eat it.
That seems dandy to me.
That says to the living, loudly and clearly: ONCE IT’S OVER, YOU ARE MEAT. LIVE WHILE YOU’RE HERE!
Motivating.
Inspirational.
Just to make it clear, though, since I have this non-legally-binding opportunity, I don’t want to be dismembered and thrown to the finches if it’s at all avoidable. But please: No traditional burial. If I happen to go anytime soon (or, possibly, later), if you can arrange to fling my body into an active (if possible, very active!) volcano, that would be cool. Or drop it into shark-infested waters. Maybe steam-roller “me” — and get it on video. That might be cool, too.
Just please don’t do anything that’s going to make everybody who’s still here feel all sad, and worse than they would have felt with just the death topic in the first place. Flowers? I guess — but nothing tacky. Please — nothing tacky. Play Chuck Berry or Talking Heads or Chopin. Play [there's no way I'm posting this song title here]. But nothing tacky.
Note: I don’t intend to check out this year or next, or next or next or next… Life is just more uncertain than ever, though — and as I am not really embraced by anyone (”As he was a bachelor, and in nobody’s debt…” — well, got half that going on), it seems quite reasonable and practical to make clear that I don’t want my so-called life marked at its end by some shitty ceremony that would have made me puke.
Thank you.
Self-indulgent, you bet — but I am a little upset about my Aunt E. not being alive anymore; that’s very unfortunate.
Blessings, Uncle J. and family.
The last “time” I considered death was two years ago. I probably wrote about it a bit. Bitch swooped in, jumped on my thing, told me she “loved” me thousands and thousands of times, got really cozy — and then fucked off like the rotten little shit she is. That hurt a lot. I would stay up, night after night, waiting for her to respond to me, and when she did, it was always as mean, ignorant and hurtful as fuck. Fuck on one end, fuck on the other end, fuck all!
Do NOT profess “love” in Southern California! (If you take away only one notion — or lesson? — from this ramble, let that be it.)
I’m sure the fat friend was jealous. The fat friend is always jealous. They were probably fucking, come to think of it.
It’s kind of interesting, though — how it concluded. She was a shitty little creature — deceitful and cruel — but as I had been invited to fall hard for the illusion of a good person, I did just that. It took a while to grasp that it really wasn’t going to return to the affection I had enjoyed and so craved. Amusingly, though, its ending had to do with Star Trek.
Nicholas Meyer — who is one of the smartest men in Hollywood (if, also, surely a self-obsessed jerk, to some extent — they all are) — was speaking with a screening of Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, the night I knew “it” was over, and let it die (she had already killed it anyway; she just never had the guts to explain herself).
I went to the movie and enjoyed it, but I didn’t stick around for Meyer (whom I have seen, including with Khan, a couple of other times).
Intriguingly, he did a lot of rewriting on Khan — and he only directed two Star Trek movies — that one, and The Undiscovered Country:
Both of which were supposed to deal with death (he’s also the man who adapted Roth’s The Dying Animal into the script for the not-bad-not-great movie Elegy).
That night, though, I departed before he spoke (much; he did a little intro), and headed off to see the shitbag girl one last time, for she’s an attention-whore and desperately needs to be seen in public with her sick little cult.
I went.
I looked.
I made sure she saw me.
I’m not going to play anybody’s criminal.
Ever.
And I walked on . . .
. . . and away.
Her goal — and it would have been obvious from the start, had I not been so lonely, hungry and confused — was to lay all her pain on somebody, ditch them, and then never offer any reasonable explanation, or closure.
That made me crave death.
For me, I mean.
Night after night of that abuse.
So…although I’m sure this reads strangely to you, walking away from Spock dying, and walking to have my last glimpse of the shitbag — and to go, “You know — I don’t even want that.” — that was my closure.
It was not a long relationship — but it was an intense and extremely unfair one.
It doesn’t bother me anymore — but it was worth mentioning this last time, because that was also the last time death seemed, to me, like a good idea.
One of my more uncouth friends took me to a Star Wars convention. Another tried his best to muster sensitivity (he’s from the East Coast). Female friends read my long emails, and responded with their own. Eventually I attended my twentieth high school class reunion — and it was nice, really nice. I crushed on a girl-woman there I had always liked but never really knew — and after initial enthusiasm she shunned me as if (as I like to say) I had started flinging tarantulas at her. I had only suggested lunch — and that turned from eager agreement to lame-ass retreat in just a few hours. I don’t blame her — but it was like the Feminine had yet another blade with which to lance my heart. Ha-ha, Feminine! I don’t have any blood left! You lose!
It was that sort of year.
Since then it’s been — just acceptance of life, sans most of the things I really most strongly wanted in it, I suppose. Pretty weird. Dedication, generosity, kindness and communication didn’t work at all. I mean, they haven’t really worked — in almost twenty years.
So…if those things don’t work, then basically you have two choices: 1. Death; and 2. Go around being as nice as you can to people, make a reasonably creative joke once in a while (but not too often), keep regular, try not to become a fat fuck, try not to think about fucking, don’t get addicted to anything, smile and be grateful when people are not actively horrible to you, and strive to be of some use, some use.
I guess there is a third option: 3. You can go around being a martyr — but that totally sucks. Don’t do that.
I don’t mean to be all faux-Eastern about it — but a person can survive without happiness — I mean, outwardly-gained happiness. You just have to synthesise it yourself. Hey, look! Uh…food! Check it out! Music! And so on.
Try not to hang around with movie guys too much; I have thus far met one who is not insane (as far as I know).
That goes quadruple for actresses. (If I were still writing about that one — oh, you don’t want to know the latest. It’s too horrible for words. She did make a point of telling me that she absolutely hated the latest Harry Potter movie: “The worst movie I’ve ever seen in my whole life,” she called it. Fucking dimwit.)
So . . . death? Ho-hum. When it comes, it comes, but it is otherwise of very little interest to me. I won’t be winning any Darwin Awards, but I won’t be hiding, either. It just Is.
I spoke with my brother-in-law about it on Thursday — after the news had been brusquely imparted to me — and he (who has lost both his parents, a few years ago) spoke mainly of old age, and how one’s “quality of life” can deteriorate to almost nothing.
That doesn’t really worry me, either.
It’s kind of like Comic Con, you know? In life, if you actually live (which does NOT mean going around being a selfish asshole; it simply means living), then in later years, you have plenty of memories and reflections to keep you occupied — even if you can’t turn cartwheels anymore. Likewise with the great cosmic reality that is Comic Con: Once you’ve gone a few times, you can sort of plug whomever the guests are this year, whatever the stupid pop-culture fads are this year, etc., into your memories of what went down previously — and you’ve pretty much got it — without any need to exhaust yourself getting to San Diego and back and trying to survive on stale, overpriced pretzels all day.
Now that we have this fucking computer shit, you can kind of know what you’re missing — and be all right with it.
I figure that old age is similar (if potentially more embarrassing).
I’m sorry if I have offended anybody by straying from the topic of my Aunt E. — not to mention all those “bad words” — but I hope that the simple act of sincere expression in itself may be perceived as a tribute to her — minus the greeting-card bullshit. Knowing her a little bit over the years, and knowing that she is gone now — and, really, unknowable from now on — this reminds me to live.
Also note: I’m fine, and the only drug I ever have is aspirin (and I don’t even like to take that), and if for some weird reason I die in my sleep tonight, please do try for the big volcano-fling — but otherwise, not to worry. I simply wanted to consider death because my Aunt just died.
As for Con, I think Tim Burton (and Johnny Depp? etc.) are there right now to plug their wares. I’m not. Small chance of Friday — but the effort involved relative to the friends-who-don’t-really-feel-like-going + HIDEOUS overcrowding makes me not too worried about it.
I am worried that the world seems to think Angie Voigt has any significance — but frankly I’d rather ignore her.
Orphan was ridiculous and excessively graphic — but I like watching people skulk around in dimly-lit Canadian settings, so I was generally okay with sitting through it.
The Miracle — actually a Half-Miracle — involved Damiano’s Pizza, on Fairfax…which is kind of in West Hollywood, I guess. I used to hang out on that street more often when Largo and Eat-a-Pita and the original-original Silent Movie Theatre were there — but of late I’m rarely in the vicinity. Last night I happened past, though, and, coming up a bit peckish, felt I needed some baked flatbread with slop on top.
My experience at Damiano’s proved a fascinating study in opposites. The full-on Miracle is that they — they who pride themselves on New York-style pizza (which simply never happens on the West Coast; not really; sorry, Joe’s) — ACTUALLY OFFER THE OPTION OF VEGAN PIZZA WITH SOY CHEESE AND EVEN SOY PEPPERONI!.
I cannot tell you how happy that little discovery made me.
So I ordered — but here’s the rub: The service was abysmally terrible! Terrible-terrible! Mean, even!
I don’t know if it’s the toxic combination of too many obnoxiously overtattooed customers mixed with far too many late nights of goddammed “JACK-FM” — but the employees in there, and there were several, were as cold as death — when they weren’t busy being flat-out rude. I checked to see if somebody had slipped a Klan hood on me or something. As the kidz say: WTF? You’re running a fucking business: Be at least vaguely congenial to the friendly paying customer!
Regulars also know there’s a grand spectrum of hoity-toity beers on display in the refrigerator cabinets right by the front entrance. After a ridiculous half-hour wait — for TWO SLICES?? — and pizza-box clearly in hand, I only wanted to exit into the night and eat my long-overdue dinner. But no. There were assholes to clear first.
Four of them, in front of the beers, totally blocking the door. “Excuse me…excuse me…excuse me…EXCUSE ME!!!”
They wouldn’t move.
I’m totally sick of child molester Woody Allen — but the scene seemed a variation on his pilfered riff: “Such bad service…yeah, and you’re not allowed to leave.”
I want to love Damiano’s — but man, it was like, “Fuck you.”
Thus, that’s the downside. Here’s the upside:
The pizza was EXTRAORDINARY. I happen to like soy cheese (especially vegan — no casein) a lot better than “real” cheese (squirted out of a cow or whatever) — and their stuff is good: Whilst hot, it almost but doesn’t quite fully melt — giving one the flavour of mozzarella but a texture somewhere between cheese and little shards of overcooked pasta. (Which is a good thing.) Their sauce rules. The Sicilian slices I ordered were piping hot, had that yummy fried residue about the underside (save the “That’s What She Said,” please), and were totally outrageously delicious.
Soy pepperoni = Yum.
The only complaint I lodge against the food is that the spinach was desiccated and had the texture of a dead fern. I ate it anyway; it didn’t particularly bug.
Anyway, I’ve had pizza all over the world, but that pizza last night — Damiano’s pizza — was probably the best I’ve ever had anywhere. Here’s their score card for my experience:
SERVICE: ZERO. FOOD: 98%.
Would I go back? Sure — but after that shit, I’d only call in my order from now on.
*
Today’s breakfast at 1:30 in the afternoon: Cookie dough and coconut juice.
