08.31.09
Posted in Love at 1:39 am by G
It’s good to keep journals — but it can be awkward to revisit them. Sometimes it’s quite refreshing and inspiring, too — my online word-count will probably never catch up to my pen-to-paper word-count, much of the latter exciting (at least to me) — however my recent findings, in poring over old pages, have been of a fork-in-the-ass nature, as in: Either turn yourself over, you’re done; or Get going NOW!!!
Thus it is that I have decided to make this rather arbitrary measure of time called a “week” into a personal blowout extravaganza.
Not by choice, though — I mean, yes, of course, it’s by choice — but I really cannot see a better option: It’s “time” to move on.
The collective eye-rolling of readers may approach a world-record as they note that I’ve been stuck at this juncture in many, many, many, many, many instances already.
And yet, upon reflection, I have spent almost all of this (again, arbitrary) century repeating the same patterns (or, as it feels to me: being repeated by them) — and, by keeping fairly comprehensive notes of how it’s gone before, I see the cycle preparing to repeat yet again — except that I’m not going to let it!
The loneliness is one thing. I mean, I’m not some bozo who constantly needs company in order to feel comfortable — far from it, I do pretty well on my own. But it’s a loneliness of purpose, or of interest, and certainly of productivity. (Almost everybody I know seems to be hemming and hawing and not actually doing anything!) All these years of things being random, and then people vanish. Don’t get me wrong: I love randomness, and sometimes it’s a glorious relief when people vanish (from view, not from life) — but when I look at the teams of friends musical, cinematic, comedic, dramatic, creative-in-general who have inspired and motivated me over the years . . . and then I look at what we actually got here — the situation is rather formidably depressing.
Right now I’ve got somewhere between ten and a dozen voice-mails, texts and emails extended out into the world — and really, if you’re one of the recipients and reading this, think nothing of it — but the magnitude of the chasm in which I’m apparently jammed does come yawning into horrific perspective when it’s like this. Is it really going to kill you to pull your thumb out for a moment or two to make with a friendly response? Do you want me to hate it here? You know, as soon as I’ve got money, or I dance around on television or whatever, then suddenly there will be “friends” aplenty (look no further than the suck-ups on “assbook” or “twatter” or whatever) — not to mention women suddenly finding me “appealing” — but meanwhile, where the fuck, exactly, is the spirit of communal creativity?
This pains me, it does.
Connecting that thread, looking back through old journals, I see that things weren’t significantly (or, at least, outwardly) different in 2001, or 2003, or 2006, or last month. Women in L.A. want you to give them your energy, help them promote themselves, afford them the attention that daddy didn’t — and then they vanish instantaneously when their ridiculous appetites are not instantaneously met. I’m trying to count all of the women I’ve helped in L.A. over the years — and I mean relatively upstanding wannabes — and the counting gets long and complicated — but it’s always disappointing. Then I think, like, “Oh, okay, well at least I’ve got a bunch of know-it-all white-guy friends who think they’re ‘filmmakers’ or whatever — at least I can hang out with them. Perhaps I’ll suggest a concert or something that people who aren’t insane actually enjoy doing together…” — and then that turns into totally depressing shit, too. When they’ve got some stupid little movie to promote, then I get a mass email. Otherwise: Zip. Whee.
Not too long ago, an old guy mistook me for Paul Mazursky (shyeah: Paul Mazursky plus time machine), and I was appropriately flattered: What a charming comparison! And yet: Sometimes I get angry at The Monkees (not the guys; they’re lovely — the TV show) — because they lied to us: They made it look like California was fun and musical and friendly and filled with strange-but-not-obscenely-unpleasant-and/or-sociopathic people. Total lie. It’s nothing like The Monkees out here, I can assure you. Believe me, I wish it were — “Hey, I wrote a new song — wanna hear it? Yeah. Hey, let’s make a clip for it! Okay…hey, fun and togetherness and creative gratification…” etc. — but really this place seems to be about people trying to set new records for human endurance in the popular fields of self-obsession and alienation. I see the waitstaff of restaurants literally hundreds of times more often than I see my friends (unless, in some rare cases, they’re both) — and that just isn’t the way things should be.
Looking back through the many old pages, I see a lot of lamenting and sarcasm — and I love sarcasm, I really do (life without sarcasm feels to me like walking death) — and peppered in between are lyrics to literally hundreds of songs (some good), plus notes and stories and drawings and etc. — and yet the pointless sort of . . . endurance of this life, rather than enjoyment of it — this is an abiding theme throughout.
I won’t bore you with the details, but it does weigh heavily on me — all this nothingness and wasted potential. I love helping people make their stuff, too — but those connections are just not extended; and if they are, they are never sustained (see: “appetites instantaneously met”).
I have some friends who are lovely and creative, and I adore and respect them — so this view is not absolute. But more often, in terms of “creativity,” it seems like I’m observing people who really do love to wallow in shit — and just: No. No, no. no.
I mean, haven’t you at least seen The Monkees?
Anyway, I literally found myself looking back, this hideously hot Sunday — and the old books kind of came to me, as if needing attention — and I see in them this life that’s sort of weirdly inside-out: Rather rich and exciting on the inside — and at least 95% dessicated and dead on the outside. I’m pretty sure I’m not dead, because when I go to restaurants, they acknowledge me and take my order and my money — but the nothingness, these years of nothingness, oh, it’s long overdue for a good, firm chucking.
As I have proven on occasion, I can survive relatively well without a “proper” job — if “proper” means you’re somebody’s slave and you totally hate what you do — but life sans strong friendships, sans significant other, sans intelligent-and-supportive family — oh, fuck it; I’m so sick of this shit.
Ten years, and my “father” has not tried once to apologise for being an asshole, and to communicate. Not once. In ten years. (Whereas: Prior to being forced to shut down his rottenness, I gave and tried and struggled like you wouldn’t believe.) But what’s worse (his absence has been relatively comfortable, actually — he likes suffering, and sharing it — NO, THANKS!) is that I know, for certain, that if he were to try before he hits the grave, that what he would say would be simultaneously outrageously hurtful, completely ignorant, totally awkward and embarrassing, and rather like shitty television dialogue. It’s unbearable. May I please have a refund so I can go buy a functional dad? May I have Richard Branson or someone like that as my dad? Please?
Anyway, communication: You press a few numbers, and miraculously, immediately, you can talk to someone, anywhere in the world. You type a few words (gawd forbid) and click “Send” — and a message is instantly delivered to a friend or loved one! So WHY NOT USE IT??????????
Fuckin’ pisses me off.
Honestly, back in the dark ages of pen, paper, envelopes and stamps, I shared more communication with people than I do now. No portable telephones! Still: More talking! So why not now? Is Dobby holding my mail? Has he cut the phone cords? (He’s certainly a bitch when it comes to getting a reasonable signal around here.)
Anyway, before I lapse into a tirade on that count, the point is that as I reflect upon my life — in particular the vaguely ill-spent thirties (no marriage, no kids, no home, job stolen away, lived amongst the rudest and LOUDEST assholes you may be able to imagine — and wrote about movies a lot) — I see details (meaning, specifically: those details) that make me shudder. Sure, some of the sarcastic responses to heinous and idiotic situations are still funny (no, there’s probably not a screenplay in them) — but it’s all so pointless and ugly. And not for lack of striving. Rather, it feels like I’ve been caught under a massive tarp — and it blocks out the atmosphere (not so concerned about the “light” — there’s way too much of that here) — and I keep jabbing at the tarp with a lance, struggling to puncture holes in it: to breathe, to move, to communicate, to interact, to share — and the tarp just keeps repairing itself and closing down, tightening, and there’s nothing again.
This is particularly strange for a person who emerged from theatre and television, has practiced music all his life, and went to the best film school in the world in order to share the creative process (and fun!) with fine people.
Nothing? Really? Nothing?
Damn.
Perhaps some of my readers’ psyches are tuned to the frequency of contemporary television — with its shock-tactics, sensationalism and overall fake “cheer” — so this may read as depressing — and if so, I apologise. Not my goal. Rather, there’s a — well, let me talk about bugs for a minute first, and then we’ll conclude with The Main Point.
Silverfish. They’ve been bugging me constantly for the past eight years. In that span, my “homes” have been infested with them. Now fortunately, they’re a lot more manageable than cockroaches (which — oh, thank you, thank you, Universe — I do not have) — for silverfish, which are admittedly rather quick and “intelligent” in the warm months (like, especially, right now), are really very predictable, easy to squash (no, I do not play catch-and-release with silverfish — as if), plus (bonus) they’re generally slow to propagate.
Nonetheless, as most of the other elements of my life have vanished or fallen away, what’s one of the entities I have come to love the most? Books. And what do silverfish like to eat?
Books.
(Fucking.)
(Damn.)
(It.)
To me, a book is relaxation, it is pleasure, it is enlightenment. I love having books around. And . . . great . . . thanks, Universe: I get to play host to a bunch of hideous little running worms whose absolute favourite food in the whole world is . . .
. . . books.
Specifically, though: Book bindings.
They just love to crawl up under the spines and live there and munch away on the gelatin or horse tendons or whatever the hell is used to hold books together.
And it’s such fun to open a book for pleasure and to find one! (Or two! [Or, in rare instances, three!])
Yah!
Again, the population density of silverfish is not high — but they are extremely annoying, plus they really do damage books.
So I’ve been playing that game for a few years.
But here’s the light, at the end of the tunnel:
It’s not the books; it’s the buildings.
While the rotten little creatures are delighted to move into your stacks and make them their breakfast, lunch, dinner and toilet — their collective origin is not in the books. Phew.
I know this because I changed the bulb in a ceiling fixture a few days ago (answer: “One.” Ha.) — and already there are three dead silverfish in there, silhouetted against the glass. Three. That means, in the walls and beams of this building, there are probably, at least, several hundred. Maybe they’re munching away happily on insulation or wood glue or something — but as they still have an all-access pass to my books, plus they’ve probably lived here for millions of years and see no reason to fuck off now, I think it’s quite clear that I, bibliophile, must fuck off, and soon.
I don’t want my entire adult life’s memories of reading to involve the paranoia that some unwanted little alien monster is going to come skittering across the page.
So . . . yeah . . . this post is about bindings (or, at least, trying to save them) — and unbindings: In that “unbindings” — as in, the neutralising of unhappy spells — are now foisted upon me, choices to make . . . and break.
In case you’re wondering, and to put it plainly, the woman who has proven so beautiful to me — and this after several failures and scorchings — yeah, I think she’s amazing — but she’s also clearly wrapped up in her own world, and has no interest in me in this way. So I release that. No more to be said on the matter.
That hopeful anchor hauled up — and it is significant, if obviously not the whole vegan enchilada — I look about and see — well, I see some awesome entertainment events as usual — but moreover I see the same me-me-me-ness for which L.A. is notorious (and direly depressing), the disconnect, the pointlessness, the repetitive cycles of striving/nothing, striving/nothing, striving/nothing.
There are a few scattered exceptions — and in them I place much hope and care — and yet, the overall picture is rather disheartening.
Believe it or not, even after typing all that, I am in a good mood, good-to-go, bring it, I’m ready. It’s just the deadly dull inertia (or, worse, tantrums) I perceive throughout much of this environment — it’s just so over, so over.
Happily, some good things are developing presently. Thanks for that.
And I take this opportunity to unbind myself. This life has made it abundantly clear that it doesn’t want me — so I no longer want it.
Next chapter!
~G
P.S. There’s much writing and other work to be done this week, so although I may pop back here to post up something innocuous and amusing, don’t expect (or dread) any significant tappage.
P.P.S. It occurs to me to mention that a lot of writing in one outlet doesn’t necessarily drain the vitality (or word-count) of writing in another outlet — actually, I find that it’s all like exercise, and only makes one stronger and more productive in general — however this week I’m going to put in less effort here, because — and for once I sound like an American — it’s easier that way.
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08.30.09
Posted in Life at 3:09 am by G
Ooh…headache.
I have no interest in alcohol — if I ever drink it, it’s to put my company at ease because they’re drinking it; otherwise, it never even occurs to me — and seems an unnecessary handicap in an already excessively arduous life.
Friday night: approximately the equivalent of a full glass of red wine, plus, later, Grand Marnier diluted with water. Social. I don’t drink alone, and I almost never drink at all.
Thereafter followed approximately thirty hours of acute awareness of having drunk alcohol.
Saturday went okay, but it happened to be hideously hot and airless in SoCal (more than normal — like an oven on a low setting — low for baked goods; extremely unpleasant for sensitive humans) — thus, mild alcohol poisoning atop the already hostile climate made for a muted, mildly painful experience of a day. Not terrible — just hot and nasty, and it felt like every other brain cell had transformed into concrete.
Somehow I also managed to sit through both Jaws 2 and Jaws III — as far as I can recall, haven’t seen the former since I was a child (the movie’s sold-out opening week-end — so funny to think that Keith Gordon’s in it, and later I’d review his movies, and later still I’d interview him and others for a special screening of The Chocolate War — small world). 2 is pretty good, though — no masterpiece, but carries on the vibe of the first movie (to my childhood friends and their parents: “Jaws One“), plus loads of genuine ’70s stylee. Can’t speak as kindly about Jaws III — however I give it its due for being ambitious and generously attempting to amuse its audience (whomever they may be). Still, during what was for me the equivalent of a hangover, there was a quality of endurance test to it all by the time Quaid got around to working his lethal underwater magic.
To think that the main reason I went was to hear John Williams’ score for 2 (pretty great).
Welcome to my life (unless you’re insane and/or hateful — or gooey — gooey is difficult, too).
Uhhhm…
Oh, I learnt something ce soir: Walking down the street, noticing much more feminine form than normal on account of short-shorts and sundresses — but most women around here are patently uninteresting (to me; possibly to everyone), so there wasn’t much thrill to it. Rather, a couple of teen girls went flouncing past me, and I overheard one of them very clearly declare:
“Sucking on my titties like you wanted me!…”
The girl was blond, thus probably not particularly intelligent, but her forthrightness with the lyric, when I and others were quite nearby, proved a bit shocking. The two collapsed into nervous titters (oops), but then sort of followed me. Odd. Maybe they were older, but they seemed quite idiotic, regardless of age. I opted to avoid acknowledging them or making eye-contact, and this choice seemed to tire them, for they gave up and turned back after a few blocks.
Summertime.
(Three weeks of it left, in this hemisphere — it’s stupid to say it’s “over.”)
I looked up the lyric online and discovered that there’s a former music teacher from Toronto who now calls herself “Peaches,” and she specialises in lurid and obnoxious lyrics. The song in question is called “Fuck the Pain Away” — and I hadn’t been aware of its existence. Shrug.
I don’t begrudge anybody their luridness — we had “Big Balls” and “Piss on the Wall” and Frankie and stuck-up-his-own-arse old Roger Waters and etc. — but it did sort of surprise me to hear those words on the street out of the mouth of what was presumably a kid, and now I am aware of a new pop musician who seems kind of annoying.
Mind — all this with a numbing headache, in a sauna-like environment.
Saw some friends, though — that makes it worth it.
Some writing work is slipping into gear — which may or may not affect any output here, we’ll see. I’d say that I also have unrequited feelings (what else is new?) — except I’m not sure if I have any feelings at present. I’m getting accustomed to muting things, which may be good or at least useful — but I’d rather be living.
Well, Sunday is loose, anyway — which is good, as there’s much to catch up. Amongst other things, a big project from two years ago is finally getting its rewrite — for my perspective is flexible and gentle enough to do it properly.
Banishing assholes is a great idea! Five stars! Recommended!
The rest of the week is a tug-of-war between Flight and Write (I don’t do Fight).
Okay, I’m going to take advantage of the night’s remaining darkness in what has become a novel way for me — thus: Good night, and have a very nice Sunday or whatever.
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08.29.09
Posted in Uncategorized at 5:06 am by G
Letters, notes and a vast spectrum of thingies fill my week-end. Shall strive to return here for your amusement.
Great day…great night! Good night.
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08.27.09
Posted in Love at 12:13 am by G
Things better. Small, low, humming sounds.
Here we conclude yesterday’s peculiar little project. Again:
The Rules = ONE ENTITY Vs. ANOTHER ENTITY + WHY.
SHOW-BIZ ICONS:
51. Yoda or E.T.?
Yoda — old Yoda; as in: puppet Yoda, credit to Wendy Froud (amongst others). Because he was a brilliant creation. E.T.? Well, I don’t mean to say I dislike E.T. — it’s cool that he’s an interstellar botanist and Yoda-wannabe and etc. — no, actually: Dislike E.T. do I.
52. Prince or MJ?
Prince. Because, despite all the variables, hand the little guy a guitar, you’re good for three hours, no other bullshit necessary; I respect that.
53. Ed Wood or Tim Burton?
Tim Burton. Because the real Ed Wood was creepy. But I am getting well and truly weary of Tim Burton by this point.
54. Bruce Lee or Jackie Chan?
Jackie Chan. I admire the long-term work ethic over the sexy flame-out.
55. Sigourney Weaver or Angelina Jolie?
Susan…I mean…”Sigourney” Weaver. Did it first, did it best, still does it best, and far less trashy than little Angie Voight.
PLANTS:
56. Pitcher plants or Venus fly-traps?
Gotta give it to the fly-traps for sheer weirdness + reflex-action.
57. Daisies or daffodils?
Daffodils. Daffodils are Springtime. Daisies are merely anytime.
58. Ferns or vines?
May I have both, please?
59. Deciduous or coniferous?
Love ‘em both; tie. Slight seasonal advantage to deciduous in autumn — however it all balances out, as I am easily annoyed by humans’ insane obsessions over fallen leaves.
60. Tomato or tomato?
Tomato.
CHEMISTRY:
61. Covalent bond or ionic bond?
Covalent bond. Ionic bonds are undeniably sexy; however they never exist in a pure state; they are, indeed, always dependent upon some form of covalent bonding; so give it up for covalent!
62. Water or methane?
Water. I hope — obviously.
63. Alkali metals or noble gases?
Seems like there should be a methane joke in there somewhere. Noble gases — because they have totally fucking cool names, like “krypton,” “xenon” and “radon.”
64. Antoine Lavoisier or (Friedrich) August Kekulé?
Oh, Lavoisier, man. Frenchman says, “Check it out! Oxygen!” — whereas German wannabe sits there going, “Oooh! Oooh! But vhat about my frickin’ benzene!” Besides, we simply do not need big ugly words like, “Verwandtschaftseinheiten.” Give it to the Frog, yo.
65. Are you going to make the obvious Rush reference, so that your Gen-X friends can relate?
Probably not, no. But they know I love them.
PASTA:
(Because everybody loves pasta…)
66. Penne or farfalle?
First, let’s get something straight here: If it’s all made out of the same durum flour or semolina (and it usually is), then the shape of something that’s going to disintegrate very rapidly into your digestive tract is really a bit frivolous, isn’t it? Thus, no major preference — but I like that one can attempt to line up penne vertically on the tines of one’s fork, so: Penne.
67. Capellini or maccheroncini?
“I don’t want any ‘ini’ in this house!” Heh. j/k Erm…capellini. I like my long pasta slender, baby.
68. Marinara or bolognese?
Saucy! 100% marinara. It was making bolognese (or, rather, opting not to make it) in my apartment twenty years ago that caused me to reason that the whole deal is nicer without bits of dead animal in it — a lifelong choice, and a very happy one.
69. Sexy bland pasta or repulsive delicious pasta?
Repulsive delicious pasta. How it looks is significant, but how it tastes is crucial.
70. Gnocchi or corn pasta?
Tough one! They’re both great. I slightly prefer the taste of corn pasta — however it can be difficult to cook, as it tends to disintegrate whilst boiling (with corn pasta, al dente is right out). But all of this reminds me of a funny joke I heard made by a mediocre comedian before a concert I was anxious to see: “All those Irish, during the Famine, they starved to death, because they had no potatoes. If I had been there, I’d have said, ‘Well, here! Look! There’s plenty of corn! Why don’t you just forget about the potatoes and eat all this corn!’ [response in hideously caricatured Irish accent] — ‘But I don’t like corn!’” [joke paraphrased] Anyway, here in The Land of Increasingly Less Plenty, I like potatoes and corn a lot. Corn pasta wins by a narrow margin.
BUSINESSES:
71. UPS or Fed-Ex?
The United States Post Office still does the best job, domestically, for the money. Fed-Ex is great, but way fucking overpriced. Go U.S.P.S. Priority, and you’re golden.
72. CVS or Walgreens?
I never feel comfortable in any such places — but the electronic “self-check-out” stations at CVS are ALWAYS fucked-up and waste an extra ten to thirty minutes of your day — plus the employees then just stare at you like they’re retarded. Hello — I want to buy this and leave. I’ll be very nice to you during the thirty seconds that such a transaction should take. What’s so hard about that? Thus: Walgreens.
73. Cable or satellite?
I don’t even know what’s available anymore. The only time I’ve had cable as an “adult” was back in college, when we were leeching it off the neighbor’s connection (and that intolerant bitch totally deserved it — she made our lives a thousand times more unhappy than we ever made hers). But anyway: I really don’t enjoy watching television anymore. Gimme a good movie — with appropriate company — from start to finish (pausing is always fine) without flipping about like an asshole.
74. Domestic or international airlines?
International — whenever possible. The people always seem cleaner, smarter and friendlier. And the food and service are always better. Props to Southwest, though — especially for being headquartered in such an unpleasant state, they actually do a great job. I used to fly America West because they were dirt-cheap — and boy did they ever suck shit. Southwest seems like it’d be the same thing — but in fact they really provide excellent domestic service. But I’d still rather leave the country.
75. New clothes or second-hand clothes?
Second-hand — if clean and reasonable — is always perfectly acceptable except in terms of socks and underwear — for which there is a magical land called Target. Almost everything I own and wear is second-hand. Why let those hideous mall stores gouge you? Fuck ‘em!
SHOCKERS:
76. America or England?
England. I was definitely happier in England. I went to a Robyn Hitchcock concert in Silver Lake a couple of years ago, and he assured us, “Oh, it sucks in England, too.” But personally, I was much happier in England — even when I was sad.
77. The Beatles or The Rheostatics?
The Rheostatics. Love The Beatles, but enough already. The Rheostatics always astound me afresh.
78. Blade Runner “International Cut” or Blade Runner “Final Cut”?
The first two cuts still please me the most — for those are what I experienced (in the cinema opening week-end, and on videocassette throughout the ’80s), and I like the voice-over. Alas about the unicorn — but deal with it.
79. Religion or Atheism?
Atheism. Or let’s call it: An Expansive Belief in Everything. Whereas: Religion is proven to cause people to hurt and kill each other, almost constantly — and mostly over petty differences in what are essentially the same antiquated patriarchal control codes. And besides, you don’t really still believe that some bearded guy in the clouds made everything, do you? Ha! Me, I’d rather believe that the Universe is far, far, far beyond the grasp of some monkeys with parchments sitting around making up shit.
80. Hippies or Preppies?
Preppies. And I’ll tell you why: I’ve encountered many hippies — and regardless of their “spiritual” outlooks, they usually smell bad, they resemble a Bolivian rag dumpster, and several of them have stolen things from me. Whereas preppies? They’re scared to shake your hand without antibacterial wipes at the ready. I find preppies both amusing and practical — without actually being one.
FISH:
81. Barracuda or shark?
“You say, ‘barracuda’ — people say, ‘Huh? What?’ You say, ’shark’ — and we’ve got a panic on our hands on the Fourth of July.” Thus: Shark. Cooler. Scarier. And yet: Not. Most sharks don’t pose any threat whatsoever to humans! Do the research, and help stop the people relentlessly slaughtering sharks. Indirectly, this affects everything — even the Earth’s oxygen production!
82. Skate or ray?
I’m still out to lunch on this. Ray, I guess. I like the name “Ray” — whereas there’s such a thing as a “Texas Skate” — and I don’t like Texas.
83. Grouper or flounder?
I like groupers because Jane Siberry sang about them; whereas I’ve never actually read a book by Gunther Grass (though he seems pretty cool, for a German).
84. Sushi or sashimi?
Although I have dabbled with sushi, I’m still never fully entranced by it, and should admit that it’s the embellishments, less the fish, that I actually enjoy. Thus: Sushi — because the yams, inari, even merely brown-rice-seaweed-avocado-cucumber with a bit of the “green” soy-sauce atop makes me happiest in this area.
85. Do you like fishsticks?
Hah.
BABIES:
86. Boy or girl?
Either. But girls seem much more pleasant, until possibly their teens. I am deeply disappointed at how fervidly little boys worship guns and want to kill everything (and alas that many of them never grow up).
87. Only child or siblings?
It seems best for a child to have siblings, even if it’s just the two of them together. But an only child is all right, as long as there are other intelligent kids around.
88. Same race or mix it up?
Seems kind of irrelevant. I know certain groups are very particular about this — but I also know some happy mix-ups. I admit to wondering if all the dumb blondes who fuck athletic black guys are making kids with them — or merely fucking to annoy daddy.
89. Plastic toys or keep things classic?
Both seem okay — but I think a sort of creative segregation is wise: Make a sacred space for the child to grow and learn and create (lots of creative tools and books around) — and then a separate space for videogames and plastic crap.
90. Laissez-faire or overly protective?
Reasonable.
UNHAPPINESS:
91. Cold or lonely?
I’d choose cold; one can always warm up.
92. Poor or disabled?
Poor. Money means nothing. Money is nothing.
93. Rage or misery?
Dumb guys always choose rage — but I’m much more comfortable with misery: because you might create something good out of misery, rather than merely doing unnecessary damage, as with rage.
94. Cruddy boss or cruddy coworkers?
Just quit.
95. Sore throat or wet socks?
I don’t like wet socks — but they are highly preferable to a sore throat. Because you can remedy the situation in seconds.
HAPPINESS:
96. Shopping spree or famine relief?
Oh, come on.
97. Handshake or hug?
Hugs to many; handshakes to the icky and/or homophobic (note: or to friends who don’t need me to hug them every time I see them). Hippie hugs w/pelvic grinding are right out, though (nasty).
98. Sunshine or thunderstorm?
Most readers probably know me by now. I’d consider living in the American Midwest where thundershowers are relatively common — except that I cannot abide all the religious fucknuts, plus I love old buildings too much (they tear them all down). So I’ve been faking it in this obscenely hypersunny place. But rain, I do love rain…
99. Marriage or “serial monogamy” or fucking around?
Marriage. I would love marriage, making memories together as the illusion of “time” cascades around us.
100. Love or friendship?
Love love. But there is no lasting love (in the Western, Romantic tradition — and its various evolutions) without true friendship (trotting out the covalent-bond metaphor) as its foundation. Q.E.D.
~G
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08.26.09
Posted in Uncategorized at 2:33 am by G
:)
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08.25.09
Posted in Love at 4:42 pm by G
Here we go — a little relaxing diversion for a hot afternoon. Rather than “20 Questions,” I’m going to play “20 Categories” — or: “100/Versus” — because the day has gone well, and this sort of thing sometimes amuses me.
The Rules = ONE ENTITY Vs. ANOTHER ENTITY + WHY.
That’s it. Let’s go:
LITERATURE:
1. Dickens or Austen?
Austen. Chicks are cooler than orphans.
2. Hans Christian Andersen or the Grimms?
Grimms. They’re grimmer.
3. Alex Haley or Toni Morrison?
You’re kidding, right? Fine. Alex Haley. More influential in my childhood.
4. T.C. Boyle or Kurt Vonnegut?
Well, duh. Vonnegut. Nice work, Tom — but Dead Visionary trumps Zany Recovered Junkie. (Really should have put Tom up against that other Tom — the Cowgirls/Blues one — kinda unfair to place him under Kurt’s boot-heel like that.)
5. Harry Potter or Lemony Snicket?
As if. Next category.
CARS (heh):
6. Jaguar or Mustang?
Jaguar. Because they’re cooler.
7. Jaguar or Maserati?
Jaguar. ” ”
8. Jaguar or Mercedes?
Jaguar. ” ”
9. Jaguar or Lamborghini?
Jaguar. (I’m a big boy now.)
10. Jaguar or Volvo?
Late ’60s Jag over anything else — but a nice boxy green 240 in perfect condition…hm…
(May I just have something sleek and fast and anti-grav from a few centuries hence? Ta.)
FOOD:
11. Ketchup or mustard?
What kind of mustard?
12. Hand-tossed round or deep-dish Sicilian?
Deep-dish Sicilian. It’s like a whole love affair rather than a fling.
13. Thai or Chinese?
Tie.
14. Healthy or Delicious?
Both.
15. Awesome restaurant with horrid date, or mediocre restaurant with anywhere-above-average date?
The latter — as one of my rare instances of uttering an absolute; self-explanatory.
SPORTS:
16. Football or tennis?
Tennis. Less armor.
17. Baseball or tennis?
Tennis. Less spitting.
18. Swimming or tennis?
Tennis. The idea of making something as fun as swimming competitive saddens me.
19. Global football (what Yanks call “soccer”) or tennis?
Tennis. But I only play either strictly for fun.
20. Croquet or tennis?
Can I think about that one awhile?
[Now let's make it a bit more challenging...]
POPULAR MUSIC:
21. ABBA or The Andrews Sisters?
Oh, come on, man. Love ABBA, but hate “Fernando” — so it’s Andews Sisters, Q.E.D.
22. Tony or Frank?
Frank. Just more relentlessly legendary.
23. Robert Smith or Morrissey?
Totally unfair; cannot be answered. However: If the two could be merged into one being…
24. Lloyd-Webber or Sondheim?
Sondheim. Takes chances, elicits real thrills — not merely made-to-order crowd-pleasers.
25. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart or John Williams?
If you mean John Williams the popular contemporary conductor and composer for modern motion pictures — I gotta say him. Odds I’ll play Mozart today: Nearly nil. Odds I’ll play John Williams: Almost certain.
MOVIES:
(Oh, here it comes.)
26. The Haunting or the remake of The Haunting?
Oh! This is easy! The Haunting, of course! Because it’s great instead of [adjective withheld to sustain friendly relations with show-biz types].
27. Star Wars or Tank Girl?
Ask me tonight, and I’d rather watch Tank Girl. However, they’re essentially the same story, just swap the genders. Star Wars may be slightly better-made — but Tank Girl has a musical number in the Beverly Center, plus Ice-T as a mutant kangaroo.
28. The Wizard of Oz or Xanadu?
Obviously, I have to give this to The Wizard of Oz for its outrageous quality and entertainment value — but Xanadu is closer to my heart — because it is non-stop, wall-to-wall awesome. (Bet you thought I was going to say “Zardoz,” didn’t you? Cheeky…)
29. Heaven’s Gate or Ishtar?
Believe it or not, I still haven’t seen Ishtar — so…The Muppet Movie. Because it’s wonderful.
30. A Clockwork Orange or Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban?
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Not saying Clockwork is a bad movie — but we all must grow up sometime. The first three Harry Potter movies are all better than Clockwork. Because — and I mean this — they’re equally entertaining — but not doggedly hateful.
DEAD FAMOUS PEOPLE:
31. Marilyn Monroe or Farrah Fawcett?
Marilyn Monroe. She was funny.
32. Sammy Davis, Jr. or Jim Henson?
They died on the same day, didn’t they. Alas. Tie. (But Henson’s work had a vastly more profound effect on me personally.)
33. Ted Knight or Harvey Korman?
Ouch! That’s tough! Harvey Korman — specifically because of High Anxiety.
34. Vincent Price or Peter Cushing?
Double-ouch! I don’t think I can answer this one. Oh, all right — Vincent Price — but only because he ranged much wider and weirder with the years (have you seen his Brady Bunch work?).
35. Charlie Chaplin or Marcel Marceau?
Unanswerable. Buster Keaton.
JAMES BONDS:
36. Sean Connery or Roger Moore?
Hate me if you must; Roger Moore. Because he was “our” Bond. (And — as I hope is patently obvious by this point of my life — I prefer sly over brutish.)
37. Roger Moore or George Lazenby?
Lazenby was great! But he wasn’t given adequate time to fold himself into the role. Roger Moore. Worked harder and longer, entertained more, plus UNICEF rep.
38. Sean Connery or Timothy Dalton?
Sean Connery. Owned the role first, plus a-ha and Gladys Knight songs both kinda suck. Love Dalton in Flash Gordon, though!
39. Roger Moore or Pierce Brosnan?
Tie. Love ‘em both. Ideal Bonds, in my opinion. All their movies are supremely entertaining, too.
40. Sean Connery or Pierce Brosnan?
Now we see the whole formula collapse: Sean Connery. (”But…”) Because he owned the role first and most iconically. But if Pierce had come first, we’d all be saying of Sean, “Hey…who’s the thug?…”
UTILITARIAN THINGS:
41. Umbrella or raincoat?
Moot question here — but raincoat with wide-brimmed hat is preferred; also okay with umbrellas, but never-ever crappy ones. Coat/hat because they leave your hands free for adventure.
42. Rake or leaf-blower?
For what? As a reason to be assassinated? For that: Leaf-blower. For anything remotely civilised: Rake. Because they’re not goddammed hideous monstrosities, that’s why.
43. Notebook computer or actual notebook?
Actual notebook. I prefer to write free-hand; the computer is merely a crutch — or a convenience for cleaning up the material later.
44. Ray-Bans or welding mask?
Around here, it would make sense to go around wearing a welding mask in the daytime. I’d actually enjoy the level of light allowed to penetrate — plus it’s better for your skin. But otherwise I do Ray-Bans — because they’re no longer required accessories in order to be considered “cool” — but they are well-made and darken everything to a reasonable level.
45. Maid or D.I.Y.?
I still D.I.M. Call me old-fashioned; it hasn’t yet occurred to me to do otherwise.
TATTOOS, MOTORCYCLES AND SURFING:
46. Twin Cam 88 or Twin Cam 88B?
I have no idea what you’re talking about.
47. Acrylonitrile butadiene styrene or traditional pigments?
I have no idea what you’re talking about.
48. GSX-R600 or zx-10r?
I have no idea what you’re talking about.
49. Fairy on the shoulder or Bat-symbol on the ass?
I have no idea what you’re talking about.
50. Goofyfoot or gremmie?
You have no idea what you’re talking about.
Naptime! TBC!
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Posted in Love at 3:30 am by G
Hi. It’s three-ish a.m. PST, and although it’s an hour with which I am normally quite comfortable (note: on the tail end of a day; not at the beginning!), the icky heat and several mildly stressful variables leave me presently semi-knackered, and nearly full-on delirious. It has been a long day.
And I have a business meeting at noon.
A few themes and sub-themes are still scrambling around my mind — not that they all need find expression here, of course, but as there is some illumination of previously-established points to them, it seems reasonable to add them to the mix.
For one, it occurs to me that, for my whole life thus far, most interaction with which I have dealt has run along the lines of insulting…or offensive…or provocative in a stupid way. For some reason, this evening I am thinking on family and friends and employers and various acquaintances, and how very, very often the beginning of either a conversation or a relationship has been forcibly ugly or unpleasant — meaning, from the other person’s approach. I still reflect on it all, and the things I’ve heard (much may shock you), and the way I’ve seen people behave — and although I could probably wake up fully and commence writing lists and naming names, to what end? Rather I say this because the effect on me has been needlessly influential — not for the better, but for the worser. I’ve kind of grown to expect people (particularly Americans — hey, there it is) to be shitty for no good reason. I have memories of this from being three, or thirty-nine. Now, I know: The world isn’t always nice (duh) — but really I must have been magnetised to attract jerky attitudes and behaviors. You know, pretending to punch someone in the stomach (or worse) — that’s not a “greeting.” Making some totally sick joke in absolutely the wrong context — that’s never funny. I’ve just never noticed before that I really don’t have to tolerate people intentionally being monsters just because they feel like it. Fuck off. Be nice, or fuck off. Go get therapy.
Since the point of an outlet like this is self-indulgence, please allow me to clarify: It’s really very, very easy to communicate with me — and here are the magic four words:
DON’T.
SHIT.
AT.
ME.
That’s it. Q.E.D.
The other theme of the evening was that I have, upon reflection, discovered that I’ve never really been in a relationship (Western romantic definition; plus its evolutions). I mean: Where the other person was working as hard and giving back as much as I was giving. Never. This isn’t sour grapes (although those antioxidants are good for us) — rather, it’s just a sort of freedom, in reflecting how I’ve never had a real relationship. A few projections and flings. Of course, I have not been perfect — but most of my “opportunities” haven’t even been reasonable! This is liberating for me. In particular, I note that I’ve never been appreciated. Again, not complaining — just realising. It really has been like “she” has her situation planned out, and her overabundant circle of friends, and her objectives in all things — and all “she” really wants to do is plug a breathing male body into the equation in order to fake “completeness.” I’m really not saying this to be mean — it’s only occurring to me now how incredibly stupid it’s all been.
Will I encounter any wise women in the future? This remains to be experienced.
The rest of you, please see the definition for Compromise: Learn it; know it; live it.
I did receive a treat — at once from faraway and near — on Sunday, which, while extremely inconclusive, does give me added reason to smile, and further tips the scales to good.
Meanwhile, some transitions are afoot. The subjective life of an individual can be very hard to understand — and most people (from my observations) are fucking lazy and self-obsessed, and tend to project their own state of being onto everybody else (as if). That’s unfortunate, so permit me another self-indulgence, as I make this personal note:
“Active” hasn’t worked; and “passive” hasn’t worked — I mean, both approaches have failed me, on numerous occasions, to the brink of self-destruction. I say: “Here, let’s do this!” — and everyone’s like: “FUCKIN’ SHIT ON YOU!!!” — so I pull back, and say: “Hey, I’m here if anybody needs me…” — and then there’s simply nothing — years of nothing — or (worse) somebody who knows nothing and does nothing will pop up and say, “You’re not trying.” (As if.)
Thus, it has been quite an unpleasant several years, from this point of view.
Once again, though: Illuminating. If nothing else.
Kicking against the pricks: Yeah, there was a bit of that a week ago — and, in related ways, recently. Maybe it’s wrongly interpreted as me being a hothead, or some similarly bizarre misapprehension — but basically it’s this: Crazy people (some of them quite hostile and hateful) will try to attach themselves to you like Velcro. I mean, I can take a little bit of aggression, or somebody feeling “off” and saying the wrong things, or even being hopelessly awkward because they just don’t know any better. But some of the ugliness I’ve been seeing — I mean, open hatred, racism, threats, whoring, total onslaughts against all that is courteous and good — it’s been tiring. I’ve tried very hard over these past few years — and really: Shitbag employers pulled the rug; family pulled the rug; “girlfriend” (one of the most hateful…people I’ve encountered) pulled the rug; friends scattered; it’s been extremely fucking difficult to accomplish anything or even make sense of a given day — this really hasn’t been the ideal chapter of my life to have to deal with openly hostile and hateful crazy people. Regardless of how cool I may appear (and mellow, indeed, is my default setting — fuck your stress all the way to hell) — I nonetheless can become fatigued. It’s been very wearying, dealing with these crazies.
Much of it had to do with them reaching out to me, and me wanting to do what I could to acknowledge and support what is good about them — but man, I have my limits.
Gender notwithstanding, I did indeed feel relieved to jettison two “bitches” last week — and also recently there have been males (it’s difficult to call them “men”) whose absence has proven much more pleasing than their presence.
I’m not innocuous the way a lot of people are — you know, smile blankly, say nothing provocative, share the cheese — however I am friendly, real and pleasant to any and all who are not actively shitting at me.
That’s all it takes; I hope I have made my point.
I wouldn’t bother — there are many other things to discuss — but imagine if you got in, like, a dozen car-wrecks per week. You’d probably consider that noteworthy, right? Same thing.
Thanks.
Love? It’s L.A. I probably won’t address the topic here anymore.
I did have a really nice late-nite repast, though: I brought a most excellent book, and I partook of a most excellent vegan sandwich (really, words are inadequate for the astounding quality of that sandwich), and a sweet tropical delicacy as a side, and the waitress forgot my salad — and I was really genuinely very nice to her about it, and let her know it was no big deal, and tipped her well for her efforts, and there were a couple of fifth- or twentieth-generation “old school” punks sitting nearby, and I honestly couldn’t tell the gender of the larger one, and an amazing song from the early ’70s I’d never really listened to before came on — and some elements were missing…
…but it was nice.
Oh, and I called this Essay “Washing” because I’m not so into “air” (horrid), thus I’m not “Wafting” — but rather I keep Washing up on various shores…wondering if one of them may turn out to be my country. Plus I did my laundry today.
Benedictions (unless you suck),
~G
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08.24.09
Posted in Life at 12:13 am by G
Compromise.
Yep, time’s up — and that’s the winner: Compromise.
(Actually, the Universe provided something good fairly early.)
Unfortunately, the extremely-not-Chinese employees at the “Chinese” restaurant screwed up my order, but I sat and read and ate happily enough anyway, delighting in the excessive sodium intake on a wretched Sunday afternoon, laughing my worries away. The good thing came a bit later, and it was this:
A short, bald dad took time out from his busy day of being short and bald to behold, with his cute little daughter, a massive squirrel chittering at them during its epic descent along the trunk of a tall, also probably non-indigenous palm tree.
It was a terrific little moment, brimming with Life — thanks, Universe! — and it was all I really needed to see today to convince me that goodness exists.
I also received a couple of calls from a lifelong friend — who of course chose to insult me a couple of times in that annoying Midwestern way I find intolerable — but was otherwise chummy and pleasant and brightened the already-too-bright day considerably. Bless him and his grandmother.
And some good work in my actual field may be developing. It may be a long while before I make further mention of it here — but it qualifies as 100% good. Not good the way an evening with someone you adore (and — oh, dream on — who adores you back) feels good — however, despite its inability to cover the entirety of the good spectrum, this news proves sufficiently good to bring forth an (sic) happy-enough compromise — so, alas, you won’t be getting ten days of my extremely acidic (if also predominantly provably true) verses; rather, I’ll offer up a compensatory sample at the tail of this post.
Compromise, incidentally — a concept most Americans clearly fully fail to understand — is not a “negative” word! Not at all! Rather, putting it very simply, it means “to promise with” — or, for those who don’t enjoy dangling prepositions (my hand is inlmg loib,k ih- OOPS! my hand is raised), it means “to promise together.”
This, I feel, is part of the core reason that adults live in Europe and children live in America. Check it out, from Wikipedia:
Cultural background and influences, the meaning and perception of the word “compromise” may be different: In the UK, Ireland and Commonwealth countries the word “compromise” has a positive meaning (as a consent, an agreement where both parties win something); in the USA it may rather have negative connotations (as both parties lose something).
Get it? Good.
So, yeah — I am a fan of Compromise.
I’m also an acerbic wit (heh) — albeit with some considerable slop and misplaced beats. These are the gentler couplets among the dozens of bits composed in Sunday morning’s hideous torpor. Scope the sample. Breathe the sigh of relief that they stop here (for now). And bring along some salt, because they may not be about you. Good day.
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08.23.09
Posted in Life at 11:42 am by G
Another wave of disappointment last night — nothing tragic; just the sense of, “Oh, it’s so not worth it here.” Kind of like the feeling that inspired “Release” last week. Part of it is August (hideous month); part of it is SoCal (it really is so very retarded out there that it actually hurts to go look at it) — and a big part of it is just the sense of untapped and/or unwanted potential which pummels me day and night constantly (further complicated by being in SoCal — where, really, most people are desperately determined to prove that they “are” something that they’re utterly obviously not).
Had a nice dinner — I can say that. Limited contact with people I really like — I can say that.
The “love” thing — I mean, yes, I saw her briefly, and she does instantly convince me of the existence of Beauty simply via her presence — however, I’m not hanging my hat on that peg, and here’s why: This is indeed Southern California — where people come so they can be selfish jerks and “love” somebody who cannot and will not ever make any demands on them which would cause them to have to become real. Here, it’s about convenience, faking it, being childish until they throw you out of the game. If you disagree, you probably haven’t really looked, or you’re on something.
I know it sounds hideously cynical, but I have twenty years of experience and observation on my side here.
Note: I can — and usually do — perceive Beauty without relying on the standard male crutch of leaning on a female; I mention her unique presence because it’s like the whole world instantaneously gets outrageously more wonderful when I see her.
She’s great, I wish her very well, and nothing bad happened or anything like that. I just don’t believe it here. This place provides me with exactly 0.000000000-infinity% reason to believe it. Quite the contrary. Message received.
And since how I feel, in this sense and medium, has been communicated adequately clearly — and out of respect and appreciation — I shall strive to keep her out of this process (even peripherally and anonymously) from now on. If I seem exceptionally cheerful on occasion, you are welcome to take a guess why.
Anyway, I’m surrounded by good things, and rich ideas far beyond what your little TV-shrivelled brain could process, and distant friends remind me that life is good. I’ll stagger through this Sunday somehow.
And yet — upon rising — I decided to make it a little game:
To the Universe, I entreat: Show me a good, real reason (at least one; more are welcome) to care about this situation here. Something good — not some nasty mess designed to enflame my compassion as one would see in a badly-written movie — I mean something happy, satisfying, maybe even delightfully challenging — but above all, good.
If, Universe, you can do that, I may be convinced.
Now I’m not talking some stupid little distraction which merely leads pointlessly into the next empty day — nor some drunk-on-life giddiness such as what one might find at an amusement park or party filled with fake smiles and raucous dumb-guy laughter (Oh, how I loathe raucous dumb-guy laughter) — nay-nay, Universe! Show me something good today.
It doesn’t have to be big; and it doesn’t have to be dramatic — it only has to be good. And not coming from me — I can entertain myself infinitely. It has to come from outside the periphery of me.
Got it, Universe? Good.
Because the penalty — if you don’t prove yourself a little bit today — is that I have already tapped out several inflammatory verses — which I shall insert into this “blog” over the next ten days — unless you, Universe, give me a reason to feel something beyond mere innocuous “happiness.”
Something real and good today, Universe.
You have until midnight, PST.
Go.
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08.21.09
Posted in Uncategorized at 7:13 pm by G
Hi. Just work to do, none terribly unpleasant. Skipping the movies, as they’re all to do with how great it is to be a dork in America. Put paid to that. Maybe see some friends, be of use? It’s cloudy and cool, and I’m pensieve . . . pensive . . . in a good way. If I am fortunate, there shall be a sighting or two of her. I smile at the prospect.
Here’s a treat for the discerning lady-reader — well, for the discerning lady-reader who likes peculiar, sinister, kinda-latent characters in playfully-absurd wigs and pitch-black cloaks. You know who you are. For you:
“Can you hear me now?…Potter.”
Matronly is the new Sexy.
Alan. As is.
And now, class…
“…turn to page three-hundred and ninety-four.“
Speaking of which — it’s back to the books with me. Cheers.
~G
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