Y’know, in the blur of constant satisfactionless whateverness, I had forgotten how cool this movie is. Although I loathe my former name, I am proud to carry the featured rave on the U.S. release. Dig:
Great movie! Check it out!
(With thanks to the fellow who hooked it up.)
Meanwhile, “Twenty Pictures” sometime later this week; I still have loads of lonely work to do.
Oh: A couple of people have asked about the dream wherein I pissed off Robert Plant. There was a lot more to it, actually, but the pivotal sequence involved me walking with a father and daughter (both of whom I really like) along a very busy street in an older city (not L.A.), and somehow we noticed Robert Plant approaching us, in spandex, astride a racing bicycle. “How much is that building?!” he cried out to us, pointing to a fairly average-looking brownstone to our right. “I want to buy it!!” Since it was — you know — Robert Plant, we all felt obliged to help him in any way possible, and I volunteered to go into the building to ask how much it would cost to buy it (there was a “FOR SALE” sign out front — which keen-eyed Robert noticed; incidentally, it was young-thin-arrogant Plant on the bike, not old-fat-arrogant Plant). I strode into the building and it suddenly transformed into (or revealed itself to be) a sort of clammy indoor flea-market — you know, of the sort people sustain in cities where there is actual weather (I’ve always enjoyed them on Saturday not-too-early mornings) — and I quickly became distracted by a bunch of pop-cultural items, instantly and completely forgetting about Robert Plant’s stupid and pushy demand. The father and daughter just kind of found other stuff to examine, while I busied myself with slightly-chipped Star Wars DVDs in some sort of snazzy plastic case (previously unseen; doesn’t actually exist) plus Queen CDs (because Queen are still the greatest pop [etc.] band the world has ever known and probably will ever know; yes, they are; no, you are wrong; yes, they are). As I pondered whether it was worth it to acquire these charming but rather rough items (for a pittance, but still), Robert Plant came charging into the flea market, sweating, glaring, and really making an ass of himself. “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!?” he shouted at me. “YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO FIND OUT HOW MUCH THIS BUILDING COSTS!!” And then everybody just sort of laughed at Robert Plant for being a jerk, and that part of the dream concluded.
(Incidentally, a reliable account indicates that Brad Pitt behaves like this.)
This may be how I do the next Update post…or maybe it’s an Essay. Both?
Plenty of other writing demands my attention, and it seems most efficient to toss up photos with captions. Not immediately, but kinda soon this week.
For me, this is presently The Best of Times (friends) and The Worst of Times (family) — thus although I’m not going to spill it all here, do note that I’m presently juggling way too much to make sense.
This afternoon and evening, with a little effort, I could have been viewing two alphabetically-compatible movies — The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, plus The Invention of Lying (both movies seeming very, very “me,” btw — well, apart from Jenny Garner; barf) — but duty calls.
I close by stating that in a dream this morning I pissed off Robert Plant; it was awesome.
Hi. I went away for a few days — well, not really away, as it was all part of my life (some smaller portion of it very unfortunately) — and although I could easily make toast and stay up until dawn regaling you (whoever “you” are) with tales of my myriad experiences and observations (friendly, appreciative, adventurous, literary, ideological, iconoclastic, feline, urban, transportational, comestible, somnolent, miserable and puzzled — though the main reason I went was nuptial, and that was genuinely joyful), I have proper writing to do throughout Tuesday, and so tonight it’s the short form and — well, probably still some toast . . . but then off to dream (my dreams have been overwhelmingly exciting lately).
A bad thing: People in the Midwest need to learn that the crew-cut, t-shirt, bad-shorts, trainers look — particularly when accessorised with lousy wire-frame glasses and “that Jesus glare” — really looks fucking inexcusably terrible. Get some real clothes. Get a real hairdo. Stop dressing like a retard! Smile like you mean it.
(I speak not of those I know, incidentally — I have ridden a lot of public transportation recently.)
A good thing: I reconnected with some people who mean a lot to me, without whose inspiration I would not be (well, I certainly wouldn’t be in this insane country, anyway!).
I could go on and on — really serious beauty and really serious pain, actually — but as before I’m moderating my own tendency to divulge (site’s been popular lately…), so an almost-good night’s sleep first, and then perhaps a bit of a less-fuzzy-headed Update or Essay or both.
Oh, I hate that there’s a new television show called “Trauma.” Like America needs more of that. Fuck you, television!!!
The Harry Potter review was posted in some haste, incidentally, and a couple of typos and not-quite-theres have been modified. Nothing major, but it now reads essentially as I’d like it to stand. Onward.
It’s a cool, grey Saturday evening in Southern California as I begin this book review — and, ultimately, phenomenon-review — of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, the seventh and allegedly “final” book in author J.K. Rowling’s at-once astounding and confounding series of children’s books for adults. The location is significant, as I have made my “home” (as such) in relentlessly, mercilessly sunny and NOISY SoCal throughout the entirety of this series, and, of late, in the nasty dog-days here at the end of summer, as much of the region has been literally engulfed in flames, with the rest left choking on the smoke and ashes, Rowling’s moody, gloomy, gloriously cobbled-together fantasy world has proven my favourite — no, “escape” is absolutely the wrong word — an ignorant, rude, “Muggly” way of defining the experience (and yes, I am aware that the word for non-wizarding type is “Muggle” — however I am at heart a grammaticist, and that noun begs an adjectival partner!)
Rather, the word is enhancement; yes, let us call it that. Non-readers (and America is overflowing with them, alas) may scorn the appreciation of apparent kid-lit (I know a hyperactive and short but otherwise technically adult person who had the first Harry Potter book pressed upon him by an eager girlfriend — and proudly claims he read only a few lines about the world-famous orphan before flinging the book across the room in disgust — it seems I rarely attract friends who share my tastes; sigh) — but I am happy to declare my strong affection for this series, an affection witch — erm, oops — which has grown significantly in this new Gregorian millennium (catalysed by the release of the mostly-terrific Warner Bros. movie adaptations), unlike in the tail end of the previous thousand years, wherein I found myself (as usual) distrusting and shunning hype and sensationalism, albeit in this case that of Hogwarts-thumping women of at least slightly-above-average intelligence or at least slightly-above-average aestheticism (many of whom are prone to flouncing about in ostentatious velvet and dubious-looking crystals, but there you go.)
So . . . yes . . . I feel quite enhanced by my reading of the Harry Potter series (this ugly summer I mightn’t have survived sans it) — and in fact, now, well over two Earth-years after the enormously-hyped midnight release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (hereafter in the review: Book the Seventh) — an event witch (ha! last time.) which, perhaps noteworthily, I attended at the Borders in Hollywood with another friend of limited stature (although this one, by no means less the pugnacious movie nerd, is also possessed of some feminine qualities, and he generally “gets” it) — I have finally gotten around to reading the book properly (my 2007, marketing-hype-busting breeze-through took the form of the popular leaked PDF file of all 759 photographed pages — which I did indeed read, but hastily, and screw your Kindle™; only paper, paper you can smell and caress, is The Real Thing). Yes, now I have eaten with the Deathly Hallows, I have slept with the Deathly Hallows, I have carried around the Deathly Hallows in my utterly untoward man-purse, and (most pleasingly), I have gazed up from the Deathly Hallows into the face I deem the most beautiful. That’s reading; and I now know, well enough, of what I write.
I offer two warnings before we dive into my review. One: This has been a long series, exploding with personal and social associations, so go get yourself a cup of herbal tea and/or some good vegan dark chocolate, because this review will be appropriately lengthy as well. And Two (and most conventionally): YOU CAN COUNT ON CONSTANT SPOILERS FROM THIS POINT FORWARD. ANY NUANCE, SCENE, CHARACTER-TURN OR PLOT-POINT DEEMED WORTHY OF COMMENT WILL BE REVEALED HERE. YOU HAVE HAD PLENTY OF “TIME” TO READ THE BOOKS. NOW, IF YOU HAVEN’T, YOU MAY EITHER ABSORB (OR CONTEND WITH) MY PERSPECTIVES ON THEM — OR PERHAPS, PUTTING IT MORE NICELY, IF YOU HAVE READ (AND ENJOYED) THE BOOKS, PERHAPS SOME OF MY VIEWS THEREUPON WILL SERVE TO REFRESH AND REUNITE.
Onward…
Here’s a nice little paragraph for the three remaining people on Earth who don’t know what the Harry Potter series is about: The Harry Potter series is about the eponymous boy-wizard who attends a school of magic (”Hogwarts” — if you can believe it) in Scotland, and gets into many zany, Scooby-Doo-esque pickles as well as many dark and disturbing mortal scrapes. Essentially, his is yet another Hero’s Journey paradigm — his path has much in common with that of Luke Skywalker of Star Wars fame — except his archnemesis is not his own father, but rather an overly ambitious and extremely evil fascist-wizard called by various names but most commonly known as Voldemort. The struggle between these two sustains all seven books (and, eventually, eight movies; at this writing, “they’ve” just wrapped principal photography on the adaptation of Book the Seventh, as two films), as Voldemort killed Harry’s parents but failed at killing Harry himself (who was only an infant in the attack). From the ages of 11-17 (when witches and wizards “come of age”), and thus through Books the First through the Seventh, Harry struggles to unravel the mysteries of both his potential assassin and his own increasingly complicated lineage. He is joined on most of his adventures by his school peers Ron (a well-intended bumbler) and Hermione (an “unsufferable know-it-all” — in the words of one enigmatic professor). An exceedingly colourful cast of characters (students, faculty, Muggles, goodies, baddies, in-betweenies) rounds out the adventures, which provide immense entertainment for those who like wit and mood combined, and several moral issues are contemplated en route to the ultimate clash between Good and Evil (in the school cafeteria, no less).
Now, for those who deem the Harry Potter series original — well, you’re wrong, totally wrong. The magic of Harry Potter lies not in its nearly non-existent originality (nor in its bludger-like marketing assaults, which feel like ‘77-’78 all over again) — but in author J.K. Rowling’s astounding gift for weaving together what are apparently her favourite threads of fantasy literature and world mythology and pop culture — and making the mix feel very fresh, appealing and alive. Rowling literally steals from the best. Consequently, the Harry Potter series is so captivating that casual and even obsessed readers may not notice that it lifts its memorable character grotesqueries from Roald Dahl, its witchcraft school from a number of sources (including especially Jill Murphy’s The Worst Witch [1974], Ursula K. Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea [1968], Diana Wynne Jones’ Charmed Life [1977], Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Game [1985], and Jane Yolen’s Wizard’s Hall [1991]), and its eponymous boy-wizard from the “Tim Hunter” character in Vertigo Comics’ Books of Magic (plus it’s no secret that the very name “Harry Potter” is lifted wholesale from the 1986 horror movie Troll). Further lifts abound, most notably, obviously and by this point terribly redundantly from Tolkien (much of his iconic imagery is simply snatched up and renamed by Rowling — thus sneaky “Wormtongue” becomes “Wormtail,” and spectral “Nazgul” become “Dementors,” etc., etc.), but, to be fair, Tolkien was mostly doing the same sort of lifting in his day — only via more obscure, and difficult, mythologies, and in a much more conservative and less fantastical era), but also from Dickens (this orphan Harry owes much to the classics) and a sort of relentless desire in the author to repackage ancient myths and fantasy creatures as if she had invented them herself (see especially her entertaining but also irritating Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them). Putting a fine point on it, Jo Rowling is a fine writer — One of the greatest ever! Her work thrills this 40-year-old man who should be thinking about other things! — and she is also a shameless thief. But a talented thief — ridiculously talented — possessed of storytelling skills that are nigh on (wait for it!) magical.
Indeed, not since George Lucas signed his name to Alan Dean Foster’s ghostwritten novelisation of the original Star Wars has a pop-fantasy franchise taken on the massive weight of the Harry Potter series (though many have tried) — and it amuses this writer that the Warner Bros. film studios turned down Star Wars during initial pitches, but ended up catching the Golden Snitch of the Harry Potter series (the special effects of which are produced primarily by Lucas’ ILM studios; small world!) — but the key difference between the very comparable franchises is this: Star Wars is conceived by one man but its stories are created and delivered unto the world by armies of writers and artists; whereas Rowling has not only conceived of (or cobbled together) the Harry Potter series — she is its sole author! In other words, Star Wars goes through nearly infinite machinations prior to becoming focused narrative product — whereas the Harry Potter series begins with the focus (the books — as far as we know being written by but one person) — and only then spirals outward into the nearly infinite machinations of movies and marketing and merchandising, etc. etc. etc. And let us not neglect to mention the forthcoming Harry Potter theme park (under yet another studio — Universal — shyeah, they’re “competitors”) presently under development in a place even more the polar opposite of Hogwarts than Little Whinging — Florida.
I just find all that nonsense intriguing. Apart from boys liking Star Wars and women liking Harry Potter, the comparison (though in no way comprehensive) really puts things into perspective.
Now the review of Book the Seventh:
For those many humans with no patience and/or who hate details (I know too many of you; alas), here’s what the seventh Harry Potter book could be called: Harry Potter and the Entertaining Narrow Escapes/Surprisingly High Body-Count/Ultimate Confrontation and Generally Happy Ending. If you want in and out of this story without reading another word of it, that title pretty well covers all you need to know.
For those who love a great story, though — and the Harry Potter series is a great story — you’ll want to pore over the brilliance of Book the Seventh — which is no masterpiece and certainly not even the best of the series (I’d give that honour to any of the first three, or the sixth), but which is an alarmingly engaging read and most definitely a book for the ages. It’s bold, this one. (Kids and favourite characters suddenly die; snap; boom; gone!) And besides, the pleasure of reading Rowling is not in the plotting — which is sometimes admirably complex for “children’s literature” (and sometimes charmingly sloppy, as in Books the Fourth and the Fifth — tellingly, also the least of the movies), but which too often hinges on those darned Scooby Doo-type reveals — but rather in her wonderful knack for character tics and treacly prose. Even — especially! — her “darkest” scenes prove as delicious as a big, fat, inappropriate dessert.
So you want to know who dies, eh? Okay, those details will fill the next paragraph. First, the Brief Synopsis: After the shocking (if somewhat absurd) death of headmaster Albus Dumbledore near the end of Book the Sixth, the comfy predictability of the Harry Potter series (i.e.: Annoying Muggle Family; Back to Hogwarts; Mystery; Villain; Chases; Classes; Creatures; Quidditch; Quirks; Showdown; Verbose Scooby-Doo Wrap-Up) has been irrevocably dispelled. We open instead in the very lair of Voldemort, who has taken up residence in the spooky house of dark wizarding family the Malfoys, where they and other minions (including especially the apparently murderous Severus Snape and the definitely murderous Bellatrix Lestrange) hold court on plans to kill Harry Potter (whom Voldemort deems his only obstacle en route to ultimate power and immortality), and then — for good measure — Voldemort kills a kidnapped, tortured, levitating and previously unknown professor with an empathy for Muggles — only to feed her to his huge, symbiotically-linked pet snake. And this is only the first chapter. What happens throughout the remainder, however, may be described in fairly short order: Harry’s deceased mother’s love-blessing is about to wear off, so his foster family the Dursleys are evacuated from their imminently-unsafe Muggle home, then there’s a massive nocturnal aerial chase as teams of wizards, young and old, either disguise themselves as Harry (with the transformative “Polyjuice Potion”) or act as his decoys’ guardians, en route to relative, temporary safety. Thereafter follows a fancy wedding at the Weasley house, the Burrow (burned down by Voldemort’s gangmembers, the “Death Eaters,” in Movie the Sixth but not in Book the Sixth; this should make for a weird new plot onscreen), after which Harry, Ron and Hermione go on the lam as an adventuring trio, bemoaning far too few immediately-evident clues from their beloved old Headmaster, with loads of Death Eaters (including the scary Yaxley and scarier werewolf Fenrir Greyback) giving lethal chase. The goal of our heroes? Destroy the remaining “Horcruxes” — magical items containing portions of Voldemort’s severed (thus, for now, immortal) soul. (”Children’s Literature.”) This takes them through some rather thrilling adventures via the fascist-co-opted Ministry of Magic, through familial discoveries in the invisible house of Harry’s murdered hepcat godfather Sirius Black (significant revelations coming via the passionate recollections of the previously intolerant and intolerable house-elf, Kreacher), through some mystical sylvan camp-outs, through the whimsical and wonderful dwellings of the likes of Luna’s dad, Xenophilius Lovegood (another great escape) and newlyweds Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacoeur’s super-quaint Shell Cottage, and even a massive (and wicked fun!) heist scene in Gringott’s, the Goblin bank. With assists from both the dead (magic-world authoress Bathilda Bagshot; great scary scene!) and the inhuman (we actually get close with Book the First’s Griphook the Goblin), the noble (Dumbledore in a late-in-the-game dream sequence they’d better well film!) and the dubious (wandmaker Ollivander, who delights more in power than morality), Harry and his cohorts, though often miserable and quarrelling amongst one another quite believably, are drawn ever closer to the ultimate showdown (again?): Harry vs. Voldemort at Hogwarts itself (and guess who wins; well, obviously…)
Now, skip this paragraph if you like, but here’s the short list of who gets their arse snuffed: Previously peripheral professor Charity Burbage quickly becomes snake food. Mad-Eye Moody dies in the great mid-air chase. Harry’s owl Hedwig dies in that same chase, hit by a killing curse, and he himself destroys the sidecar in which she plummets. Bitter old Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour bites it at the hands of Death Eaters shortly after delivering three apparently innocuous parting gifts from Dumbledore to our trio (they end up being quite useful, but much like Dumbledore’s burnt hand in Book the Sixth, their mystery is employed by the author more as a tension-builder than as any significant payoff; one of her few weaknesses, IMHO). Dobby the House Elf dies — stabbed through the heart by Bellatrix, with a dagger flung at Harry. (That’s right: DOBBY DIES. Shocking, innit?) Thereafter, the action heats up, but the deaths become more singular and dramatic: Wormtail dies, attacked by his own bewitched hand. Hogwarts falls under attack, and we actually lose several students (Rowling specifically mentions fifty corpses), former and present: Bad boy Crabbe dies — having conjured some truly terrifying infernal fire in the Room of Requirement. Cute little Harry-fan and amateur photographer Colin Creevey dies (!) — possibly as payback for being a paparazzo and sycophant. Much more shockingly, jocular Fred Weasley is killed in an abrupt, very-terrorist-like blast of dark magic. The Weasley sister Ginny is very nearly killed — but her mother pulls a “Ripley” (”NOT MY DAUGTER, YOU BITCH!” she bellows — children’s book, mind) and takes out her would-be murderess, Bellatrix. Meanwhile, perhaps most shockingly of all, oddly-matched newlyweds and new parents Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks are both killed in the final battle. Good parents! Killed! In Kid-Lit!
And then, despite the magnificently obvious (Yes, Tom “Lord Voldemort” Riddle dies — by his own spell, bounced back by Harry), the series’ most ardent fans were and are perhaps most horrified by this revelation: Everyone’s favourite purring semi-villainous wizard-turncoat, he of mysterious sexuality and bitterest turns of phrase, Severus Snape, dies — again, by the big mythic snake (meh). As a formality, no less — a mistaken formality involving the rightful ownership of the most powerful and lethal wand of all. But don’t despair, Goth brethren and sistren — for despite Snake’s rather pathetic demise, we nonetheless gain, in Book the Seventh, a bitter-bitter lifetime of Snape highlights in flashback (convenient, these bottled memories!), featuring Hogwarts’ #1 Emo-Goth hooligan before he was all growed up. Love it.
(Despite the film series’ many, many excellent portrayals, incidentally, it is definitely Alan Rickman, as Snape, who takes the films beyond the level of terrific fantasy and into the pantheon of Great Cinema; his appearances, though sporadic and limited, deliver iconic greatness for the ages.)
Now let us appraise Book the Seventh in seven specific categories, and then conclude.
Themes: While readers of the series up to this point are unlikely to find new thematic material, per se (death; friendship; death), Rowling is aces here in terms of enriching and expanding upon what has come before. Here we richly perceive human imperfection and its attendant acceptance (gorgeous Fleur with werewolf-damaged Bill; Harry with the cliched bad-boy evidence of Sirius; Harry and Hermione struggling to forgive Ron for temporarily deserting them; even the kids feeding hungry and horrible giant Grawp post-battle). We are generously afforded perspective of Harry’s expanding guilt over being “The Chosen One” (with attendant body-count!), plus his determination to carry on, not as a fighter so much (unless necessary), but as a boy-man with a destiny only a coward would try to dodge. Perhaps most politically, we are shown (especially via a particularly hideous statue of wizards oppressing Muggles) Rowling’s stark distaste for fascism (for old Voldy is nothing if not a magical kiddie-book Hitler). And throughout this alternate Britain’s magical landscape — drawn more broadly, beautifully and harrowingly than in any of the previous books — we really get a strong taste for the author’s blending of worlds: How, for instance, the (dark) wizarding world with its hijacked propaganda machines may spell doom for the no-more-innocent but far-less-powerful Muggle world with its…well…also with its hijacked propaganda machines.
Plot: While I’m perfectly content to cast niggling complaints at Rowling for some of the absurd coincidences she employs in order to tie this story together (especially during the protracted camp-out scenes, where various implausible meet-ups and overhearings run rampant), I gotta say, this is otherwise one hell of a tight and engaging read. Were this purely a capering adventure, it’d be a classic on that count alone. But Rowling — thieving, perhaps, but stunningly ambitious — imbues the story up top with astounding revelations both past (Rita Skeeter’s The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore! Snape’s fucking great “flashback reel”) and nouveau-mythic (”The Tale of the Three Brothers”). Thus, what could have been a very exciting big chase becomes, really, one of the most enjoyable books I’ve ever read (requiring, of course, the reading of the previous six).
Characters: This is where Rowling really shines — bringing her kid-lit populace to highly expressive, and seemingly real (and not infrequently savage), life — and Book the Seventh is no exception, if not, in this specific way, the best of the bunch. While there’s much to be said for mystique, finally really getting a handle on Dumbledore, on Sirius, even on Griphook’s griping and Lupin’s losing-it — and especially on the “Half-Blood Prince” himself (finally) — proves remarkably satisfying. Why? Because Rowling very clearly understood the generation previous to Harry’s (including his imperfect parents — well, his dad’s imperfect, anyway, big surprise), prior to proceeding with her very lucrative eponymous hero’s story. I can stand up and applaud this sort of dedication to one’s art and craft.
Setpieces: Due to the aforementioned hype (and no rare smatterings of idiotic hysteria), it took me a while to get into even Book the First (as in: not too long before the release of the first movie — and partly because the first two films were November releases, as if tailor-made for me) — but right away (and, tellingly, before there were brilliant set-designers like Stuart Craig on board), Rowling understood the significance of the Grand Set. The Great Hall, the Quidditch pitch, the Chess Board, the Forbidden Forest — she certainly learned well from her fantasy forebears. Granted, some scenarios in Book the First were slightly sketchy or hackneyed, but with each installment the grandiose rooms and settings have grown (I love the Chamber of Secrets; I love Hogsmeade; I love Hagrid’s Hut and wish to move in immediately — uh, solo, of course) — and in Book the Seventh — even after the freakish cavern in the cliff in Book the Sixth (which is briefly revisited) — Rowling outdoes herself. The wedding at the Burrow is (pardon) fabulous! Godric’s Hollow is so enchanting you can feel the snowflakes on your cheek! The Lovegood house is magnificently weird! Gringott’s turns extra-spooky (and dangerous)! And then it all converges — where else? — at the freakishly-named Hogwarts Castle itself (if Jo ever reads this, that’s my one question: Why did you call it “Hogwarts”? Oh — wait — and: “May I have two billion dollars?”) — which is familiar and yet nearly literally turned inside-out! Awesome.
Tone: It’s a tough balance, to start killing off children (or, early on, even George Weasley permanently loses an ear — from the sort of irreversible dark magic with which Rowling waffles occasionally, as is convenient), and yet to make a book engaging and funny. And Rowling not only manages this, she creates a vision of a world that is at once desperately personal (losing her mother, all that loudly-trumpeted “welfare-mum” p.r. = she’s not afraid to put her characters through terrible pain and loss), and yet publicly topical (the terrorist attacks of the dark wizards and witches so reflect contemporary news that they could scarcely come from any other age). Mix this with wonder and whimsy on a nearly epic scale (although the action remains in Britain, Rowling is not sheepish about flinging Hermione’s memory-wiped parents off to Australia, or weaving subplots about wizardly exploits in Eastern Europe), and this is, as they say, really something. You can keep your John Grisham and Dan Brown — they’re totally boring compared to this.
Failings: Don’t worry — I’m actually nothing like those film-geek guys who thrive on saying things like “it holds up!” or “not bad…but flawed” about virtually everything. I have been a professional critic for a decade, and unless I’m merely dicking around, I choose my targets carefully. In the case of Book the Seventh, in fact, I have very few slights to hurl. Killing Snape is unfortunate, but just as Han Solo was originally slated to die in the Star Wars saga (before George wussied out and went Ewok), I think the ambivalent professor’s demise adds tremendous weight to all that went before (alas that his death itself does feel hasty and not all that well plotted). Speaking of plotting — yeah, Jo could use a little sharpening in this area — way too many minor kawinkydinks and “conveniences” are employed to hold things together (such as: Okay, now when you say his name, Death Eaters instantly show up. Buzz! Too easy!). But that’s minor. Um…it does annoy me that the very, very youthful romances at Hogwarts are taken to be lifelong pursuits — as anyone familiar with adolescent longing knows that it feels eternal (which Rowling gets right) — but usually it either burns out or is snuffed out (often in favour of all-new bullshit) in one’s late teens or early twenties. And it’s also annoying that the locket Horcrux here is a total rip-off of The One Ring (wear it around your neck, become rude!). But: I suppose that the deaths of Creevy, Tonks and Lupin bug me the most — Creevy because he shouldn’t even have been present at the battle (and yet his death — a child’s death! — seems to signify nothing); and Tonks and Lupin because we wanna believe in that love! — plus now their infant is an orphan (even tidying up with the blithe nineteen-years-later epilogue on Platform 9 3/4 doesn’t assuage the sense of pointless — narratively and emotionally pointless! — loss. It’s as though Rowling merely got bored of the characters and needed to kill somebody.) But again, I think this is an excellent book. As a winking parting criticism, I am personally offended that Rowling decided to make green the colour of “evil” magic. Green is pretty! Get your head on straight, Jo!
Significance: Well, only time will tell (if you believe in “time” — I don’t). Thus far, we’re looking at about twelve years of a steadily mounting literary and narrative and commercial and cinematic phenomenon. In many ways, although most of the parts are borrowed (or stolen), nonetheless this series, this franchise, has never had an equal. So in a purely worldly, commercial sense, this whole Harry Potter thing is essentially an unprecedented three-and-a-half-second catching of the Golden Snitch. It is magic. As for its human ramifications, believe me, I’ve gone over this stuff with a fine-toothed comb, seeking, seeking, seeking (heh) what could be wrong with it, what was off, what sucked. Answer: Not very much, mate. Written by an English woman, I expected a lot of pissy sexism throughout (they’ve had a hard road, English women) — and, nope, hardly any, really (her goodies and baddies come in both genders in equal measure). In all the aforementioned ways, especially narratively, Rowling generously delivers (of course, I’d also love to sell a hundred bazillion books so I could buy Scotland — but we’re talking generosity on the page: She’s a regular literary Santa Claus). As works of popular modern fiction, the Harry Potter books belong amongst the very best of the best. And what do they say to us?
I pause to sigh. (Literally. I just sighed.)
I think what these books say to us (at least in part) is this: The world is extraordinarily complex; we must trust our instincts and follow our hearts but also our minds; we must protect our friends and yet rise to our own challenges; the Dark and the Light are not always opposites, but rather are often blended, with much Shadow in between; question authority; sidestep the immovable obstacle if getting from ‘A’ to ‘B’ is crucial; control your temper; don’t hate people just because they’re different from you and your “sect” (Rowling has gone on a bit about the “plea for tolerance” shtick, but whatever — it’s still a good message); oh: And death is all around us, all the “time”; (dare I say it? . . . yes, I dare) thus: LIVE, BABY, LIVE!
Now personally, in my own sphere of experience, I have learnt, alas, as this series has evolved and taken over the world, that some curses are indeed unforgivable. However, happily, Harry has also reminded me, throughout Ms. Rowling’s cobbled-together and extraordinary literary series but especially in his climactic confrontation in Book the Seventh, that the Love of Power is nothingness; whereas the Power of Love is everythingness.
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: 9.7/10
The whole Harry Potter series: 9/10
~G
(The Critic Formerly Known as Gregory Weinkauf)
13 September & 23 September, 2009
This week’s getting busier than Prince ca. ‘81, and although it’s not generally my wont, I need to jump on it and put the spurs to it real good-like, that it doesn’t trample me. Also: Gottameetinginthemorning. So I’m just going to hit twenty non sequiturs (padded with random boy-rock shit) ‘n’ gotobed.
5. I never liked Oasis.
17. Hey, John Phillips of The Mamas and the Papas fucked his daughter Mackenzie for years while they were both out of control on drugs, thus: VIVA LOS BABY BOOMERS!!!
(And she was so darned cute in American Graffiti, too.)
12. I chose to do an extracurricular and potentially complicated favour for a stranger today — resulting in an enlightening and enjoyable meeting with a probable new friend.
4. It’s been a bit over five years since the scumbag in Cleveland very sneakily got me shot down — and the misery he chose to bring was hideous, but now I’m laughing: I’ve got a cool life; whereas he’s in futureless Cleveland!
9. Moderate Conservatives wish to be my friends; what do I do?
14. IF ANYONE IS IN RANGE OF MY “PARENTS” THIS THURSDAY, PLEASE CALL THEM, GO VISIT THEM, BANG ON THE DOOR AND ASK WHAT’S GOING ON. (Marvin Gaye reference not lost on me.) MY MOTHER MAY BE IN SIGNIFICANT TROUBLE, AND I CAN’T BE THERE, BUT THERE SHOULD BE MORE ON HER SIDE THAN MERELY THE POLICE. (NOTE: IF YOU GO, HE’LL TRY TO SMOOTH TALK YOU WITH INSANE BULLSHIT; DO NOT TURN YOUR BACK ON HIM.)
6. Pearl Target. Target Jam. Ha-ha. Suck it.
16. The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus and The Invention of Lying both look like the sort of movie I’d enjoy; should I see them early?
20. Suddenly, after breakfast, I encountered one of my fave actors; and however I choose to ride or not-ride the hype machine from now on, I’d really enjoy interviewing him. (This is saying something; I don’t consider most actors interesting.)
8. Oh, although everything I wanted didn’t happen, and these past several years have delivered much giddiness but almost no real joy, I have only this evening settled on a plan for the next full year; not only will this be productive and fun, but I won’t need to get my hopes up about feeling anything. Whew.
7. I got twenny…lessee…um…twenny-seven dollars here, says West & Swift are preggers together before 2011.
2. I watched a Clash video yesterday, and U2 are so totally nothing by comparison (except for Zooropa — which I still find awesome).
10. Even if I didn’t like her — which I do; oh, I do — she’s still objectively the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen (proof again tonight).
3. Billy Joel’s Turnstiles completely eclipses Bruce Springsteen’s entire career output.
15. Contrary to the propaganda about California “fun,” it’s been very difficult “living” here, actually (even on an okay day, I’ve never inhabited any place so constantly goddammed annoying) — but frankly I’m pleased that I didn’t merely flee to Massachusetts like all the other white American people.
19. I’m pretty sure that the girl-woman who drove me mad in a bad way by constantly begging my support while she was cheating on sometimes three dimwitted sugar-daddies at once (like, one thinks he’s “exclusive,” one thinks he’s “the next wave” and meanwhile there’s a third in town with his thing up her at Shutters because the second one didn’t return a call for a day or two) is now, apparently, occasionally bad-talking me to people who matter. This is unfortunate but expected poor sportswomanship; for not once in my bemused accounts of her insanity did I ever identify her. But I fouled things by admitting that I don’t like sugar daddy #1’s big obnoxious disgusting stinky dog that shits like a chuckwagon — and I think this scarred something in the creature’s closest companion’s miniscule faux-soul. Lesson: Never insult the dog not technically belonging to the crazy soulless person leaping unconscionably from rich old cock to rich old cock. Learned.
18. I would like to hear urban Americans using more verbs.
13. I think this is it: I think this is the point where everything that came before doesn’t really matter anymore, and although it echoes forever it doesn’t really mean anything, and here and now, post-totally-intense-bleakness, it all can be encapsulated, that the next chapter, whatever it may be, may begin (thus title).
11. “Well, this piece is called ‘Lick My Love Pump.’”
1. Last week, she saw a miracle, and I saw her seeing the miracle, which is also a miracle.
This hits me so hard that my socks land up in Oxnard. Glorious:
(Plus it’s nice to hope that this whole bunch combined will never consume a tenth of the drugs Robert Smith gobbled; plus this version almost redeems selling the song to Hewlett-Packard; plus the harmonies are really nice. Whew.) Joyeux automne, mes amis…
It’s funny how things shift, how if you don’t agree explicitly and absolutely with some people’s (insanely limited) opinions that they start to push you away and etc. California. America. I’m used to it.
The latest Michael Moore movie, though — it’s screening tonight, and asking politely might get me in…but I don’t actually want to see it. Jeepers, capitalism is bad?!?! What next, Porkchop? Are you going to tell us that cigarette smoke hurts the lungs? Or that toenail clippings can totally ruin a salad?
I well recall seeing Roger & Me prior to its release, and being kind of amused by it (Intrusive Crusading Fat Guy was a clever formula two decades ago), and a little bit moved by it (but not terribly; that Fat Guy on camera was much too full of himself to earn my trust). Fahrenheit 9/11 was important — but not that good (plus Porkchop really should apologize to Bradbury for stealing his title — not that Ray was ever above a bit of borrowing). Didn’t see Sicko — don’t care (Attention, world: Synthetic drugs are bad for you. Stop using them immediately, and you’ll feel better. Eat more fresh fruit. Cheers, Gregory). Bowling for Columbine — despite my revulsion at, and sad inherent disinterest in, the crimes and people depicted (including gun-nut Heston) — I consider to be the best Porkchop movie I’ve seen. More than his other movies with their pathetic grandstanding, it seemed to get at something relevant about American mental illness and violence — and yet it was also, in appropriate patches, really funny (the unlocked door sequence). I liked that one. Camper Van Beethoven song. Yo.
But: “Capitalism is bad”? Really, Porkchop? That’s all ya got? I figured that out as a teenager; it wasn’t complicated.
Yeah, I wasn’t invited tonight — sigh — but I also don’t care about this one. The choir is already bored with the theme. I have bigger and far less obvious soy-fish to steam gently.
Glancing back over recent documentaries featuring tiresome blowhards, I admit that I kinda liked Religulous — and that’s saying something, as (oh, “god,” here comes my Ultimate Damnation) I’ve never liked Bill Maher. I don’t hate him — it’s just like: Oh, another fucking loudmouth attention whore who stirs the pot of the most obvious “controversy” possible — all the way to the bank: Whee. (That he can do that and earn accolades whilst screwing little stripperettes in Ben Affleck’s old house is, I suppose, some sort of achievement: Should have made the documentary about that, Bill.) However, once you get Maher out of the way (which cuts about half the run-time), Religulous is mostly worth a watch (particularly for Americans — and for anyone who endorses hurting, killing and — worst of all — attempting to convert other people because they happen to believe in a slightly different version of the same religuous … er … ridiculous fairy tale).
But anyway, yeah, “CAPITALISM IS BAD!” — now run and make this amazing discovery for yourselves: Cha-CHING!
phew. and none too soon. another beastly one. why do they kill all the pretty trees around here? intolerable.
previous headline either: a) stopped the clicks cold; or b) coincidentally appeared on a night when everyone had a hot date. in either case, it’s actually little to do with those gay actors, but i figured the sensationalism would draw hits — which is my intention with that post, as it’s to do with a really ugly familial upheaval and i want everybody to know about it because i lost patience for this sort of bullshit over a decade ago.
anyway, i’m not writing about any of it tonight. however, since it’s sunday and some people still believe in religion, here’s an amusing quote:
“God lets you write, but he also lets you not write.”
-Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
(translated by me into Midwestern: “Our Only Lord Jesus Christ My Personal Savior let’s you right, but He also let’s you not right.”)
(that’s my Honourary Grandfather…)
actually, although i have some religious friends and i love them, i am feeling totally intolerant toward religion; and i’m going to sustain this view forever.
bleh. i don’t actually have a lot to say tonight — just being grateful for beauty, and moving things around and preparing . . . as summer is about to die, that autumn may be born.
next two pieces probably will be: 1. filling in the previous one with all the unpleasant details and failed hopes; and 2. singing the hosannas of harry & co.
since people like to be entertained, and i like to be generous, here — scope this (a friend passed it along):
(just wonderful. a cultural bridge for the ages. with plankton!)
While this post is in no way fun for me to write, it does feel necessary — and long overdue. As the material is all too familiar to me, I’m sure the words will flow, but I’m just going to throw it down and be done with it. Call it, if you wish: “Accentuate the Negative.” Kindly note that while I’m leaving it buried back a post out of consideration for Monday clickers who’ve already got more unhappiness than many of them deserve, it’s actually ~1:30 am PST on Earth’s northern hemisphere’s last full day of summer as I type this. I’m leaving the “shocking” headline so others may find this post later, as, for reasons of clarification and fairness, I’d like for it to survive and be remembered.
Last week-end I received a telephone call from my aunt’s number, and she’s a lovely person but she has never rung me up before. Curious, I answered. It was my mother — visiting her sister no doubt for pleasant social reasons, but also to use the telephone. They don’t live conveniently close for such activity — not in the 21st or even most of the 20th century, anyway — so immediately I became worried — a response which turned out to be appropriate.
“He’s on a rampage,” was my mother’s appraisal of the situation. She meant my “dad” (hereafter, “him” or “he” — as she chooses to call him). This was in the middle of an otherwise tolerable Saturday afternoon for me (and I am fully certain, if he gets this information, he will use it against my mother or me or both of us — in some ridiculous and nonsensical but doggedly nasty way; I’m typing it anyway; fuck this shit).
Previously — over forty years of a marriage I have observed as being literally almost entirely bad — my mother has used the phrase, “He’s on the warpath” — thus I was not entirely surprised by her phraseology, but it has been a while since I’ve heard any such thing, so I had to ask what she meant by “rampage” — and, additionally, I felt it appropriate to add that she might be misusing the word — “unless he’s brandishing a tomahawk, riding a snorting palomino and going “WHOO-WHOO-WHOO-WHOO!!!!” What, I asked, was he actually doing.
As it turns out, it’s more of the same really — more of the same ugly and really deservedly-called RETARDED tantrums and domestic battles I had to observe, up close, often to my own personal detriment, throughout my entire childhood and over a decade of my adulthood until I firmly refused to see or communicate with him anymore — and to drastically reduce communication with her, and never to set foot in the house anymore.
None of this was “my choice,” nor how I wanted life to be — not even close, not even in the same solar system. I hate it. I cannot tell you how much I hate the way they “live” — because there are not adequate words. Some parents fight, some parents divorce, some parents fuck around, some parents spend too much money, some parents have drinking problems — and some parents (I’ve seen evidence!) even end up being relatively happy and functional together.
Not mine; I don’t even call them “parents” without thick sarcasm.
Something is very wrong there. It would take much more than this post to explain it — and since it’s very clear that some people who dislike me read this journal (Hi!), I’m not going to let you pick over every last bone of my existence (why you would want to is bizarre) — however, let me, in this paragraph, provide a useful summary of my domestic upbringing. I grew up in a lower-middle-class house with two mostly-hysterical older sisters (you know how you might imagine older sisters being understanding and supportive and even occasionally fawning over their younger brother? the truth is the opposite.), and the three of us bore the crushing and absurdly unfair weight of living under “parents” who totally SUCKED at creating any sort of domestic harmony, pleasure, comfort, or even a hint of intelligence. (Note: I know that everybody has problems. Duh. I am clarifying these matters here because if you’re going to quote a Billy Bragg song about me, I’d just rather it be “Greetings to the New Brunette” than “Life with the Lions.”) Contrary to how some may perceive me, I have lived, loved and experienced enough to know that my default setting is a general easygoingness, leaning toward strange creativity, with an occasional penchant for harmless and mild moodiness (I like to watch rain drip off ferns); and knowing this, I add that I wrote a lot of incongruously miserable poetry as a kid, and as a young adult, and never because I wanted to write sad or pained stuff — it simply felt necessary to identify and define a problem, and the problem was and is this: My/our “parents” do not love each other — they don’t even like each other! — they pretty much despise each other and live only to be (quoting directly from my eldest and chilliest sibling; rather an asshole herself, really): “nasty to each other because that’s what makes them comfortable.” Well, this problem, alas, does not hover harmlessly between two mismatched “lovers” who very definitely and 100% absolutely should have divorced before I was born (I can say this: I have NEVER witnessed a comfortable and happy moment between them); rather, the problem carries on and makes life increasingly (and pointlessly! stupidly!) miserable for the kids — one of whom is me. While I was able, most often, to pull off the illusion of a reasonably happy and healthy “home”-life in front of friends, faculty, schoolmates, and later co-workers, the simple fact of the matter was that I was horrendously disappointed in my “parents” (which does not fade merely because one gets older and leaves childhood behind). Why? First, what didn’t happen: I wasn’t physically beaten (not to any conscious recollection — or evidence — anyway), and I never witnessed any illegal activity (the stuff often associated with “bad homes”); and I also, apart from escaping during a few particularly bad nights to sleep at neighbors’ or friends’ houses (always humiliating; thanks!), was never personally put out — much — meaning: I was rarely the focus of the skirmishes (apart from the time I taped the chorus of Billy Joel’s “My Life” to the unused mirror [symbolism!] of the unused vanity in my “parents”‘ long-abandoned and almost completely unused bedroom (that, at least, got a rise — but even that was boring “teen discipline” stuff — and literally the only time I “rebelled” [i.e.: walked to the mall when I was "grounded" after stupidly planting the suggestion of grounding in their stupid heads -- I had never experienced any occasion for grounding before that] was when I was punished — very unjustly — for some supposed trespass which never happened [he always assumed the very, very worst of me; and I despise him for it to this day -- when I'm even bothered to think about him -- the shitbag]). So that’s what didn’t happen: I came “home” most days to a house I despised, inhabited by a couple who despised each other, and was forced to watch them despising each other, and nothing I ever said or did made any difference whatsoever, and thus did my domestic childhood play out, purgatory-like, thanks a bunch. Now, as for what DID happen — again, it would take a lot of writing (no, not therapy, fuck you — just bring me some dependable non-insane friends and some good work to do and I’m 24/7 fine) — the gist is that he moved onto a shitty vinyl sofa in the basement, and when my sisters moved out, my mother moved first into their room (where I got to enjoy her occasional howls during nightmares; fun — she never once believed me when I told her the next day); and then, when I moved out (whew!), she moved into my old bedroom — which is where she still resides — or is it hides? — today (I am well aware of the crap-pseudo-Freudian ramifications, thanks — don’t bother). I can only barely remember them actually sharing a bedroom — I was a young child when they parted ways (and yet — damn it! — didn’t part ways!) — but I can remember plenty of other things. Here are a few: He switched off the electricity on us a few times (to make some “point”). He pulled the spark-plugs out of her car so she couldn’t go anywhere. (This stuff is totally true, by the way.) He chased and terrified my sisters many times (I recall one night when one of them had to flee through the snow barefoot). He once pulled the telephone (our only one at the time; I added the second one during my teens) off the wall for over a week (my friends used to ask me why nobody answered — I had to make up stuff to cover; which, obviously, I no longer do). A few nights I was out — working at the mall or babysitting — and I returned to find police at “our” house — or a door smashed off its hinges — or broken things on the floor (there are still dents in the kitchen wall, from thrown dishes) — or really outrageously ugly notes left on the kitchen counter. “PARASITE” was one of his fave words. Nice. Written in grease-pencil in huge block letters, I gotta tell ya, that sure makes a house a home. Again: Nothing quite illegal (not immediately, anyway) — but he was a fuckin’ asshole, I tell you — and as you’ll note if you keep reading, he still is.
Breaking off into a second paragraph, the simple facts — the disconnected telephone, the flipped breaker-switches, the heat off in wintertime even (!) — do not even approach the deadly, dulling agony of constant loathing between one’s “parents.” With this, I am filing an official complaint. My mother means well — sure, she has no listening ability, and she often likes to bitch, but generally she wants people to be happy, and she’s aces with the nicey-nicey shit — but by ignoring the agony that “relationship” was putting us through — for decades! — she is quite complicit. And him? He occasionally means “well,” too — he’s not an evil man, or a wife-beater (though I’m pretty sure he hit her a couple of times — I definitely recall her wailing “My breast! My breast!” in the garage one Saturday morning after he was through with her and I was supposed to go give Shit #1 about swim practice — he was to drive me there, too — oh, how I hated that day and wished to die), and he’s not even an alcoholic (he is always stupid and embarrassing — but he drinks in moderation). But the thing is this: My/our “parents” are TOTALLY INCOMPATIBLE as human beings. At her worst, she is a prissy and infuriatingly stubborn jerk. At his worst, he is genuinely terrifyingly nasty (if you ever catch his hateful sideways glare, you’ll know of what I speak — it’s not any notion of danger; it’s the prideful ignorance). There is ZERO love between them. They fuckin’ fake it for their five grandchildren — most older people do. And meanwhile, most of the first generation is forced to suffer. But I’m not suffering anymore. That’s why I’m typing this (thanks for reading — unless you’re an asshole; in which case you should probably go write about your own life’s problems).
Side note: Does this process take “courage” for me? Is it “brave” and “noble”? Nope. It’s more like cleaning a toilet or putting down boric acid: You don’t want to do it, and the process sucks, and there’s no enjoyment in it at all; but if you don’t do it, civility slides further away. Call it duty, if you must.
It’s Sunday night; I should be giggling in bed with my wife.
Okay, to continue the exorcism, the summing-up: Senselessly dire household, growing up. I put up Talking Heads posters and watched Lost in Space and tried desperately to pretend that we had a semi-normal “home” — but we didn’t. It sucked. I hated it there.
Cut to: Last weekend. I got that call, and I listened, and here’s the news: “He” is behaving very badly again. My mother stores stuff in the basement. A hopeless and pathetic martyr, he sleeps (and sulks, and most definitely never reads a book) in the basement. According to my mother (with whom, please note, my communication is strained — it has been for a while — but it exists because we both try a bit; although I am still furious that she won’t move the fuck out of my old bedroom and LIVE LIKE A FUCKING ADULT BEFORE THE GRIM REAPER SHOWS UP), he has been “moving her stuff upstairs.” I asked what this meant, exactly, and she told me (I am paraphrasing precisely what she said) that he started moving all of her stuff (boxed surplus office supplies, old clothes, whatever) into the rooms upstairs, and that he has quit all of his activities (note: he used to be into bowling and bingo and other innocuous diversions) in order to be home all the time, and watch her, and make sure she sees him moving the stuff, and controlling her.
“He says he’s ‘cleaning the basement,’” she stated.
My mother is very fond of the word “sick.” Alas — not in the skate-rat sense; she likes to use it in the iciest possible way regarding him. Obviously, she is correct: He is sick. But her approach doesn’t help matters.
I asked what else he was doing — being careful to dissuade her from using confusing hyperbole (”rampage” and “warpath” and etc.) — and she told me that he had also called my sisters, and assured them that he wasn’t going to physically hurt my mother (hey, that’s a relief — I mean, he’s an old man driven mostly by impotent rage — but still, what kind of person says that?!? To his own daughters?!? — and have they called me to discuss it? Nope. Of course they haven’t.) — and over and over again my mother bitched about his constant attempts to “control” her.
I remember this; this is nothing new. When I was a child, it was the same thing — and it is one of the core reasons I never have respected him, and very probably never will respect him (it no longer matters how “hard he’s worked” or what came before: forty years of bad is forty years of bad). He’s a controlling asshole (guy should’ve worked in Hollywood). He also has terrible — I mean terrible (worse even than some hideous dating errors I have made) — anger-management problems. His face and voice become totally fucking hideous. I well recall staying together in a lovely old bed-and-breakfast in a cozy resort retreat once, and we were sharing a room, and I switched on a Walkman a friend actually wanted me to borrow (nice friend) — on low, on headphones, scarcely audible — and I seriously thought he was going to reach out in the darkness and kill me. Not a gentle, “It’s time to sleep, please turn that off until morning.” I mean, really, really mean. Scary mean. Or the time I wanted to delay a (long, boring, horrible) road-trip to visit one of my sisters because a group which brought me some of my only happiness in all of high school was having a Christmas party, which would have incurred a delay of one day on a trip and stay of several: His rage was unmatched. (I love those people, incidentally, and I hate my “parents” — I should have quit the “family” right then and joined my friends; Merry Christmas.) Or the time I consented to play my accordion for the family — which is a rather heavy instrument, which I had schlepped across the country, and which I was going to try to play despite having a terrible case of the flu and feeling like death warmed over. He raged at me. He fucking yelled and flipped his shitty little arms, and pissed, and bitched — and made a totally ugly scene of the whole evening — and why? Because I felt totally ill and wanted to take a bath before attempting a Eurythmics song for the benefit of my alleged “family.”
Now, reader, this may sound trivial to you (or, worse, you may overdo it in your response, if any — kind of like when I got heartfelt emails when I specifically requested that you NOT write to me when my dog died — the fucking dog is dead — write something nice to me out of the blue sometime; surprise this human, huh?) — but I cannot overstate how UGLY he has been throughout my entire life. Take a situation that could be good, that has potential, that might be enjoyable for all concerned — and he will shit all over it until everybody is scared and confused and miserable. He has proven this — without fail* — throughout all forty years of my life thus far. I have some vaguely “happy” memories of attending a couple of movies with him, or an amusement park, or whatever. But on a casual, day-to-day basis — when LIFE is supposed to be happening! — with him it was all bad, all the time. No intelligence, no courtesy, no respect for privacy, and not even the slightest shred of faith in his own son. None. Motherfucker. (Or, more accurately: Mothernotfucker.)
* To keep things very fair for one more reflective paragraph before returning to the strife of the present: There was one day. I’m not sure right now when it was — I was perhaps twelve or thirteen, with a bad haircut and a Snoopy t-shirt (probably), and it was spring or summer. Pretty sure both my sisters were still living at “home.” Our shared “family” dinners were NEVER good — I mean NEVER. Always a wretchedness cast over the table. My sisters would try to jabber because they were girls — but there was never anything genuinely nice there. The obscene glacier between our “parents” prevented any happiness from entering the room. But one day — literally one day (of how many thousands?) — he decided to make an apology (![!{!}]) — and to promise us that “things would get better.” Now it may be difficult for you, reader, to appreciate the magnitude of the shock of this comment — but imagine, perhaps, if George W. Bush suddenly stood up on television, and said, “I ruined everything, and I am deeply and truly sorry for being a repulsive, grinning bag of most vile shit, and now I will do all I can to repair the nearly irreparable damage I have wrought” and then promised to distribute a hundred thousand dollars of his own corporate money to each and every viewer the very next day, via first-thing FedEx. This was how it felt, to me, when he (my mother’s alleged “husband”) told us, at the dinner table, that he was sorry, and he would make life better for all of us, and that things would soon (wait for it; barf!) “Change.”
Well, fuck.
That day — to split up another paragraph for your convenience — we all finished our meals kind of dazed, and my sisters seemed a little lighter, and I don’t recall my mother’s expression changing from anything I had seen before (which may be telling). But I wanted to believe it. I needed to believe it! Here was the alleged “man” who was making all our lives miserable (even now I am despising him — despising, incidentally, is not “merely the flip-side of loving” — for his entire approach to everything: he never knocked, had no respect for personal space or property, insulted my friends, made a total fucking ass of himself at every possible opportunity [No. Do not forgive him because of that. Unacceptable.] — and he terrorized my pathetic excuse for a “family” — he did this a lot), suddenly behaving . . . kind of like a . . . reasonable human being? I had never seen this before! Seriously! Ever!!! He was admitting he was wrong! He was asking for our forgiveness! He was promising that our household would no longer be direly unhappy!
After that dinner, we went out into the backyard and played Frisbee. (My suggestion; I hate baseball and football; always have, always will.) We tossed that disc back and forth, and I wanted to like him. I wanted to have a Dad. I was ready to believe him. (Looking back: What choice did I have?)
The very next day there was another ugly fight (their fights were often long, brutal, retarded and punctuated by VERY LOUD SHOUTING — usually at night, on school nights) — and no mention, ever again, was made of that one shining evening when it seemed that our lives might take on the gentle glow of being reasonably normal.
That is the truth.
Frankly, nearly three decades later — three very pointlessly depressing and horrible decades later — it seems like it was only a dream.
I intend no melodrama.
(I also know that if any potential employers or girlfriends ever read this, I’ll be passed over in a right old hurry; but my luck’s been shit anyway, so have at it.)
Incidentally, I’ve never really been quiet about any of this. Yeah, I played “confident” in school or in various occupations as the circumstances demanded — but from relatives (who ignored me; thanks) to friends (who ignored me; thanks) to the all-too-rare trustworthy and non-perverted elder (who ignored me; thanks), I’ve always been willing to put exactly what was happening into accurate words — that maybe this fucking nastiness — this totally unnecessary and very, very, very stupid nastiness — might be dispelled.
Well, it hasn’t worked.
I managed to speak with my mother for a couple of minutes, later in the week, and here is what I learned: He was continuing to pressure her with his moving of stuff and hovering presence (he can be very unpleasant, very unpleasant), and he not only disconnected but completely removed the telephone in “her” room (my old bedroom). I have no reason to doubt her on these claims, as I personally witnessed many such tantrums from him when I was unfortunate enough to live there.
But it gets somewhat worse: Apparently he shut off the water main for a couple of days, too.
Read that again.
True. (I believe her. Again: I’ve seen proof that he does these things.)
For a couple of days — and for no good reason — my alleged “parents” had NO WATER IN THEIR STUPID FUCKING HOUSE.
No flushing toilets, no bathing, no washing of hands, dishes, or anything else.
In suburbia.
I would like for the reader to pause now and note — please, for my sake — that he CHOSE to do this.
And why am I a verbal person? Why do I write? Why do I ask questions? Why do I sometimes ramble on in search of some useful version of truth?
Because words can solve these problems.
Shutting off the water main — at any age, but especially when one is nearly seventy-five years old — cannot solve these problems.
Divorce.
I wanted it for them when I was a child; I want it for them now; DIVORCE.
Get the fuck out of that fucking house.
Oh, this sucks so much for me.
I wanted to be married and happy with a supportive family and a life worth living.
Fuck.
Anyway, I think I’ve said what needs saying here. My alleged “parents” are both sick people who do not belong together under any circumstances. If anyone can help me in separating them — that they may be free to live out the rest of their lives not being excruciatingly ugly and horrible toward each other and toward the world, and the rest of us may breathe a collective sigh of relief that the horror is finally over — please step forth, toward them, and drive that crowbar between them hard enough to propel them onto opposite sides of the planet.
Q.E.D.
Why did I type all this? Because the potential that’s been wasted and is still routinely wasted burns me like a vat of acid, that’s why.
Not saying it is impossible.
Thanks for reading it.
Now, as to the gay-sensationalist headline, I don’t have anything personal against either of the named actors. I happen to think George Clooney is intolerably boring and I wish he would go away, and I think Hugh Jackman is kind of funny and was actually very entertaining in Van Helsing, and that’s the extent of my opinion about them. And: all circumstantial evidence points to both of them being gay (with requisite “beards”).
Apart from gay people virtually running the entertainment industry (watched HBO lately?) and yet still yelping about being “oppressed” or whatever (trust me, from this vantage, any complaint from that general community is ridiculous), I have no qualms whatsoever with anybody’s sexuality — chosen, unconscious, or otherwise (notably, given this essay, I have asked some gay guys how they get on with their dads — and have always received blank stares in lieu of proper responses; form your own conclusions). But it’s none of my business, and I am very strongly devoted to that philosophy. If you’re both (or all) adults, go fuck whomever you want, as long as (please) you’re not intentionally hurting each other (yes, no matter how trendily “extreme” you may consider yourself, there are some general definitions for “harm”).
Admittedly, I am not comfortable in the gay community (listen! that was the sound of more potential girlfriends dropping away into oblivion!) — the cliched pouts and glares make me uncomfortable (learn some manners!) — but I have some gay friends, and it is they who proclaim their gayness (frequently) — not I. To me, they are simply my friends. (There aren’t many of them — but unlike a lot of people I’ve met who apparently have no souls but plenty of internet, I don’t have many friends — just a few good ones.) Anyway, although it is true that I actively despise religion (which constantly results in people being harmed and killed), I don’t hate gayness (which usually doesn’t). I find gayness extremely weird (Wait: You’ve already got a dong…and yet…you want to have another dong? Put where? Are you serious?) — but I leave the sexuality of consenting adults up to consenting adults — and I’d rather not have to hear about it.
Defense of totally mediocre stance on gayness thus established, I close by returning us to the topic of this post’s headline, to clarify it and move on:
1. I called the post this because I want people to find and read this post, because my life has been stifled almost to the point of non-existence by the shitty, rotten, childish and terrifyingly ignorant behavio(u)r of my alleged “parents” — in particular him.
and
2. I just think it’s weird that Clooney and Jackman show every indication of being gay — which is now a trendy and powerful thing to be (I would love to travel the world, get my ass kissed by hundreds of minions, and then retreat to my private beachfront in Sydney or on Lake Como!) — and yet THEY REFUSE TO COME OUT. WHY???
You see, growing up the way I did, I am now equipped with a Bullshit Detector the size of North America, and things like this, you know, they set it off.
Thanks for letting me tell you the truth about my life. IF we actually know each other and are on friendly terms, feel free to do the same sometime — but please put it in writing.
“Oh — I don’t want to read that! I want Happy!!! and Fun!!!…”
Well…bear with. This won’t take long.
I’ve been going through old notebooks and sketchbooks and musicbooks and all kinds of stuff, and it’s been rather inspiring, really — like pieces still seeking form, but really good pieces. So that’s fine.
Nonetheless, I cannot help but note that today is Friday. Due to some bizarre desire for self-punishment in the human organism, a “work week” was established, with Friday being (for most drones) the tail end of it, thus: “Thank God–” (”God” being a fictional male deity [usually bearded; astride cloud] which deluded and manipulative people use to deceive themselves and others for a variety of reasons, most of them bad) “–it’s Friday.”
Most people look forward to Fridays; I dread them.
And yet: I’ve never really given the matter much thought before.
Humour me in this instance, as I look back upon
My History of Fridays:
Fridays in School: Antsy; hyperactive; can’t wait to leave; wondering if that girl likes me; she probably doesn’t like me; yep, she definitely doesn’t like me; strange costume and/or cookies if holiday; Dukes of Hazzard; “Wait…why am I watching this?…”
Fridays in High School: Intermittent school dances in various gymnasia; friends in penny-loafers, blue jeans and “oxford” shirts standing around ridiculously until one sneaks off to dance with honey; we all watch the break-dancer we’ve never actually seen in school (he’s good); coax unwilling girl to slow-dance through entirety of “Stairway to Heaven” (actually happened; to me); go home smelling like her cheap perfume, wishing had had nerve to paw a boobie (they were right there); wonder why went; feel dejected; Atari.
Fridays in Summers: Occasionally great, as local band played mega-cool songs in inappropriate venues (sang with them a bit, too); but mostly unutterably terrible and lonely. Mini golf? “Eff” you!!!
Fridays in “College”: Freshman year, either/or: Escape-tram to other school’s enormously popular Westwood Village shopping paradise vs. The Unbearable Nothingness of Nothingness in dorms (always chose former, when option available). Thereafter: Much too exhausted from film school to do much except unload lighting cases and camera gear for week-end shoot, then pass out on hideous sofa; featuring sporadic blurts of loathing out window toward loud idiotic nearby “Greek” stragglers who haven’t fled in Beemers for Daddy’s. Occasional midnight screenings of Evil Dead 2.
Fridays in “University”: Blimey, why is everybody here literally constantly drunk and vomiting except for me? Gaze out window at mist, have shunned at least six girls who liked me (face it: they were stupid), practice guitar, sigh.
Fridays Working at Paramount: Have been running around lot all week in blazing sun, only protection Kangol fishing hat. Boss loud deranged a-hole. (Can see why, though.) Ran into Morgan Freeman today. Or maybe it was Steve Martin. Or maybe LeVar Burton. “Why am I here?” and “‘LeVar‘?” and Etc. Sun is dipping low and I’m still photocopying and/or faxing pages of substandard scripts for/to people who don’t seem to have any idea what they’re talking about ever. Cool breeze through the smog. Kangol finally comes off. That tall girl in marketing with the huge boobies and the acne: Maybe I should have suggested a second lunch after she suggested the first one. Nah. No spark. These buildings actually look pretty in the half-light. I think perhaps I’m hungry; oh — the commissary’s closed. Lucy’s has atmosphere but almost nothing I’d actually eat. Guess I’ll drive back through the smog and traffic and squalor and — hey, what are those, Amish people walking there? — and discarded-toilets-on-front-lawns to my “home” where my glazed co-tenant on Prozac will be locked in his room (possibly watching Dukes of Hazzard — on my television). Shit. This isn’t life. Is it?
Fridays as a Twentysomething: Mostly spent pining. Seriously.
Fridays as a Thirtysomething: 95% of ‘em spent utterly exhausted from wrangling semi-quality semi-journalistic pieces for confused/angry/idiotic/pernicious “preditors” who’d always fucking find some fucking way to fuck up my fucking work. Then go to Largo (when Largo was still Largo and still there); or hang around with friends too late in restaurants with cockroach problems.
Fridays Today: Dead. Well, mostly dead. I have a little informal social group I sometimes see in the afternoons, briefly but nicely. Nobody calls, nobody emails, nothing happens. Leafblowers. Sirens. I’ve learnt very well to skip all hope of transit between about 3 and 9 pm. But if I don’t go to a moviehouse — or, rarely, a concert (touring acts increasingly sucking; faves learning to avoid L.A.) — there is nothingness, and I just read, and vaguely wish I had considered drugs.
Nah.
Thus…yeah…objectively, I guess there must be some sort of curse on my Fridays. It’s really a loathsome day. It’s always been a loathsome day. I fuckin’ hate Fridays.
However…
This medium being what it is — i.e.: a transmission of mostly-specific notions to a mostly-general readership (at least some of whom are probably hateful and/or insane and/or prone to severe misinterpretation) — I don’t wish to be the high-school princess who bemoans her lack of boyfriend and then is suddenly beset by a queue of nerds with booger-vaults moving in for the rico suave. Just because I say I’m distraught by Fridays (and I’m sensing within this very sentence a probable continuation of the…sentence!) does not mean that I want to get stuck in some individual’s weird little worldview (”Hey, man! Here’s how things are!…” / “Oh, fuck…“) and then have even less freedom to do the things I actually enjoy.
Capisci?
It’s just like…growing up…the future looked like it was going to be fun. We had Mtv (the real Mtv; deceased) — which was highly suggestive of creative mayhem and (at the very least) sexy British people with hairdos. I mean, now I have finally learnt that British people are mostly as horrible as American people (well, most of the ones in America are, at least; love ya, M and R and S) — but nonetheless that — egad, should I say it? — that…that…hope…sustains: That maybe, possibly, cool things will happen — instead of everybody turning into a totally boring butthole on Friday, every Friday:
“Welp, I gotta go watch this sporting event, then shit on myself, then go to K-Mart.” (or, on the Left Coast, the life-sucking yogic equivalent)
That’s how most of it looks to me.
And really, I’ve tried clubbing. For years. Can’t hear, can’t speak without ruining larynx, drinks bad and way too expensive, retarded thugs and dumb bitches truly painful to behold, only about one mash-up out of a hundred worth a listen. Just. Not. Worth. It.
Maybe there’s a place I belong that isn’t here; where Fridays don’t suck the worst.
