What makes tonight’s selection special? Well, it’s a Hammer Dracula film, for one! For another, it’s got the hella-gorgeous Caroline Munro in it (hers is certainly that very rare actress’ autograph I cherish; got it at Hollywood’s and the American Cinematheque’s fabled Egyptian theatre, while she was sitting right beside Forrest J. Ackerman!) — and, best of all, it’s got The World’s Greatest Actor Ever, Christopher Lee — as Dracula — transposed (along with Peter Cushing as dauntless Van Helsing) to the swinging London of 1972!
Yes, it’s Dracula A.D. 1972, and I love it. Why? Well, for one, you know those movie-dork guys who start screaming and swearing and spitting like little bitches if you don’t completely submit to their stupid opinions about “’70s movies, man! ’70s!!! FUCKIN’ ’70s!!!” (etc.)? — ah, well, here we fully concur: Dracula A.D. 1972 IS a “fuckin’ ’70s movie (man!!! — spit-spit) through and through, as it was lensed (by the wonderfully-named “Dick Bush”) in late 1971. It’s got period-specific music (though The Faces were unavailable), period-specific locales, and period-specific costumes. It’s got a semi-Mod antagonist called “Johnny Alucard.” And it’s got Lee and Cushing doing what they do best — albeit in Glam-era Chelsea!
This is probably my overall favourite movie on this list — which is not to disparage the brilliance of some of the others (including those shuffled off into Oblivion — bwah-hah-hah!…) — but I just think, given its charming absurdity, that it’s the coolest. It’s so cool that every time I’ve found a copy of it over the years, I have bought it (always in lovely, state-of-the-art VHS). But guess what? Now, thanks to the magic of the internet, you don’t have to go searching for it!
Here. This thing is utterly fab for Hallowe’en — and now you can watch it “with” me — in very high quality, in its entirety, for free.
(When this ends up on “Trailers from Hell,” incidentally, I want BIG royalties from any soulless dolt who couldn’t find an original idea with both hands. You also owe me for introducing you to The Apple.)
I am Gregory, Lord, God and Saviour of All Cinema* — and this is my Hallowe’en Gift to the World!
Hello. I dig Hallowe’en — thus do I regale you with my sweet selection of seasonally-appropriate scenes, in no particular order, essentially to amuse myself and possibly you. They won’t all be “scary,” and probably only two of them will come from the “slasher” subgenre — but they’re all either kooky, spooky or, in some cases, ooky. Trick (obviously) or treat! ~G
Mad week + long lists of fave films (some obscure, some popular) + multiple projects + “desolate L.A. feeling” = notta lotta moments for this lil’ list — but tonight I’ve got an Awesome Motion Picture for you! You see, this list began with the intention of citing specific, seasonally-appropriate scenes (not necessarily whole movies) — thus putting the “Treat” into “Trick or…” However, sometimes the scene is indicative of an Awesome Motion Picture, as is the case tonight.
It’s also an easy one for me, as it’s a film I’ve long enjoyed and cherished: John Landis’ An American Werewolf in London. Essentially a perfect movie (nudged out of the #1 spot in Landis’ canon only by the infinitely glorious The Blues Brothers), here’s a “monster movie” that’s got it all: Drama, comedy, horror, romance, special effects, tunes, travelogue, and disturbing-yet-socially-relevant metaphorical dream sequences.
A few years ago at the Saturn Awards, I found myself seated directly beside the world’s beloved “Pepper” himself, David Naughton — and I bow to him for his work here, as he is the soul of this very finest of werewolf movies: plaintive and paranoid and hysterical and just plain great: Oscar! (Sorry, Mr. Fonda.) Equally terrific is Griffin Dunne as his rotter of a friend — a role for the ages. And then there’s Jenny Agutter — who still gives boners to the older guys but, significantly, even pinged my radar (and I rarely remember actresses). Wrap ‘em all up in some of the smartest direction of any mainstream horror movie ever (even the late Jacko’s “Thriller” [also directed by Landis] wouldn’t exist without it), and you’ve got tonight’s rave: Absurdly obvious, perhaps, but after twenty-eight years (!!), perhaps some could benefit from the refresher.
Our selected scene ce soir may be just as obvious as the selection of the movie itself — but no less great for it! And note: If you haven’t seen it before (where have you been???), An American Werewolf in London is not all gross-out effects (most of which are used to comedic effect; suck it, pre-Rings Peter Jackson) — but rather a smart and elegantly-told tale of a young man driven beastly — as you’ll soon see (and note the genius cutaway of Mickey). Set to the eternally-awesome Sam Cooke, we have here a concoction unlike anything the movies had brought us before.
Hello. I dig Hallowe’en — thus do I regale you with my sweet selection of seasonally-appropriate scenes, in no particular order, essentially to amuse myself and possibly you. They won’t all be “scary,” and probably only two of them will come from the “slasher” subgenre — but they’re all either kooky, spooky or, in some cases, ooky. Trick (obviously) or treat! ~G
It wouldn’t be America without Batman; and what — apart from facial-tissue ghosts and pipe-cleaner spiders — are the most popular dangly things with which to decorate your domicile at Hallowe’entime? Well, exactly: latex BATS!
Like many American kids, I grew up with Batman as a significant part of our popular lore — however, it was the wonderful, jovial, exciting and highly intelligent 1960s television series which made me dig the character and his scenarios. Thus is the 1966 Batman movie my fave Batman movie (your arguments are nice, but hold no sway). And then we leap ahead over two decades to the newer films — which all have their qualities but of which I like Chris Nolan’s “real/serious” ones the least, frankly. (I get it — but I just don’t get it: Do Joker totally wrong once, that’s almost excusable; do Joker totally wrong twice? Now that’s insane. And don’t forget that the Batman character himself is inherently ridiculous.)
Anyway, my fave of the modern crop — and, thus, second fave Batman movie overall — is 1992’s Batman Returns, which I feel and felt (even before I discovered that a friend wrote it) gets the atmosphere “right,” gets the story “right,” gets the villains “right,” and even gets the madness and oogy sexuality “right.” Bravo!
Tonight’s Hallowe’en recommendation, however, is my third fave Batman movie, and it’s probably the best of the animated ones: The Batman vs. Dracula. Now you may laugh — I did — but despite the acclaim for Mask of the Phantasm, I think this… this… this… cartoon! …outperforms all the other cartoons (and most of the live-action movies). Why? It’s funny. It’s scary. It’s awesomely designed. The eerie musical score (by Thomas Chase Jones) is brilliant. It’s got rich characters, alluring romance (Vicky Vale!), freaky chills, and (in addition to wild turns from Joker and Penguin) the gnarliest villain ever to appear in the franchise.
I mean, sure, it’s also got its share of clunky dialogue, plus excesses of that “vicious squinting” which proves so popular amongst the kids and fanboys. So why do I love it? Because: “IT’S FUCKING COOL AS HELL!” — that’s why. (It would be cool, too, if my grandkids someday read that specific line of my rave as it appears emblazoned on this terrific movie’s brain-chip downloads.)
Hello. I dig Hallowe’en — thus do I regale you with my sweet selection of seasonally-appropriate scenes, in no particular order, essentially to amuse myself and possibly you. They won’t all be “scary,” and probably only two of them will come from the “slasher” subgenre — but they’re all either kooky, spooky or, in some cases, ooky. Trick (obviously) or treat! ~G
All right, brace yourself: Tonight’s selection is genuinely scary! I absolutely refuse to watch (or even acknowledge) the repulsive recent horror subgenre known as “torture porn” (it is useless and vile; worse than “grunge” — GET A LIBRARY CARD ALREADY!!! LEARN SOMETHING USEFUL!!!!) — but the film cited here is simultaneously a quality dramatic production and it blows away all the sick new shit in terms of sheer willies. It is 10 Rillington Place, a 1971 film directed by the late, immensely talented Richard Fleischer (20,000 Leagues Under the Sea; Soylent Green) — whose father, Max, gave us the original Betty Boop, Popeye and Superman cartoons. It dramatises the later years and horrors of the real English serial killer John Christie — a sick slimy scumbag who was as screwed-up and horrid a human being as one could be. Essentially, after a rather rotten and dysfunctional early life, Christie, in WWII and Post-War London, made a hobby out of gassing, raping and killing women, then hiding their bodies around his house at the eponymous address. (He was also a policeman; thus: QUESTION AUTHORITY.) I wouldn’t have been aware of this movie had it not been for a woman I dated years ago, who suggested it and really wanted to watch it together — then promptly left me alone for the night as she went to hang out with some new-agey friends. Hey, thanks. (My choice that night would have been What About Bob?)
Anyway, I include this film not because there’s any reason to feel enthusiastic about it, but because — for those who like to obsess over the worst things about human nature — it handles heinous crime and hideous miscarriage of justice with a very steady hand. The real Christie framed a simpleton neighbour for murder of his own family, resulting in the man’s execution, which thereafter became a key factor in the repeal of capital punishment in the U.K. You may think of Richard Attenborough as the director of Gandhi or Cry Freedom, or as the cuddly, grandfatherly genetic terrorist in the Jurassic Park movies — but you may never shake this much more disturbing aspect of his craft (”I’ll put a kettle on…”). A dewy John Hurt is also excellent, and illustrates his dramatic gift for being confused and then dead. Although the film is a British period piece, it may also stand as a metaphor for what’s wrong with the current American health and legal systems. And did I mention that it’s scary? Probably the scariest film on this list. (Also the only one for which a trailer, rather than a scene, will be used. Some doofus out there made a “reggae” mix of Christie’s most disturbing murder — but it’s visually boring, tasteless to an extreme, and the doofus is tone-deaf.)
Hello. I know more about popular culture than anybody ever*, plus I dig Hallowe’en, thus do I regale you with The 13 Nights of Hallowe’en — my sweet selection of seasonally-appropriate scenes, in no particular order, essentially to amuse myself and possibly you. They won’t all be “scary,” and probably only two of them will come from the “slasher” subgenre — but they’re all either kooky, spooky or, in some cases, ooky. Trick (obviously) or treat! ~G
P.S. * Please note that the pretension of the opening line above is a put-on, specifically at the expense of all the movie- and music-dork guys I know who sincerely feel that way about themselves — which is sad. Me, I can barely remember most actors’ names.
But I know what I like!
Several moons ago, a couple of friends and I got to meet Gene Wilder. He did a book-signing at one of those big-city-type bookstores, and — even though whispers had spread that he was en route to a hole in the ground — in fact he appeared to be in quite a fine fettle! He was fun! He was friendly! He was (and still is) Milwaukee’s own Jerome “GENE WILDER” Silberman! Although all memorabilia was curtly refused, we did indeed get to meet the man, and that was stellar; plus we got to bask in the plentiful pre-glow and after-glow (and I’m pretty sure my friends got some Wonka-chick digits to boot) — and you know what? I love the guy. The totally classic triptych of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, Young Frankenstein and Blazing Saddles alone makes him an immortal star actually worthy of being called an immortal star — but the fact that he showed up in 2008 for a meet’n'greet with the great semi-washed — well, that makes him a cool dude par excellence.
Now let us not forget the formidable talents behind the 1971 cinematic adaptation called Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory: Author Roald Dahl (who adapted his fanciful morality tale, and was largely re-written by David “The Omen” Seltzer) — Dahl without whom there would be no J.K. Rowling, btw — and truly brilliant director Mel Stuart. Stuart is a filmmaker’s filmmaker (whose impressive CV includes smart urban docs from Wattstax in the ’70s to The Hobart Shakespeareans a couple of years ago), a man of simultaneous art and craft, and he’s funny as hell (we just saw him make an appearance in town last week). He’s not fond of Johnny Depp’s arrogant, anaemic retooling (who is?), and he recently declared that he wished he’d cut “Cheer Up, Charlie” out of his own picture (I NEVER liked that song as a kid; oddly, only in more recent years have I grudgingly come to accept it — the director’s disdain for it made me smile).
Oh yeah, and when I met Mel Stuart last week, he gave me a Golden Ticket. Seriously.
The scene you’re about to see is a cinematic tour de force — from a movie in which EVERY scene is relentlessly terrific! It’s “The Wondrous Boat Ride,” of course — a scene every human on Earth knows and loves if they have two brain cells to rub together. It’s fanciful, it’s poetic, and best of all it’s SCARY! (Stuart confided that the rear-projection stuff was composed of footage he collected whilst driving around Munich at night with an undercranked camera sticking out the window — take THAT, CG boffins! — plus the actual beheading of a chicken [alas], plus asking his friends to do grody things with centipedes and whatnot.) It’s 100% Grade-A Genius, and it’s also very unsettling. Why? Because suddenly we’re along for the ride with a whimsical character who just may be dangerously insane. That’s good! (While I was thrilled at the presence of Greatest Actor Ever, Christopher Lee, as Willy Wonka’s Father in the puzzling remake, the very last thing I want from any stupid, know-it-all screenwriter is for them to explain why Willy Wonka is how he is! Shut up! I do not want to know!!!) Bonus: I adore the way Harrison Ford yells — but I think you’ll agree that Gene Wilder is the best yeller of any actor ever. Now…voulez-vous entrez le Wonkatania. You’re going to love this — just love it:
Hello. I know more about popular culture than anybody ever, plus I dig Hallowe’en, thus do I regale you with The 13 Nights of Hallowe’en — my sweet selection of seasonally-appropriate scenes, in no particular order, essentially to amuse myself and possibly you. They won’t all be “scary,” and probably only two of them will come from the “slasher” subgenre — but they’re all either kooky, spooky or, in some cases, ooky. Trick (obviously) or treat! ~G
It’s no secret to readers of top-grade cinema criticism that I adored Peter Jackson & Frances Walsh’s take on the immortal literary classic The Lord of the Rings (and what a “take” it was! — though somehow, after a billion-dollar pull, New Line quickly ended up bankrupt; go figure). Sure, the films could have been better in this way or that, but when — exactly when? — have you experienced a richer, more satisfying, more comprehensively magnificent adventure at the movies? Oh yeah, that’s right: NEVER. Frankly, I like the first film of the three the best, but it was the third one, The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, that took home eleven Oscars out of eleven nominations — including pretty much “Best Everything.” Although it’s the most narratively compromised of the films, it nonetheless represents a miracle: For once I actually agreed with the Academy!
Our clip tonight involves one of the scawy pawts! You see, as a kid, I was afraid of spiders — I’d ask my mother (go Freudians go!) to smoosh them for me. But not anymore: Now I see them as useful parts of Nature, and as such I tend to Catch-and-Release ‘em. Not a fan, but they’re okay. AND YET!…Tolkien’s “Shelob” is another sort of horror altogether. In 2003, I took some feedback flak for my review, wherein (among other things) I called Shelob “a furry, gargantuan vagina dentata, complete with goop-spurting action” — but come on! This is not my doing — this is Tolkien’s! For any man who’s ever had to struggle with the dankest, grimmest aspects of woman (all one has to do is date in L.A.), this clip will hold special significance (right now I’m metaphorically around the part where I’ve been bashed into the dirt and appear doomed — but the sword is nearly within reach). But see for yourself. Slightly earlier on in the film, I’m delighted every time I watch the big bulbous bitch nail Elijah Wood (can’t stand him; weakest link in the films), and wrap him up “for later” — but this scene is about the epic’s true hero (B.C. certainly agrees): your humble Samwise. Whether he’s just lucky to have been fathered by Gomez Addams or whatever show-biz nepotism worked out, Sean Astin is probably the very nicest (and most dedicated and relatable) person I’ve ever interviewed; and as an actor he’s flat-out brilliant in these films. Dig the scene, and catch the delivery of Sean’s first line in this clip, which, to me, eclipses every gauntlet-throwing one-liner Clint Eastwood has ever uttered (though it’s probably on par with a certain Sigourney Weaver soundbite). Brief advice: Fellows, ya gotta get through this shit to reach yer Rosie Cotton. Oh, and huge props to effects genius Richard Taylor and his WETA cohorts! Now watch this and just try to tell me Shelob isn’t real…
Hello. I know more about popular culture than anybody ever, plus I dig Hallowe’en, thus do I regale you with The 13 Nights of Hallowe’en — my sweet selection of seasonally-appropriate scenes, in no particular order, essentially to amuse myself and possibly you. They won’t all be “scary,” and probably only two of them will come from the “slasher” subgenre — but they’re all either kooky, spooky or, in some cases, ooky. Trick (obviously) or treat! ~G
Tonight’s scene comes to us courtesy of late thrifty producer Moustapha Akkad, who died (along with his daughter) in 2005, due to a terrorist suicide-bomber in Jordan. Before that, though, he directed a couple of Anthony Quinn movies and produced (i.e.: ponied up relatively small budgets for) the eight original Halloween movies. Guys my age tend to have some interest in these movies (even if they don’t admit it) because the killer “Mike Myers” — oops, Michael Myers — became the first really well-known slasher-killer-type icon/irritant. However, in truth it’s not the antagonist who holds the series together (and barely), but the unforgettably simple and eerie score by the first movie’s director, John Carpenter (and it hardly counts as a score; it’s basically “Evil Chopsticks”) — plus, of course, the one and only Donald Pleasence (whose surname always seems misspelled) as the wildly melodramatic shrink Dr. Sam Loomis, who is obsessed with Myers and basically runs around through five of the films (until the series literally killed him) barking, “Michael!” and “Evil!” and “Haddonfield!” over and over and over again until it becomes delightfully silly, actually. Which is exactly why I’m giving you this First Night of Hallowe’en scene here — it’s so awkward it’s funny!
This is from Halloween 4: The Return of Michael Myers — a thin and threadbare entry but also a passably thrilling one. I was wayyy too busy having a life when this thing came out in 1988, but recently I have viewed and vaguely enjoyed it. Why? The ending. It’s all about the ending. Here we find Pleasence — a native English-speaker (who may have partaken of too much “snow” on the set of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band — one of my fave movies ever, btw) — having a lot of trouble correctly pronouncing a very popular and simple one-syllable word (Hint: It comes out kind of like, “Neaowww!“) Let us give this man a posthumous Oscar. I want a ring tone of this.
[Freaky link! I can't believe I initially missed that excellent headline option! Not only is it a nice match, but I should mention that I created the bands XTC and Dukes of Stratosphear, and wrote and recorded all of their songs, and "Andy Partridge" is really a guy called Jeff Peabody and he has no talent whatsoever, being merely my "stage-fright"-stricken, nerd-pullin', money-spinnin' stooge. Okay, now on with the convenient, economically-priced Essay-ette! -Ed.]
Hi. It’s Monday in America. Fug dat.
As I’ve been working the correspondence and the sun hasn’t yet risen, I must admit I don’t quite feel like doing this, but shall keep my word and deliver this strange little thesis about English people. (It won’t be particularly amusing, but with any luck it’ll clarify streams previously muddied.)
Several days ago, I attended a gathering on behalf of a very nice and highly intelligent person who is, technically, English (although that doesn’t really occur to me that often), and despite my presence being specifically at the behest of said Englishperson, I met with what I felt was a peculiarly chilly reception — even briefly — at said gathering. The gathering was inherently good, but personally it kinda took the wind out of my sails, and although the experience was relatively mild, it played into my repeat-pattern of People-In-Stupid-L.A.-You-Think-You-Can-Trust-But-Who-Suddenly-Turn-Motherfucking-Wretched-On-You (my list of such experiences would reach to the moon).
I know that the Englishperson in question is a good person, and I respect and like said Englishperson — and yet I found myself forced to appraise about what that vibe the hell was. I thought: “What did I do wrong? My presence was requested; I showed up; I refrained from ogling and/or fondling the redhead; and then I left. I was even almost punctual. WTF-WTF-WTF…”
A bit later, it clicked: Maybe said good Englishperson reads this thing! And — if so — said good Englishperson would have encountered in my recent blab this sweet mini-declamation:
“I used to have such a crush on English people — but increasingly I have determined: The English people who come to America, they’re rather fucked in the head, really.”
(Whoops; I did it again…)
Well, if I were an Englishperson — good or otherwise — I’d greet the declaimer of that declamation with a bit of a chill, too (except of course that I, Gregory, have no pride in any nation, thus no nationalism, thus no national identity, and I don’t even respect the concept of national borders — so go smoke that.)
Back to point: I don’t know, and it would be terribly awkward to ask (goodness has thereafter ensued), but maybe I caused offense…oops!…I mean offence, with my comment.
Thus, as a blanket statement to the people of England, I offer my sincere apology. This is not to be construed as an apology to any individual or distinct party, but to all Britons everywhere. Pardon me.
Not that you or anyone else asked, but the reason for my outburst is actually threefold, and involves three separate and distinct English people — all of whom kind of suck, actually. They’ve made me quite miserable, and I’m not at all happy about it, and I don’t like them anymore. However, the fact that they are all English is, I believe, coincidental.
Avid readers may of course already know that most of my past three personally devastatingly unhappy years has been spent volleying the insanity of one English transplant — known colloquially as “the actress” — who sucks. She means well, she sometimes makes nice veggie food, and she schmoozes like a champion. And she also sucks. She is literally a whore. She attached herself to me for — I dunno: “faux-gay-best-friend-ness”? — for the past many months as she went from fucking one retarded old sugar-daddy to the next (for Fabulous Prizes!!!) — and eventually, between that and the constant shit-pop-culture (she is into the worst of the worst — and, at one point, even confided in me that she believes she does not have a soul; hey, guess what, I believe it, too!), I just couldn’t take any more of her chronic, shallow, idiotic, self-obsessed insanity (an “English rose” she 110% is NOT) — and, thus, on the hot-ugly recent day she asked me (yet again) to come help her, and met my arrival with insults, I cut her loose for good; good riddance to bad rubbish. (I’ve felt a lot happier and lighter without her in my life, honestly.) But, oddly, although she traded in her fragments of cultural credibility to become merely another Yank, she is technically English — and she did, for a while, hoist high my hopes for the culture — only to dash them.
The second unfortunate representative of that culture is a female I accidentally dated, very briefly, over two decades ago. She recently started emailing me, and I received this correspondence with vague fondness at first — until it turned extremely ugly and (once again) very insulting toward me — and you know what? No. One word: No. Another statistic.
Those two on their own would be enough to put me off tea and biscuits for a decade, but they pale in comparison to the third English person who decided, quite recently (although now I note that the resentment has been growing for years), to attack me with a shocking verbal viciousness. This is a guy/bloke I’ve always liked, since I first met him, years ago, when we were both working for a pathetic newspaper company which sucks shit. He was one of the only friends I sustained from that professional error, and I was always very fond of him. When he switched careers to a more technical field, I brought him my computer and strongly encouraged his work. When he wanted to play live music, I brought my guitar and we shared a studio in Hollywood. When he had his alcoholic birthday parties, I showed up, played along, and drove his inebriated arse back to his apartment. And when he couldn’t hack L.A. because he’s a pansy, I helped pack his truck, shared the ride with him to pansy-ass San Francisco (”Oh! You’re an artist!? My, how fascinating!!!“), and moved him into his new place. I cared about the guy, and went to significant lengths to show my support for him. But leave it to online correspondence: Every chance he got, he sniped at me, made shitty little insults, and just generally tried to make me feel bad. On a recent occasion of this, I gave him a taste of his own “style” — and, as a result, the pansy who cannot take his own medicine went online-ballistic, insulted the hell out of me (Hey, thanks, “friend.”), and trashed me. Having experienced this sort of thing intermittently throughout the years, allow me to say that it is not okay with me, and the guy/bloke is simply not my friend anymore — nor will he ever be again. I don’t play that way — life is hard enough already without your “friends” actively trying to destroy you.
A shame, these three mishaps — but really they speak much more of these three individuals than they do of England (of course) or of me. I’m easy: Don’t shit in my face; I’ll be friendly. That’s it — there is no more to my formula. But these people — damn! — their combined malaise caused me to insult an entire People; and to that entire People — but not to the three individuals (they suck) — I sincerely apologise.
I like England, and English people. That portion of that tiny island has broken my heart more than once, but in general I feel that my life, sans the English, would not be worth living. It’s a shame about the alcoholism and dental issues and emotional denial and hooliganism and hipper-than-thou disposable music scene and Dan Craig — but in general my year in England was the happiest year of my life, and I really miss the place and its people (generally) quite acutely.
It’s just a shame when English people turn psychotic, though. I wonder why that is. But I don’t wonder hard enough to want to know the actual answer. (I’ve already listened to Morrissey more than enough.)
Thus, again, I’m sorry, you lovely Limeys, that a few rotten fruits in your crate made me say something inappropriate. Won’t happen again. Rock on.
~G
P.S. Help me in wishing my bitter/denial-ridden mum well today; she’s finally going to get professional “help” in dismantling the wretched “life” she’s been not-living with her wretched “husband.” (A bit over two decades ago, I actually managed to get them to extract their stupid thumbs from their stupid asses long enough to get over to England — !! — to see the sights and maybe get a grip that life is worth living beyond being miserable creeps forever. Nothing good came of it. The attempt was a failure. But I do cuddle the vestiges of my shredded hopes.)
…it occurs to me this bleak yet pleasant Saturday that there are in fact a couple of Essayesque things I’d like to post before launching into the photo/caption mode.
Deciding on photos is tricky — in part because they become public forever after, and in part because what interests me thematically may not interest you visually, and in part because the process is rather random: Like most humans, I’ve got photos all over the place.
That said, I have found a couple of nice images from 2006 with which to begin my appraisal of 2009. Why? You’ll see.
Meanwhile, although I’m sure I offend many people simply by existing (in particular, I’ve noticed that shallow people with anger management problems hate to see me even vaguely content), I feel a mild but nagging dread that I may have offended an entire People via a recent comment — which was amplified out of proportion via three recent representatives of said People who’ve been utter arseholes lately (and probably always); thus, I’ll remedy that via an explanation. And the other thing is to lay bare an irritant which has been making my life nearly impossible to live for the four decades, thus far, I’ve been trying to live it. I didn’t write the piece, and I was going to keep it to myself (and a couple of close friends) — but fuck it, let’s put the trash on the table so everybody can see it.
So that’s what’s next.
Then Nice Photos for the rest of the year.
If you’re going to see The Pogues tonight, I’m with you in spirit. I LOVE that band! Their work is so literally awesome that they almost make up for the utter shite American music and pop culture most of us are forced to swallow 24/7. To hell with that. And to County Hell with those beautiful, wonderful, magnificent Pogues! (I’d go — I really would; I’ve gone alone to see them before — but a 6:30 [???] show in an annoyingly modern new theatre in downtown muthafuckin’ L.A. just barely makes it possible for me to escape my obsession for amazing live music. This “time.”)
Hey, I’m one of the smart people who was raised on ’80s music; deal.
The rain certainly didn’t last long enough (six Earth-months non-stop would have been nice…for a start) — but perhaps it’ll be back.
It occurs to me this morning — and I must, for general busyness, be brief (lucky you) — that it’s highly unlikely that anything particularly interesting will occur in my life for the remainder of this Gregorian Calendar Earth-year. Sure, I’ll attend an amazing show or two, hobnob with a genius or two, maybe do something nice with friends — but to me the Earth-year is already over, and I’m onto Reflection mode.
To this end — and for my own convenience and satisfaction so I may evolve and even complete projects bearing no direct relation to the dubious online experience — most of my posts for the next ten weeks or so will involve: A. Photos; and B. Captions.
The Earth-year known as “2009″ hasn’t been a personally satisfying year (perhaps it was for those who dig dead famous people?) — however it cannot be said that it wasn’t interesting.
For that, then, I’ll dig through images thereof, and relay them with funny comments. Easier for you; easier for me.
