G Writs: Hot and Fresh.
Well, hi there, friends and others!
Gosh, it’s nice to see the numbers checking in — and on a Monday, no less! (and for sarcasm toward a multimillionaire windbag, no less…)
I’ll probably post a new post on Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday.
I’m not tired (there are some things I could do right now with great enthusiasm) — however I am tired of staring at screens.
Candles!
G’night and/or g’morn.
These days (and nights) I do my CD shopping in any of three ways:
1. I don’t.
2. I go into mom’n'pop-type shops and buy things (and rarely) only if they’re used and/or inexpensive.
3. I check out the “impulse-buy” CDs at Whole Paycheck…erm…Foods — but notably, I wouldn’t buy a CD from them if you paid me (their selections are usually ghastly Boomer rehash trash).
It was in this third manner that I happened upon the new CD by Gordon “Sting” Sumner — the only whitey with an out-of-control ego bigger than Madonna Ciccone’s, and a man who has fully worn out his welcome on this planet he’s allegedly saving.
Admittedly, “Sting” is almost always super-cool — however he’s also simultaneously super-annoying.
His new CD is called IF ON A WINTER’S NIGHT… (pretentious — plus the image on the front cover is in daylight), and here is my review of it — crafted with care, without bothering to buy the thing or even listen to it (excepting one accidental fly-by courtesy of the Barnes & Noble P.A. system):
Gordon “Sting” Sumner is a reasonably-talented guy who has made an incredible living over thirty-plus years of stealing from much more talented musical artists (several in the genres of Punk, Reggae, Jazz, Adult-Boring, etc.) — and now, with his latest album, IF ON A WINTER’S NIGHT…, we find “Sting” viciously clawing the very skin from Loreena McKennitt’s body, wrapping it around his celebrated yoga-slim figure, and prancing about like a primo Euro-dickhead — while the pioneering Canadian folk-traditional chanteuse he’s ruthlessly skinned and imitated is left to bleed to death in the snow. Buying this thing will probably give you that hit of new-traditionalist faux-sophistication for which you’ve been desperately pining (in fairness, most other contemporary Pop product does indeed suck hard, plus it actively makes you stupider) — but while superior “folk” artists like Ian Anderson and Robin Williamson are still gloriously active, why would you want to help line the mansions of “Sting” with more priceless art by buying this ostentatious shenanigan? Precisely. If you really need this album, have a more easily-suckered friend rip it for you. And from now on, let us all encourage the dork with the dumb name to work for a living, like everybody else.
~Gregory: Award-Winning Critic
(Heh. That was fun.)
Why would I want to express such feelings? Oh, I guess it’s less about Stingadingaling than about the system behind him. I have given generously to the system for over three decades (roughly, since “Sting” came to prominence and power) — and now, seriously, it’s time for the system to start giving back to me.
Hey, Music Industry! I’ve paid my dues in full! Start bringing me my rewards, babe!
It also occurs to me that this new “Sting” album features a title which would make for a fun “Mad Libs”-type game:
IF ON A WINTER’S NIGHT…
…YOUR RECTUM SUDDENLY EXPLODES…
…THAT WEREWOLF YOU’VE NEVER LIKED COMES HOME FROM THE BOWLING ALLEY WITH YOUR WIFE…
…YOU WAKE UP NAKED ON A SILVER TRAY WITH AN APPLE IN YOUR MOUTH…
(etc.)
For the record, I don’t hate “Sting” — in a way, I love him. But he’s also a big joke. Let’s say he’s a “palm-and-backer” — for his good work, I’d like to pat him gently with my palm — and for his infinite arrogance and relentless thievery, I’d like to introduce him to the back of that same hand.
Anyway, although I’m sure somebody will catch it and correct it in later editions (if there are any), the copy of IF ON A WINTER’S NIGHT… I briefly examined with absolutely no intention of buying it featured a bona fide GRAMMATICAL ERROR within its pretentious marketing-speak (”until the snows melt” — i.e.: “KEEP BUYING THIS THING AFTER CHRISTMAS!!!”), and the grammatical error was (and is) basically this:
“…until the cycle of the seasons begin once more.”
(Hey, man, I know that “Sting” also likes to steal from Urban America — but that parlance pilfering is pushing it.)
Luv,
~G
Hi. How do? I don’t feel like saying anything interesting today; I just want to get my work done, eat dark chocolate, and make my way into night and the week-end without anybody insane yelling at me.
Since it’s “Black Friday,” here’s not one but FOUR clips from a movie serving as loose pun. The first one can serve as your free, four-minute tour of almost all there is to see in and of L.A. The others are self explanatory…and amusing…
Incidentally, girls: DON’T do it with him. Seriously:
P.S. I didn’t name the movie; these embeds are in no way intended to advance or support any belief in a “supreme being” (which isn’t arrogance, btw — it’s COMMON SENSE).
~G
Hi. Here’s hoping you’re having a super time gorging yourself on dead animals and whatever. Why not eat your dog?
I’ve been running a mostly-pointless but nonetheless extremely tiring obstacle course, and thus do not feel like making any official statements at present.
I’m going to spend the day doing anything I please.
(Plus you’re not online anyway.)
Then I may get back with a “parental” update (they’re genuinely on the cusp of being banished forever), a useful and practical photo-essay from the Playboy Mansion, reflections on Entertainment Journalism, redundant comments on why I could never make it work with an American girl, and maybe a new big “listy” thing of “this” vs. “that,” with entries such as:
Religious or Unfriendly?
I’d rather have to deal with Unfriendly — because Unfriendly can be reasoned with and gradually modified; whereas Religious requires a lobotomy.
And that sort of thing.
It has also occurred to me that I despised the previous “president” — but I don’t like this one, either. Below is a composite image I’ve made from online junk, especially for the holiday.
Have a nice day. Oh, and tomorrow, don’t forget to go buy a bunch of shit you don’t need.
…pop music had become intolerably hideous…
…and, adding severe insult to injury…
…we lost one of the true all-time greats.
Here’s to him.
Luv,
~G
Growing up during the era I did (and still am doing), I usually half-expect everybody I like to die — and yet for Donald Fagen, Michael McDonald and Lionel Richie to carry on making me crave death.
Thus it is with some significant pleasure that I herald a new single (and video) from Roger Taylor — founding member (and sometime vocalist) of Queen, thoughtful entertainer, and lifelong shoe whore.
Below, you’ll find “The Unblinking Eye (Everything Is Broken).”
I love Roger Taylor. I love Brian May. They are Honourary Uncles to me. (Let me make that official, here and now.) I also love John Deacon, and salute him for creating two of the greatest pop singles ever (even if one of them was a total lift from Chic/Nile Rodgers), and I respect his choice to retire from the game (pun almost intended).
To the point, there are a couple of Roger’s songs that make me so happy I could jump up and down.
This is not one of those songs — however, obviously, it isn’t intended to be.
Given that there’s almost literally no substance whatsoever to contemporary pop music — I am so very glad I don’t watch television! — I am respectful of Roger’s choice to vent his frustrations at a world gone mad. The world has gone mad. Don’t look at Michelle’s dress — it totally doesn’t matter. Look at health care, the economy, the war situation, education, poverty, very real global warming, etc. etc. etc.
There is a lot to consider.
Roger’s totally humourless approach, however, leaves much to be desired. I like that he made this song, and I like its bold, breathy “I must be gettin’ old” bridge and instrumental break well enough. However, the total joylessness, coupled with the puzzling one-man-band-ness of it — immensely complicated by his being a superwealthy Boomer who’s seen it all, had it all, and done it all — does ring a bit…maybe not false…but definitely off.
Also — frankly — the thing is too long (there’s not enough variation to sustain its length), and the video (do tombstones really give a person’s age?) is way too on-the-nose (yet petty) — and (it pains me to say this), speaking of “petty,” it really does sound like Tom Petty and Jeff Lynne having an off day whilst attempting a “Thom Yorke sound” on one of Roger Waters’ cast-offs.
It’s odd: I love this guy — but this song is really hard to love.
(I think I want one of those zany “noise-sticks,” though.)
A salute to Honourary Uncle, Roger Taylor — for showing up and putting out new work (notably, on the eve of the anniversary of Freddie’s death) — but please, Uncle, we already know the world is fucked. From now on, feel free to have more fun on the job; that’s why we love you. And Brian, too. Do it ’til you’re ninety; we’ll show up.
~G
Welcome to your Monday. Ha ha ha.
Sunday was very strange. I’ll tell you about it in random digressions, then present you with a potentially unnecessary but nonetheless illustrative photo, then get out of your face.
I’ve been working on a script which involves a romance between two young adults, and in considering it I realise I’ve never seen or experienced anything like the particulars of what I’m writing. That’s pretty weird.
I spoke with an elder female today, and she voiced many views about how wives and husbands interact, and what happens when the mind disintegrates. This was an interesting mix of the Personal and the General.
I spoke with my mother twice today — and learned the following: My “father” (which he isn’t), her “husband” (that’s a “husband”?) has been calling from the lock-up and leaving messages, asking her to drop off some underwear for him, and so forth. Meanwhile, she’s been trying to figure out exactly how and where he cut the telephone line, and how to repair it. I told her to tell him: “You want clean underwear? Then you explain how to reconnect the telephone.” That seems extremely fair to me. (Of course, she did it backward.)
Anyway, she’s spoken with him. Now he’s trying to “make nice.” Big surprise. She’s kind of falling for it, too — which is dangerous. (Please note: I’m absolutely NOT of the belief that “men are bad” — I’m a LOT nicer than most women I know — however in this case one person may be choosing to be annoying — but the other one is THREATENING HER LIFE WITH KNIVES.) I reminded her that one of them is going to have to leave that house permanently and very soon. She seems to need reminding of this. Meanwhile, he remains locked up for testing. Upon arrival, he got lumped in with a bunch of hard-core psychos. Good. Let him stew in there awhile. He’s absolutely and totally earned it. I hope he gets a “G.G. Allin”-type sitting across from him for Thanksgiving dinner.
The middle of the day didn’t really involve gender relations (or: Genderelations) — unless all the genders happen to have been male — however during that chunk of the afternnoon I found a book with an intriguing title: Goodbye, She Lied. Curious, I examined the cover — any relation to the Lynda Obst book, Hello, He Lied ? I flipped it open: Goodbye, She Lied was published (paperback) in 2008 — thus the title was very probably a gender-reversed and converse play on her title. From the back cover I learned that the book involves Texans — so I knew I didn’t want to read it or touch it for much longer. There was a Pearl S. Buck quote inside, regarding…well…here, I’ll just find it online:
“The person who tries to live alone will not succeed as a human being. His heart withers if it does not answer another heart. His mind shrinks away if he hears only the echoes of his own thoughts and finds no other inspiration.”
-Pearl “Sexy-Thighs” Buck
I thought about that for a minute. The first thing I thought was, “Hey, that’s sexist — she exclusively used the masculine pronoun to depict a withering person. Bitch.” Then I thought, “Hey, if I type this up later, I’d better not use the word ‘bitch’ — because some people volcanically misinterpret that word, even in an humourous context.” And then I thought: “I’m gonna be selfish for a minute: Yeah! Hey! How come those TOTAL ASSHOLE GUYS WHO HAVE NO MANNERS AND NO BRAINS AND YELL AND SPIT AND FART AND TOTALLY SUCK have GIRLFRIENDS constantly loving them and looking after them…and I TOTALLY never do?”
And then I thought: “‘TRIES’ to live alone? Well: A.) During most chapters of my life, living alone was never my initial idea or plan; and B.) Actually, I am pretty darned good at living alone, and it certainly beats living with rude jerks, so slurp on that, Buck.”
And then I thought: “No. Shut up. It is NOT me. It’s YOU. I could draw up accurate graphs of how much nicer, more considerate and more generous I’ve been than pretty much any “partner” I’ve ever had — and my primary mistake has been agreeing to partner up, over the years, with fucked-up women who absolutely hadn’t earned a man of my subtle and complex qualities.”
And then I thought: “Oh — that’ll help — when whomever I meet next Googles me like a stupid jerk and reads this.” (Actually, I didn’t really think that — but I’m thinking it now.)
And then I actually thought: “But enough about me: Why are my stupid, stupid, STUPID “parents” so damned lifelong-hellbent on living ‘together’ alone? (’Tis they to whom the quote most accurately applies.”
In the evening, I watched some old movies wherein the heroines swooned romantically over their respective men. These women were dedicated, doting and demure. They were one-man women with love on their minds. Based on the observations and experiences of my actual life, the creatures depicted onscreen may as well have been giant squids on pogo-sticks. I’ve never seen ANYTHING like that level of devotion anywhere in real life. I grant that these are movies and not “reality” (which I believe varies from person to person) — and decades-old movies to boot — but my experiences of women — personally, romantically — have involved primarily their crassness and selfishness. A devoted wife? I mean — I start laughing. Oh yeah, and here comes Santy Claus riding on Bigfoot’s shoulders…
Fuck.
It’s ridiculous.
Actual quotes from actual women who’ve been in my…life:
“[My stupid cult] is NOT NEGOTIABLE!!!”
“My butt itches.”
“You coward!” (for not wanting to give my personal info when somebody’s nearby car rolled into a tree — which had nothing whatsoever to do with us and caused no one any bodily harm)
“You arsehole!”
[passive-aggressive silence]
“You don’t understand how hard it is to be a woman!” (this from the girl fucking up to four sugar-daddies simultaneously — who were, and probably still are, paying for her BMW, her fancy two-bedroom apartment, her appliances, her health care, and everything else right down to the thousand-dollar Stella McCartney shoes)
“I’m sorry — I’m not on the market.” (…a couple of weeks later…) “I’m in LOVE!”
Etc. I don’t see any benefit from dredging up more such quotes. Only wishing to make the point that I have NEVER experienced any of the alleged good things about having a dedicated female partner.
And whose fault is that? Is it mine — for showing up, communicating, LISTENING, being generous, kind, flexible, supportive and thoughtful?
I don’t think so.
As I reflect upon this, it does rather shock me that I have done what I never thought possible: I have grown accustomed to being alone, with absolutely zero expectations of the alleged “fair” sex.
I know it’s not worth it out there, and I’m tired of being fodder for emotional exhibitionism due to their severe leftover baggage.
I deserve a fuckload better than that.
Of course, volleying from both sides, it does occur to me that the unfortunate side-effect of this — not “negative” — let’s say neutral — stance is that lazy-but-potentially-interested women now get to fall back on the stupid line, “Oh, so she really messed you up before I got to you, huh?” or somesuch.
Yeah, don’t actually bother trying or anything.
Unfortunate. All of it. But accurate.
As I look out into the world and see the sorts of assholes who do get girlfriends hanging all over them, it pains me slightly, but, eclipsing that discomfort, I reflect: “They’re on him because he’s an asshole and so no commitment is expected or desired: They just get to fuck around until their selfish whims blow them (or they him) onto the next pointless fling en route to decay and the grave.”
That factor — plus it simply looks exhausting — is what keeps me from striving toward assholery; it may get you chicks, but the cost is simply too damned high.
And maybe the lazy ones are correct, in a way: Maybe “she” did mess me up. Because where I formerly looked upon a potential mate with great appetite and enthusiasm, and bathed her in the luminosity of sincere-if-misdirected affection — now I am prone to think, “But that other one seemed like a good person at the beginning, too — and we all know how that turned out.”
I think perhaps women simply aren’t smart enough for me; I’m really going to need a smart one to stay happy.
Hey, apart from pining pointlessly, I went on two official dates this year. They were both stupid — but they were stupid in unique and interesting ways. Here comes the photo I promised, because, if they wanted to, both of the women I dated could easily emulate this ridiculous model:
The first one was a hippie chick from England — one of those trippers who keep talking in meaningless dogmatic quotes from icky new age books — and mix that with a fangirl’s deep appreciation for Britney Spears. I don’t know. She walked up to me and started talking. She had three things I am able to find attractive: Britishness, boobs and bounce. She was a bit too young for my preference, but old enough certainly, and announced that she’s going to have her first baby in 2012 — because that’s when the fucking world is going to fucking “change” or whatever. I mistook her affection for a Personal thing — when in fact it was a VERY General thing (I’m really sorry I saw all those photos of her kissing all those other guys — totally disgusting). We went dancing, and I stuck to it and gave what I had to the process. It was sort of fun. She seemed all right with it (although she bitched about the female deejay’s seques). Prior to that, we went to a karaoke place where the list was too long to participate, and then to a dining establishment where of course I paid. In between, I told her that I’m not into drugs — and she got all weird and creepy and started mumbling that maybe she’d better just call it a night and go home. I was walking along beside this person, thinking, “I just told her I’m NOT into drugs — and now she’s about to discard me for it.” The evening was okay, but the more I learned about her over this year, the more disappointed I became in the hideous limitations people impose upon their own brains. I’d still be her friend if she were around — but that’s only because most women I meet here are downright horrid, and at least she was friendly and well-intended.
The other one was more of a total joke. She was also a blonde with huge boobs — and frankly two months of that non-stop wouldn’t hurt me at this point (although it’s nothing that I sincerely want or need) — and she was a bit skankier, and from Florida (The Skank State™), and had made a career in real estate for a while. She was closer to my age — but very evidently exceeded me in mileage. I first met her in a restaurant while I was dining with one of my cast-off anger-dysfunction acquaintances, and she asked for my digits. Okay. Pretty soon I was taking her to a restaurant. Thank the fuck Christ she only ordered one drink. The tab was “only” about forty bucks — which was relatively painless compared to some of my male friends’ horror stories. (The real estate woman, of course, declined to offer to co-pay.) I wouldn’t even mention the tab, were it not for the evening’s taxing conversation: It was all her, non-stop, talking about her huge, tall, muscular, drug-addicted rock-star-wannabe former sex partner, who had recently been inducted into a big cult and shipped away to a private bunker somewhere but kept calling her anyway. During the mercifully paltry dinner, I kept wondering if this was the sort of person who enjoyed being slapped around during sex by a violent creep; and I decided that, yes, that was pretty much exactly what she was. Her ability to continue that single monologue for an entire ninety minutes without noticing for a second what an utter conversational pig she was being may have set some sort of record. She wasn’t despicable — she was simply…very, very, very stupid. As a male, this sort of thing creates a bit of a short circuit, especially when the blabbermouth’s gazongas are on ostentatious display. She wanted a big hug when I walked her, hastily, to her car, to get rid of her — and I was briefly tempted to give those gazongas a ripeness test — but telling you about it months later is actually as titillating as it got and gets. A couple of weeks later, I went to use the restroom in the restaurant where I initially encountered her — and, I kid you not, she was smashed up against the wall between the Mens and the Ladies by some new moron with his tongue down her throat and dry-humping her. I nodded my respects.
I’d say something pithy here at the end — but it would be obvious, like: “Never trust an actress.” — so I’ll just let you chew on what you’ve learned here today. Class dismissed.
Oh, and here: Kill your Monday.
So my “father” pulled a knife on my mother this week — THREE TIMES — and presently he’s locked up in a mental unhealth facility.
How’s that for reality?
Of course, nobody bothered to tell me this — I had to call and ask — and now the unpleasant facts in this case are mine to consider. Whee.
Meanwhile, I have been working on more than one fairly intensive project simultaneously — which is probably good, because I’m distracted, somewhat, from the madness. But shit — it certainly doesn’t help.
Obviously, I could babble for hours about this — anything from childhood memories to Luke ‘n’ Darth (and how entwined those things can be!) — but for my own sake and yours let us consider this announcement a bit of necessary reportage, and let it be “out there,” and be clear about it and release it.
My “father” has never been a nice guy. I don’t mean to rule out any and all redeeming qualities he may have — for thirty years I personally observed him sort of trying to be kind, pleasant and intelligent (usually failing — but trying) — and thereafter I know he’s had episodes of being a good grandfather and good neighbor.
But that’s also the problem: His goodness is the exception — never the norm.
—
Something that occurs to me on occasion — as I mostly glide through life like a submarine exceeding its depth capacity, its hull slowly but surely being crushed — is that it’s often true that people don’t really know each other. Often, people will try to latch onto a favourite movie or pop culture reference — or politics or religion or whatever (too often it’s dogs; no, I don’t think they’re noble animals; I think they’re wolves and jackals that got lucky and know it) — in a desperate attempt to find common ground. It’s a worthy effort — but it can be shallow and unsatisfying.
To know someone takes “time” and energy and effort — and trials.
I mention this because quite often my own life feels like it lacks context — or, perhaps, that its context keeps gradually dropping away, without being replaced with any new and more evolved context. (This is far from absolute, but it is a feeling I not infrequently experience.)
Thus, it is often my wont to speak (or write) from the Personal — intending to be as clear and concise as possible (or at least entertaining) — but what’s daunting is that most of what I’m saying doesn’t mean dick to the General. Some examples:
“Hey, I like Sci-Fi.” / “Oh, you’re a NERD!”
“Women in L.A. are mostly insane.” / “Oh, you’re SEXIST!”
“I think it’s best to aim for vegetarianism — but most people aren’t willing to give the matter any real thought.” / “Oh, you’re a HIPPIE!”
And so on.
One (one being me, in this case) strives to say, “Hey, this is what I’m experiencing here; these are my actual findings.” — and yet most of it gets washed away, and unless you’re a bigmouth with a TV show or a Presidency, nobody really cares much what you’re saying.
More to the point, regardless of how clear one’s language may be, unless someone wants to hear you and consider the complexity of your overall worldview, they’re most likely not going to hear you.
I spent a lot of last week creating and writing a piece raving up a new cinematic work I happen to like, and simply offered my services to the people who made it, to help them make its existence known. Then I put it out into the world — and it VERY briefly existed, and then it was pulled, and after emails to FIVE DIFFERENT PEOPLE, nobody is telling me why.
Thirty seconds: “Oh, thanks for your inquiry. Here’s WHY…” But no.
Thus — as with most aspects of my actual existence — I am left alone to wonder.
Hey, thanks.
(Despite all the noise, the SILENCE in America is just brutal. Brutal, brutal, brutal. What, you can’t TALK and EXPRESS YOUR MEANING? TOO DIFFICULT FOR YOU? Etc.)
Summing up that bit: It’s a very frustrating age — and I wonder if it’s actually worth striving to say anything in it. Will anybody, anywhere, “get it”?
—
Returning to the matter of my “father,” when I was a kid I observed him quite a lot. His default setting is Whiny Little Bitch. Seriously. That is how he is. I learned to get out of the house after school before he’d get back from work — otherwise I’d have to listen to a couple of hours of what he deemed “wrong” with all his coworkers. Foisting that on a kid’s psyche. Terrific.
Not infrequently, he would get into truly hideous and painful skirmishes with my mother, his wife — and we’d have no choice but to observe (handily, most of these eruptions took place late on school nights; it’s hardly a wonder that I look exhausted throughout many of my class photos; I rarely got a reasonable night’s sleep). I learned quite early to dislike him — for much of my childhood he was a smoker, and I despise smoking far more than you might reasonably imagine. Plus the constant Bitch-hood. Plus him just being a nagging, mean-spirited shithead.
Were I to seek his redeeming qualities — and admittedly he has some — I’d say that he revealed a fondness for science fiction and fantasy (nowhere near the magnitude of my increasing adult enjoyment of the stuff — but he did take me to Star Wars, Superman, Raiders of the Lost Ark and The Road Warrior) — but then he also wouldn’t ever discuss or actively consider any of that stuff, its iconography, or its meaning — so I was left to try to figure it out alone (in this sense, Camelot and Papillon also come to mind).
Basically, then, he tried to be somewhat “fun,” and he worked a tedious job that required him to get up sickeningly early in the morning (though he was clearly a masochist in this sense) — and with the lower-middle spoils of his labors he mostly fed and sheltered us, and kept the heat on (mostly) in the wintertime.
I’m not sure if this should be called a “good” quality or not — but he also never employed physical violence. He played mean — he played mean as fucking shit quite often, actually — but mainly his was a confused and stupid meanness — not the sort of “drunken dockworker” meanness of cliche and motion picture.
To sum him up, I’d say he was basically a shithead. A shithead with sparse, intermittent “redeeming qualities.”
—
Pity and sympathy: No matter what one does, one’s family is never really far from one’s mind, and I am no exception in this regard. Of course there is a part of me that would be delighted by the emergence of an intelligent, useful, creative, respectable version of my “father” — noting that if I’ve ever beheld such a creature in my whole life, the total duration could be measured in minutes. But, also of course, I’m not counting on it. For thirty years, despite what was sometimes intense (and very sincere) dislike of the “man” (he barely registers as such), I really tried my best to afford him noble characteristics, to seek the “best” in him. (I even painted almost all my family’s portraits — certainly with a very amateurish hand, but I completed them and gave them to them — yet another creative act on my part with 100% NO COMMENT as the consequence — yes, it is painful. And in my “father’s” portrait I really made him look strong and noble and good. Why wouldn’t a son want that? The same expression poured forth in my discussions with him, my letters to him, my hopes for him. For nothing. Nil. As you’ll soon come to understand.)
Unfortunately, there’s really nothing I can do about the shithead or his predicament. I’ve thought about this for years. He has very forcibly demonstrated that his is the path of misery and despair. Evidence abounds.
Meanwhile, what’s my basic story? Honor roll, never missed a single day of school for thirteen years, excellent universities, graduated with honors (and honours), branched out into fields NOBODY in my family had ever explored or even considered, found some moderate successes hither and yon, and have been almost-drunk I’m pretty sure twice, ever. (I can drink alcohol, but I don’t like it or find it at all interesting.)
And here’s the rub: Ten years ago, I quit a shitty job at a slavery-like talent agency, and within a few short months found myself a professional cinema critic. Out of thousands of applicants, that’s saying something. Any commendation from my “father”? Of course not. Nothing. No comment.
Until, of course, I went back for the stupid winter holidays — as many people do — and did all I could to bridge my moderate but satisfying newfound success (or, at least, a successful path) with the miseries of my extremely stupid and hurtful family — plus some friends who made and make the most significant difference in my life.
Putting it simply, my “father” took that opportunity to open wide his bowels and shit all over me. But covertly, sneakily — not at all in a reasonable, courteous or brave manner. He waited until he had me cornered in a car on a roadtrip — and then he bitched and bitched and bitched like the useless little bitch he is (I was driving, incidentally — or trying to) — and you know what he did? He made punishing, heart-butchering and utterly untrue accusations toward me. He took the nastiest, shittiest things he could think of, and essentially smashed my face down into them and ground until I nearly suffocated.
And then we had to go to dinner with some of my friends. And I had to smile, and act like nothing was wrong.
After that incident — which also followed on a rotten, man-like “girlfriend” siccing her entire ugly family on me WHILE I was busily losing my only home (landlords sold it; and all this during the launch of a whole new career, mind; hey, fuckers, THANKS FOR THE FUCKING SUPPORT!) — I had no choice — none — but to disown and in all ways cut off my totally useless and very destructive “father.”
If you need a metaphor to help you understand this, say…you’re a student…in the arts…and you’re into ceramics…and your teacher is present but absolutely useless and isn’t helping you at all, ever…but somehow you figure out how to work the clay…and you manage to make an incredibly deft and intricate vase, so beautiful and promising that even you don’t really know how you did it…but there it is, proof of its own existence…and then your teacher sees it, and your teacher chooses to do the first active thing he’s ever done during your entire self-education: He lifts up a sledgehammer and smashes your vase until it is dust.
That is what my “father” did to me.
And not only that: He absolutely refused to divulge who gave him the sledgehammer — he chose to protect the stranger-destroyer rather than the artist who was his own son — and he never gave any explanation whatsoever for why he wanted so desperately to kill my spirit.
I disowned my “father” ten years ago — and although of course I feel many associated regrets (not ever having a reasonable, intelligent father, and then having to block my very poor excuse for one from having anything at all to do with my life), I also feel that it was very much the correct and healthiest possible choice. Poor compensation for a pained life that could have been a joyful one — but at least there’s the paltry consolation: At least he didn’t actually kill me, or cause me to destroy myself.
And people wonder why I laugh at their silly little concept of “God.”
(Not that that’s the only reason — without even claiming an haughty intellectual stance, I just think most people use religion, not so much as opiate, but as cop-out. What do you ACTUALLY KNOW? Exactly.)
—
I finally reached my mother by telephone on Friday, and although her own stubbornness, lack of reason and fondness for grudge-matches has exacerbated the miserable domestic situation of my alleged “parents,” I nonetheless worry about her and — much more than my “father” — I want for her to be happy. Reasonably happy. Not threatened and beleaguered due to the emotional and psychological assaults of the rotten bully-bitch whom she’s called a “husband” for half a century (that’s right, they were fucking up royally well before I arrived).
And what can I say? I can relay the facts. Although I expected my “parents” to continue cooling off, essentially eroding into sad shadows of their former selves — but with the massive benefit of not being sociopaths — in late summer, 2009, everything really went to shit in my ancestral “home” — and by the sound of it, much worse even than some of the calamities I witnessed firsthand as a child.
Is there some astronomical reason that, ten years after my life seemed to be on track for a change, this horrid eruption occurred? This I do not know. Any connection seems tangential at best — but there it is.
What I know for certain is that my “father” abruptly severed all contact with his friends, canceled all his routine social engagements (the chummy sorts of things older men do), and set himself firmly in action to terrorize and wound my mother. Far from the fuzzy and somewhat vague (if nonetheless uppity and not infrequently mean) “grandpa” figure his grandchildren had come to know and expect, this shithead in his early-mid seventies (?!) opted to go full-bore ASSHOLE in the house — setting up patterns of control and surveillance on my sometimes annoying but really rather innocent and well-meaning mother. He cut the power, locked her out of the house, made extremely lewd sexual demands, broke things, and in many other ways sought to hurt her (and, as she keeps repeating many times throughout any conversations I can catch — to “control” her).
Basically, he became a 24/7 bullying shithead asshole creep.
(Oh yeah, so very proud of my “dad.”)
The threats and control measures escalated, until eventually he cut the telephone cord — sensationally, WHILE SHE WAS TALKING WITH A REPRESENTATIVE FROM A WOMEN’S SHELTER.
(And the pride just keeps on flowin’!)
That got him arrested. He spent the night in jail. Apparently he laughed about it initially — ha-ha, big joke — but now he’s deeply resentful about it, and he has a criminal record.
(Pride, pride, PRIDE!!!)
Shockingly (to me), both of my “parents” spent the very next night in the same house (not together — but in the same house). After abuse and an arrest. Would you like to explain that one? I certainly can’t.
Then came more abuse, peppered with “negotiations.”
Not being able to control everything about my mother’s existence (like I said, she can be very annoying, on purpose — but still), my increasingly deranged and dangerous “father” kept lapsing into abuse — photos have been taken of his cruel and jeering notes left all over the house — and then the two somehow agreed to meet with his primary care physician (lucky duck; I don’t have one of those), for a one-hour consultation at SEVEN FUCKING A.M. (who DOES that???) — regarding what’s actually going on in that house, as documented.
The result of that meeting was my mother saying (to me, anyway), that she would try to “help” him.
Now, I’m a man. I know this: A man entirely stripped of pride — and gradually bludgeoned from within as well as without — he’s not a pretty sight. You know all those old fuckers on meds? They drag everybody down. A man needs Purpose, and Esteem. I sincerely hope not to some sick, out-of-whack degree — but a reasonable level of these elements (roughly: Pride) is, I believe, essential for the proper functioning of the male adult human (plus it also makes him useful to his community — a level many of them never reach, or even consider).
“Help” him? “Help” him when he’s got a knife pointed at you?
Now that’s crazy.
If he wants so badly to go down in flames, then let him go down in flames.
I would like to make clear that I do not want for my “father” to be humiliated or made any more ashamed of his truly pathetic existence than he already is. But that’s not really the issue; the issue is that he’s ABSOLUTELY BEGGING FOR IT.
Following the consultation with the doctor — which was Tuesday morning — my “father” was given seven days worth of meds (apparently to help him control his anger and depression, and to help him rest or sleep or at least calm down a bit) — and from this I fully expected him to take the pills and become a vegetable, as is the case in many of these “solutions.” He was also told he’d need to see a psychiatrist (my mother’s term; not sure exactly what the doctor said), and that the doctor would like to see him again in a week to re-evaluate.
My mother telling me that she wanted to “help” him didn’t sit well with me — I’ve wanted, truly and desperately, for them to get divorced and START LIVING LIKE INTELLIGENT ADULTS for at least thirty years now! — but I took some solace in knowing that, at least, proper authorities were now on the case.
My treat for calling up on Friday was learning that:
Now he’s been scrawling threatening messages on the actual walls of the house. (Pride, pride, PRIDE!!!)
He flung cranberry juice (?) all over the kitchen (apparently really all over, including the ceiling).
He chucked out a bunch of my mother’s clothing she was attempting to sort in preparation for a move.
And then — oh, joy — he THREATENED MY MOTHER THREE TIMES WITH TWO DIFFERENT KITCHEN KNIVES (both sharp, apparently one a full-sized utensil).
That’s right, friends and others, this week, on Thursday night and Friday morning (why did she STAY in there???), my “father” blocked my mother into “her” room (my old bedroom; it pains me, it does) and into the bathroom — for several minutes each — USING KNIVES POINTED AT HER.
When the authorities were called this time, he apparently surrendered voluntarily to them — but also, once checked into a secure mental-unhealth facility, declared his actions with the knives to be “drama.”
That’s what I know about that situation, presently. Obviously none of it bodes well for anything or anyone. There isn’t a silver lining to it.
—
As for me, I’m doing my work and staying in the flow of life as much as possible. No significant flare-ups from this end. If anything, I am mostly resigned to people being unkind and selfish. I’ve lost a lot due to those types. I don’t play with that anymore. But that’s about as bad as it gets here.
Why type all of this and send it out into the world? Well, because it’s total wrongness, that’s why — and I want for people to know about it. It’s not starving children or pointless war, but it’s directly involved in my life, and — as is my wont — I’d rather address it and put it forth than, say, pull a “Bowie” and not mention a family background of schizoids and lunatics — thus creating a highly lucrative (if notably hollow) mystique, buying a mountain in upstate New York with the proceeds, and playing house with Iman. I’d rather just say it. Much of my foundation is strong. This part isn’t. Here it is.
Obviously, future employers (if any) and a romantic/life partner (if any; doubt it) will be overjoyed when they find this. But hey: I’ll bet I’m better at honesty than you are!
So there it is: My “father” (nearly seventy-five years old) opted to pull a knife on my mother (seventy-two years old). I wasn’t there, I didn’t cause it, and I wasn’t able to prevent it.
But it happened.
Anybody got a WHY for me?
Thanks.
~G
All right, and now it’s crunch “time” for a project requiring a lot of heart (and puzzle-solving ability) — and of course digging into such a thing literally forces me to acknowledge that — interaction with good friends excepted — ALL significant stimuli over the past few years have been the stuff of bitterness and dejection (no, it’s not my own doing, btw — men must endure their hell — this has been my hell).
One could loosely call it “separation anxiety” — except it’s about separating the anxiety from the calm, productive processes of the mind. For instance, I am writing a romance with a happy ending…and, alas, after what I’ve seen and experienced (genuinely crazy-ugly!), I don’t buy that stuff anymore (they’re all “cougars” now anyway; i.e.: lazy) — but a bit of detachment and I can make this work. As I frequently tell “realists” who are nasty toward fantasy stories: If we want boot-up-the-rectum “reality,” we can walk outside and get it for free (and why would anyone want that? let alone pay for it? most peculiar…) Thus I know my job: Hello, I’m Dr. Feelgood…
Meanwhile, I don’t wish to leave my avid readers here out in the hot, so I have another photo for you — with a promise of more to follow.
Hallowe’en, 2009 was a day of many errands for me, and I was running around all over the place (which, in L.A., is exhausting). Eventually I came up peckish, and found myself near a Whole Paycheck — oops: Whole Foods — and because I generally eat “healthy” (I’d wager healthier than 90% of Americans and 110% of French), I went in to give them too much money for too little product.
Side-note: I don’t hate conventional supermarkets, but I don’t like them, either (they’re stuffed with all that crap that my late friend Méla always called “plastic food” — and she was right; I only hope it wasn’t her rage against the machine that curtailed her existence). Brace yourself. You braced? For sure? Okay. Whenever the cashier asks me — and I’m always polite to cashiers even when they’re retarded — whether or not I have a “club card,” the response I always sincerely wish to give is this:
“No, I do not have one of your fucking [finger gesture] ‘club cards,’ because they’re fucking stupid and I fucking hate them — but hey, tell you what, if I did have one I’d let you borrow it . . . so you could fuck yourself with it all the fucking way to fucking hell.”
(”Club cards”…)
Gregory for President, 2012 or whatever: On the platform of DOWN WITH THE CLUB CARD; UP WITH THE LIBRARY CARD.
Bwah.
So yeah, not fond of supermarkets.
Excluding co-ops which are nice but usually filled with holier-than-thou macrobiotic freakazoids, my fave is prolly Trader Joe’s. They do the best for the best price, and a moderate vegan can thrive. I could live on that one place alone (if necessary). I try not to think about them being owned by Germans.
Next was Wild Oats — which was better than Whole Foods, but of course Whole Foods (goddammed Texans) came along and sowed Wild Oats right into the ground.
So I went into the Whole Foods. I had been trying to cram too much into the daylight hours of Hallowe’en, and really needed that shredded vegan cheese on Nut-Thins, coconut milk with lime, etc.
Then I saw him. He was very nice. And funny. Here he is:
(Note also my honey Winona, bottom left.)
The thing about the Austin Powers movies is that it was a good character and a good idea — but, exactly like Wayne’s World, it felt terribly stretched over the course of a feature movie. Mike Myers was rude to me (and I doubt it was only to me) many years ago, in what we’ll call “The Bagel Incident.” In return, I kicked his ass in reviews of Goldmember and especially the abysmal Cat in the Hat. However, seeing this Whole Paycheck “team-member” (Greetings, comrade, share the bounty!) in his full Austin Powers get-up reminded me that the character was inherently amusing. It’s just that this guy could have played it every bit as well as Mike Myers did (plus he probably knows a LOT more about where to make it all stop).
Anyway, Hallowe’en 2009 then became absurdly more fun and stimulating (in the literal sense: loads of stimuli), and we went to the Playboy Mansion and whatever — but I’ll do those photos next, and not immediately.
Wish me luck, rub my feet, bring me cookies.
Oh, and if you’re not a wretch, you go have fun doing whatever.
Forrest J Ackerman — a.k.a. “Mr. Science Fiction” and “4e” amongst many other handles — became dead on 4 December, 2008, in his native and beloved Los Angeles. I was fortunate enough to meet “Forry” twice — not coincidentally, once at each American Cinematheque theatre — and treasure those moments.
It occurs to me now that this “fOtOs09″ series of reflections would be too difficult to place in chronological order — owing mostly to the photos being scattered across a wide variety of discs it would take an actual woman to organise — thus we jump now to 8 March, 2009, the American Cinematheque’s mighty Egyptian Theatre in Hollywood, California — where the official memorial service for the much-loved Forrest J Ackerman took place.
I went over with T., who’s awesome (somehow we ended up in the front row of the totally packed house), and we hooked up with G. and J. and many other good friends. Ray Bradbury spoke of his fine accomplice of many decades, and wept during the farewell. John Landis and Rick Baker spoke endearingly. Sitting near us was Lawrence Rory “Angus ‘The Tall Man’ Scrimm” Guy. Guillermo del Toro (Gómez) spoke (of begging Forry to adopt him). Kenneth Wilbur “Anger” Anglemyer showed up, in facepaint. A host of other sci-fi, fantasy and horror artisans, fans and combinations thereof filled every seat. Afterward in the courtyard, we chatted with Ann Robinson (famously, from György Pál “George Pal” Marczincsák’s War of the Worlds), and she’s lookin’ great. It was that sort of day…
…as if ever there could be another day like it (which, frankly, there couldn’t be).
“Time” will not allow me to give you a comprehensive appraisal of the entire memorial (which would require significant research!), but I’d like to tip my hat to Forry — writer, dreamer, publisher, collector, enthusiast! — for keeping the imagination (especially the beleaguered American one) alive and well for — how long was he at it? Seven decades? Eight? Amazing.
Here’s just a tiny bit of what I experienced that day.
The queue of fans stretched around the corner and way down Hollywood Boulevard. Here’s what it looked like from the front:
Inside, one could find bits of Forry’s impressive collection, soon to go on auction. Here we have a signed first edition of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, also inscribed to Forry by Bela Lugosi — along with “Dracula’s Ring” as worn by Lugosi in the 1931 film. (Suck on this, Twi-hards.)
Poetic and largely self-explanatory:
At the end of the clockwork-like production, filmmaker Kevin Burns channels Forry for a rendition of Al Jolson’s “Sonny Boy,” transcribed to “Forry Boy.” Very few dry eyes in the house — although partly owing to laughter!
And here we have the guy a used bookshop employee once asked me about — if he was my friend, because “you guys buy the same books” — except only one of us has kicked enough ass thus far to get the Hobbit contract. Here’s Guillermo del Toro (Gómez) hobnobbing with the fans. (Bonus point if you can spot Rick Baker transforming into a werewolf…)
And then we all poured out, and back into “reality” (or L.A.’s version of “reality,” anyway). I feel inclined to mention that I attended my very first movie premiere right here, in 1987: It was Zombie High, starring Virginia Madsen, produced largely through my alma mater, the University of Southern California.
And, now that you’ve examined my paltry tribute to the tribute, here’s an excellent write-up, from an insider.
