12.28.09
2 bz 2 rite
Peeps and more peeps!
Backson.
12.25.09
Saving it for New Year’s Eve…
However, meanwhile, here’s THAT VIDEO I WANT EVERYBODY TO WATCH EVERY YEAR BECAUSE IT’S THE COOLEST THING EVER, EVEN THOUGH IT TAKES FOREVER TO LOAD (be patient).
Apart from that, I’m almost “caught up” — which feels nice.
Oh, and: Sherlock Holmes is not supposed to be short and bratty — and if you’re in either of America’s best two cities, please favour The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus (Year’s. Best. Film.) over the, um, “Squeakuel” (I’m certain that the former will be more enlightening and enjoyable for the whole family — well, unless anybody in your family is stupid).
Saw Avatar. It’s nifty. Much too obvious, and Worthington is Worthingless — but the designs, action and environments are fun — exactly like 3D IMAX should be: Fun. Not deep — Fun.
Auditorially, I enjoyed that the six-legged “horses” honk exactly like velociraptors — and I hated the sappy music.
And tendrils in the plaits are grody.
But I/we still had Fun.
Thanks for the Fun, James (pat-pat).
And thank you for looking at the internet; now go and do whatever.
12.23.09
Pardon me, but…
…shouldn’t the alleged leader of the free world be in AFGHANISTAN right now? (It’s not as though the locals celebrate Christmas — but those troops in the dust mostly do.) Or in D.C., at least — doing, y’know, his JOB?
I am very disappointed by this.
Between this loudmouth and the abomination that preceded him, we have cause to think that the U.S. Presidency has become a vacation sweepstakes.
Way too busy to be doing this…
…and what are you doing? Shouldn’t you be practicing love and patience or something?
This much is certain: The plan to post daily photos with comments, throughout December, totally bombed. But then again: I’m not a girl. For example: My fridge has a few magnets on it — not photos of EVERY SINGLE PERSON I’VE EVER MET, HOLDING A DRINK AND LOOKING GOOFY.
I’ll strive to be more Visual in the coming year. Maybe.
Meanwhile, got some more pressing projects to complete!
12.21.09
Solstice (Update #35)
Around the holidays it seems that people either succumb to Tradition (or its modern equivalent: Food; Movies; More Food; Televised Sporting Events; Much More Food; Gifts; Disappointment; Much, Much More Food; Token Misunderstood Religious Experience; All-Out Gluttony; Fucking Massive Argument; Comfort Food; Packing To Return To Faster, Shallower Upscale Life; Regifting; Pilates) — or else, if they’re lucky, they go in for a bit of Reflection; this latter experience being what I’ve just had, on Sunday and overnight.
First I struggled with the various personae in my world — most of whom (the alleged “nearest and dearest”) I essentially never see, and who very, very rarely (if ever) get back to me when I telephone or email them. Or, in some cases, when I do actually engage in conversation with them, they really and truly ignore every single thing I say — so basically it feels like I lost a quart of blood and have nothing to show for it. This is usually how things are; I didn’t start it; I didn’t make it this way; I’ve done my damnedest to improve relations; nothing works; I really don’t know what to do anymore. If I occasionally show up, they treat me like a friendly intruder, I get the very worst possible sleeping arrangements, and then I get about four hours of rest per twenty-four, subsisting mostly on crap, and then having to pose for highly stilted photographs. Then I return to my life feeling very, very WTF? indeed.
Nonetheless, I do have some love for some of these people (although now there’s really literally no love, at all, for one of them in particular; when he dies, its impact on me will be entirely symbolic) — and so, for them, I try to put together a bit of Holiday Cheer. Unlike many people, and particularly unlike many males, and altogether unlike most American males, I kinda shop for people throughout the entire year. I see something that causes me to think fondly of them, or something I figure they’ll like, and I pick it up, and it collects a bit of dust as the motherfucking asshole “gardeners” blast their abominable leaf-blowers right next to “my” windows twice or three times per week — but then, when Holidaytime comes, I actually have some material thingie for this family member or that. It works out pretty well, my little system — except for two factors: 1. It would be a lot easier to get these tokens of my esteem to them if they’d FUCKING CALL ME, EVER, OR LET ME KNOW WHAT THE FUCK THEY’RE DOING AT LEAST A FEW HOURS BEFORE THEY’RE DOING IT; and, 2.) I really hate packing and shipping things (particularly at the holidays, when the outlets for such enterprises, particularly in Stupidland, are overflowing with whatever the antithesis of “cheer” is).
But I try.
Thus, there was quite a bit of that running through my mind on Sunday — and notions of how my nephews and nieces are mostly grown-up now (or, in a couple of cases, rocking adult life a lot more than I am) — and how I accidentally forgot to reproduce, or get a house, or get a reasonable occupation, or have any security in my life whatsoever…etc. etc…
It’s not really greed or selfishness (although I can be covetous with certain media items); rather, it’s more like: “HEY, EVERYBODY! CHECK IT OUT! I’VE GOT ALL THIS AWESOME POTENTIAL ENERGY HERE! AND UNLIKE A LOT OF PEOPLE WHO ARE ADORED AND CODDLED AND GET A TOTALLY FREE PASS THROUGH LIFE AT THE EXPENSE OF OTHERS, GUESS WHAT!? I’M NOT AN ALCOHOLIC, DRUGGIE, USER, ABUSER, FUCKUP, SHITHEAD OR DICKBRAIN! YEAH! WANT ANY OF THIS? WANNA WORK TOGETHER AND MAKE OUR DREAMS COME TRUE FOR A HAPPIER AND ALTOGETHER BETTER TOMORROW?????”
And they’re all, like, “No.”
(If I get an answer at all. One answer. Per year.)
So, hey, I can’t do a lot more than that. And couch-surfing through blizzards — regardless of how kind my host(s) may be — truly sucks.
(Unlike a lot of people, too, I’m totally not a hypochondriac; however, I know enough to avoid sitting on airplanes with the Not-So-Great Unwashed in cold’n'flu season. Fug dat.)
So…here I am. I don’t know why. I’ve done my best with available materials and behaviours.
This has been an interesting year, actually: I kicked a few people out of my life. Not in any loud or melodramatic way — simply: A few people went apeshit on me FOR NO GOOD REASON — OR NO REASON AT ALL, REALLY — WHATSOEVER — so I was all, like, “G’bye.” I’m sure it makes me look bad, but fuck it, whatever, I’m not. Interesting patterns, though: The gingers I deleted because they were getting dangerously delusional and deceitful (and talk about brimming cauldrons of hatred, waiting to spill over); whereas the brunettes I removed because they displayed serious anger-management problems. I don’t understand that shit — at all. I’m cool with people until they start shitting at me: Then it’s goodbye. Otherwise, live and let live.
What remains has been a reasonably pleasant, if compact, circle of friends: For them I am extremely grateful. They’re not just nice to me — they’re inherently awesome.
On Sunday, the actress Brittany Murphy suddenly dropped dead — at thirty-two Earth-years old. I had never paid great attention to her, but I thought she seemed kind of pretty and kind of cool. Having given the matter some thought, I sincerely feel that The Industry rode her too hard — which is what really killed her. This is entirely my speculation, of course — but I have worked in and around The Industry for years — and it ALWAYS rides everybody MUCH too hard! This was a young woman; young women don’t just drop dead; there has to be some significant reason. I looked at Murphy’s list of credits — and there are a lot of credits for a young woman! That was a young woman who was being driven very hard — like a sled-dog, or beast of burden. Maybe she even wanted it — a lot of children of divorce desperately crave attention — but nonetheless. Heart defect? Maybe that was part of it: But I think we’re seeing a warning sign in her unfortunate passing: Hey, Industry — LIGHTEN THE FUCK UP! Eight-hour days! Proper benefits! BE NICE TO YOUR EMPLOYEES.
I have spoken.
Since most actresses mean less than beans to me (I dated a wannabe in 2007 — and the experience was so vile and insane — she really was, and I’m sure still is, a completely unconscionable, deceitful and destructive creature), I really wasn’t sure what Murphy had been in, until I looked it up. My feelings proved bittersweet, and are, from least to most significant, as follows:
- I recall almost going to see a press screening of Uptown Girls — thinking, hey, maybe I’ll understand more about young, essentially carbon-copy clone females (Most o’ y’all really ain’t special) — and then I can write a thoughtful piece about what I’d seen and experienced, from a more masculine perspective — but then the movie didn’t look that great, so I didn’t go.
- In 2001, I was basically reviewing movies constantly (in a way, a Slave to The Industry — again!), and one of them was that Michael “I’ll Never Be Anywhere Near As Cool As My Father But At Least I Cradle-Robbed The Welsh Tart” Douglas movie, Don’t Say a Word. I could have given two shits for Don’t Say a Word — but I was doing my job. I barely remember the movie (although that sort of “rape-chic” facial expression was very popular amongst shallow girls at the time — it probably still is — in fact, I know it is, because the stupid wannabe used it a lot) — but I can recall the trailer, because it had a stupid line of high-pitched dialogue from Murphy, going (sing-songy voice), “I’ll ne-ever te-ellll….” Why mention this?…
…well, because I used to go to L.A. journalism parties, which, generally, were overstuffed with alcoholic hacks, wretched hangers-on, and then an actual reputable journalist here or there. At one of these, I recall entertaining my dead friend Marnye by repeating that Brittany Murphy line from that trailer — and in the stupid sing-songy voice: “I’ll ne-ever te-elll….” That made Marnye laugh. Marnye was too crazy and emotionally violent for me to get any reasonable handle on her — but she was also extremely friendly and vivacious, loads of fun, and a true friend to any and all (which is probably also part of what killed her — her old “boyfriend” certainly never discouraged her hard-core drinking habits — especially when she was on cancer meds!) Sad memories, but in between them I can pick out a happy one, here or there — and one of them was amusing Marnye with that stupid line. Such a bizarre twist that now both of those young women are dead — and really DROPPED dead! — and why?
The Industry clearly rode them too hard.
They became fodder.
I think it totally sucks.
- The other Murphy-related memory was, and is, purely happy — as in: Happy Feet. I love Happy Feet. I think it’s a glorious and wonderful movie, filled with life and song and exuberance. That’s really, really saying something — considering that 99% of the movie was created in computers, oceans apart. It’s even-more-saying-something when I note that the movie’s lead is annoying little Elijah Wood — who should be bussing tables in Cleveland or something. But whatever: Happy Feet is a classic, a great work of art, and I love it. And who’s the voice of the girl penguin? Why — Brittany Murphy. Admittedly, she does a pretty good job with Queen’s over-covered “Somebody to Love” (that probably wasn’t my initial opinion — but as it was also used in Ella Enchanted, I was getting irritated) — but, yeah — maybe it wasn’t entirely to my taste, but good on her for filling that role. She not only helped gratify me against the like of that ridiculously homoerotic and entirely too sadistic “James Bond” knockoff that year — she also helped bring my mother a great deal of happiness: As she happened to be in town when the good folks at Warner Bros. offered up a sort of penguin party (with actual penguins!) at the Pacific Design Centre…oops!…”Center” — and I got to bring my mom, and we munched chocolate-covered strawberries, perused the penguin paraphernalia, and got to enjoy clips of George Miller’s true gem of a motion picture. I’m really happy to have gotten to share that with my mother. And then, when the movie actually came out, she and I brought her two little grandsons to see it. They danced up their “happy feet” in the parking lot afterward. (That in itself is an achievement — as they, like most little American boys, are obsessed with obtaining the largest weapons possible, and then slaughtering everyone with them; a pattern I’d like to end IMMEDIATELY — wanna help?)
Thus, yeah, farewell to Ms. Murphy — she did some good things.
Later on, I napped uneasily, and worried a lot. It’s not my natural tendency to worry — but as I’ve said before, my life here has been, and still is, basically the Kobayashi Maru scenario: A no-win situation. I don’t say that to be coy, self-pitying or attention-seeking: I just mean that whatever I do here, it’s not enough to keep Life going. Job/Home/Partner/Finances — it all just gets sucked away. As I am naturally a rather easygoing person, the unfortunate effect of this is that I sometimes (particularly in writing, where I let it all hang out) come across as a bitter jerk. But really, I’m just being objective: I say what sucks, sucks.
Gimme something good, I’ll sure as fuck tell you it’s good!
After the nervous nap I was summoned by a friend to go consume a veggie burger which approached a cost of twenty American dollars. Seriously. He paid. Bless him. That’s more money toward my retardedly huge rent.
It’s such a good thing I don’t drink — and to elabourate (heh) on that phrase: Drunk, I’d probably spend the evening conversing with a plush toy, and then either vomit on it or try to seduce it. What I mean is: Alcohol is expensive, plus it takes a terrible toll on the body — I enjoy not consuming it.
Hey, speaking of taxable vices, yesterday I saw something very amusing: Some younger friends of mine were gathered outside near a storefront, talking and smoking. I hate the smoking part, actually — it sickens and angers me — but for friends I can stand upwind and pretend for a few minutes. Anyway, a frumpy, fiftyish woman came galumphing past, and stopped abruptly and starting berating the youngsters for smoking — technically illegally? — within this-or-that amount of feet from a doorway. When one of the youngsters offered a vaguely sarcastic response, she grew enraged (really, even though I totally despise smoking, the situation was no big deal) — and sought an authority figure, to whom to complain. The funny thing was, the smoking youngster was the authority figure — which enraged her to the point that she shouted out, “I GUESS I LOSE, THEN!” and swiped her claw at a large, full, nearby drink — causing it to cascade extremely sloppily across the whole scene. This small, isolated outpouring of insanity is offered up here to indicate how most people here are actually seething cauldrons of crazy, just about to boil over. It was still fun to watch. Even better, I got to enjoy the youngsters’ immediate appraisals of What Had Just Happened and What They Had Learned From The Experience. There are some sharp kids around here — even if they’re not quite smart enough to know that smoking is utterly foul and repulsive and stupid — and they give me some hope for The Future.
Anyway, later Sunday night, post-expensive-veggie-burger and happy discourse, I noted the darkness and the changing of the seasons, and started separating out presents for the whole fam damily (or, most of it) — which, in turn, led to moving a great many things around in my chronically overcluttered and utterly feng-shui-free flat…oops!…”apartment” — which led to me discovering, and then examining, photos I took during the first half of this about-to-end decade.
Talk about bittersweet!
First of all, everybody looks younger. Not heartbreakingly so — but dewier enough to discern a difference. There’s a liveliness and sense of fun and adventure in a lot of the photos. Heck, back then I still bothered to torture myself by owning and operating automobiles — and, indeed, photographic evidence of this abounds — not so much of the cars themselves (although there is one noteworthily totalled one — Arizona shitheads slammed me off Highland on their desperate way to a Burger King which no longer exists — and that’s not poetic license; it’s an accurate appraisal of the accident and aftermath) — but in Where I Went via them. I used to explore California a lot more. There are some insane people in the photos, with whom I did some of the exploring. They mostly ended up in San Francisco. Typical.
I am a bit melancholy over how many people are in these photos whom I considered friends — or at least friendly acquaintances — and many of them I’ll probably never see again. And a couple of them turned out to be Typical White Guy Assholes (the evidence was already there then — but it took me a few years to comprehend the disturbing depths of their assholery). And then there’s a hint of Marnye in a couple of them — and of course she’s long dead.
I am smart enough to be grateful that I’ve only had four friends, thus far, who’ve died — and especially grateful for the good souls still co-inhabiting this world with me — and it’s still kind of painful to go: “Oh, that was quite a while ago, now. They’re really not coming back. We have to go on without them.”
I’m in some of the photos, and I look very happy in most of them. Which is odd — because in fact I wasn’t very happy. But I guess being productive kind of comes across as “happy” on film.
And it was actual film, by the way. Imagine that! Taking pictures on celluloid!
I found a photo of me with Vincent Schiavelli. He’s dead, too. It’s a good photo, though. We both look quite happy.
Maybe that’s what it’s about: Make sure to get some photos of yourself looking happy!
Well, I haven’t prepared a conclusion for this ramble. I didn’t expect the photos — and in turn all those fairly-recent-but-far-enough-back-to-seem-like-dreams-now memories. I’m really not sure what to make of them. I know I was there (and then), and that all those people (and places, and things) were around also — but the likelihood of any of it ever coming together again is pretty much nil. There is no remaining evidence, apart from the photos, of any of it. Which is weird. Why go through something that leads to nothing?
Anyhoo (I never say “anyhoo” — I’m totally not that sort of fuckhead — it’s only employed here to keep you awake), I really don’t intend dourness here. Things aren’t particularly cheerful, and there are assorted stresses, and it seems like most people will be experiencing much more Fun and Togetherness at The Holidays than I will be — but it’s almost okay. One of the useful essences I am able to distill from loneliness is Discipline. Horrid word, really — horrid! However, I mean Discipline in the best (and nicest) possible sense: I get all my domestic chores done (well, except for clearing out the clutter — no pizza boxes, though), and I read like never before, I practice music like never before, and, especially, I write like never before. And why? Because there really isn’t too much else to do here. Then I go to films, because I love the community brought together by Cinema.
Apart from that, most people would probably find my existence dreadfully boring; I don’t even have cable*.
(* on the television**)
(** which has been unplugged for months)
So, yeah, sorry if reading this depresses you. I don’t mean it that way. This is, however — galactically-speaking — the closest to The Dark Night of the Soul that we get all year round in this hemisphere on this planet — so I guess that’s what it is about which I am on.
Not much else to say here right now. Try to avoid processed sugars, opting instead for long-chain sugars, such as you may find in agave nectar, maple syrup, and brown rice syrup. You’ll thank me.
~G
12.20.09
Getting the Avahype out of my system before seeing Avamovie:
Ten years ago I began my career as a Professional Cinema Critic. I was published (albeit via very discreditable rags) all over this uppity nation, and when I’d insult Mike Myers they’d eat it up in England. I wasn’t happy, but I was succeeding.
At the bottom of this post (so you won’t click away prematurely) lies a link to what has happened to film criticism since my salad days. Frankly, having been in the game in a significant way, I’d say that now being an intelligent, NON-PAYOLA (Hiya, Dargis!) movie critic is like being a good singer and wanting to perform, and then suddenly the local Talent Show admits all the tone-deaf people to come puke on the mic and make everybody confused and sick. I’m all for freedom of expression — but intelligence and some degree of human compassion should be mandatory before people are allowed to spew all over everybody else.
Incidentally, I didn’t even read this critic’s review (they all look alike now anyway); I’m talking about the comments thereupon.
The two non-psychotic comments I sincerely enjoyed are actually within the same comment:
1. The one which asks the purpose of Sam Worthington. Really, having observed this…actor, is it?… in that Terminator…continuation, I really must say: Sam is very un-Worthington. What a bore! If he changes my opinion as an ugly tall blue cat (or — WOWZERS! FORTY-FOOT-TALL SCORPIONS! WHAT A GREAT REMAKE! — as “Perseus”), I’ll let you know. But I doubt it. I wonder if the casting director whom Worthington masterfully fellated was in Australia or America.
2. Likening “Pandora” to a “Yes album cover” is GENIUS. That is FUNNY!!! (But of course, nobody yet has bothered to mention that even the name “Pandora” for an alien world is TOTALLY 100% STOLEN WITHOUT EVEN AN ATTEMPT TO MODIFY IT. CAMERON, HAVE YOU NO SHAME AT ALL? NONE?)
Okay, and let’s blow out the pipes…Ewoks, Jar Jar, Kashyyyk, Starship Troopers (which, I hasten to remind the masses, was a popular little book a few years before it became a really terrific and woefully misunderstood movie), Dances With Smurfs, Fern Gully With Guns, Delgo 2, etc. etc. etc.
Okay, I think I’ve pretty much gotten all the pre-viewing disappointment out of my system.
Oh, I don’t like the score much.
Okay.
Actually, I’m going to see Avatar this week with a friend, in the best possible way to see it (though I’m considering bringing earplugs), and I even enjoyed seeing Speed Racer with said friend — even though Speed Racer gave me about 6% total of what I actually WANTED from a Speed Racer movie.
Thus, all pre-viewing dread considered, it’ll be fun — and I’ll be a good boy and enjoy the designs and stuff. I’m already aware that humans are destroying the ecosystem at an alarming and irreversible rate, so Cameron’s ham-fisted allegory (I thought he was ham-fisted when I was a kid way back in ‘84, with his whoops-apocalypse worldview; I still had fun seeing the first Terminator) won’t bother me, I figure.
Bring the eye-candy and the PG-13 sex-cats, Jamesy!
Here’s that link; try not to be scared, reading this shit.
And now…lunch. And thoughts of other things.
12.19.09
OMG! JAMES CAMERON! EXCLUSIVE AVATAR PRESS RELEASE!!!
Love the genre; hate the hype.
(As of this posting, I haven’t seen it yet. Not-so-strangely ambivalent about it. I’m sure I’ll have some modest geek love for it — but I also consider Cameron’s “imagination” dubious, and the alleged budget for this thing obscene — plus it bothers me when people totally steal ideas without even trying to modify them. This delay is a trend: I shunned Terminator 2 until months after it opened, and Titanic until years after it opened. Don’t push me. This one may happen a little sooner — when convenient. I like Aliens — for the slammin’ Starship Troopers ripoff that it is (and here we go again?) — but Cameron’s hype eclipses his good work. And as for the proclamations of a CG/3D “revolution” — that ain’t gonna happen. A bit more originality, please; that’s all we need. Cheers. ~G)
12.17.09
Backlinking
Here. If you’re all about Cameron today, and his new epic DANCES WITH SMURFS, there’s a photo at the end of this post you’ll enjoy. (Also serves as a partial “The Year That Was” entry, saving me some effort…)
And here’s the new Holiday Edition front page for the site — which cost me about two bucks and an hour to create. It amuses me; I am amused.
12.16.09
Fun resumes soon.
Man, what a fucking difficult Autumn!
People! STOP BEING FUCKING RETARDS! PLEASE!
(This especially includes “family.”)
(And “gardeners.”)
(And everybody west of the 5…)
(And everybody east of the 5…)
It’s gonna be a lonely holiday season in my stupid ancestral “home,” btw — my mother will probably cry a bit (if she can still feel anything), because nobody else wants to go there anymore. Meanwhile, what’s her abuser been doing? — you know, THE GUY WHO GOT TAKEN AWAY AND LOCKED UP BY AUTHORITIES TWICE THIS SEASON (ONE POINT FOR JAIL! ONE POINT FOR MENTAL INSTITUTION! BRAVO!!!) BECAUSE HE WAS SEVERELY TERRORIZING, TORTURING AND ABUSING HER?
Oh — he’s getting the fucking windows replaced.
Nice reparations, shitbag.
We’re all so very proud!
Anyway, all that horror — plus trying to live a life in Stupidland. It’s not all Stupid — but let’s face it; most of it is — and I say “trying” because there’s really no way to succeed at it.
Definitely wrapping up.
Anyway, I have some significant projects to complete, and release, very soon — but I’ll try to get back to the original plan of posting photos, with reflections. (Words — contrary to what illiterate people believe — are simply MUCH easier than images.)
Anyway-anyway, because you’ve been a good boy and/or girl, I went trolling through the online crap just for you — and here’s an extremely amusing image I found:
