12.19.09
Posted in AwardWinningPhotoJournalism, Picture Shows at 4:00 am by G
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)
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12.13.09
Posted in AwardWinningPhotoJournalism at 3:40 pm by G
Hello!
Infidelity, while extremely unfortunate, is, shall we say, par for the course?
However…
Being paid bazillions of dollars to play fucking GOLF — which is a stupid GAME — is AN ABOMINATION.
Think about it, world. If you can still think. And have a nice day!
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11.20.09
Posted in AwardWinningPhotoJournalism at 2:42 am by 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.
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11.18.09
Posted in AwardWinningPhotoJournalism at 4:42 pm by G
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.
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11.17.09
Posted in AwardWinningPhotoJournalism at 1:00 am by G
Presently the skies are clear, and I’ve been scanning them, but no sign of the Leonids yet. It’s beautiful out there, though — calm and cool and quiet, like Christmas without the bullshit. Nobody screaming, no cars peeling-out, nobody being shot (at least, not nearby, or audibly). Not bad for a night technically in America.
As aforementioned, I’m going to wrap up this Gregorian calendar-year by taking it easy on both myself and you, via Images and Captions. (Maybe there’ll be something else worthy of mention — but I rather doubt it.)
I have a few friends who mean the world to me — however, as the Earth-year conventionally called “2008″ was coming to a close, I was flying alone (again) across the land-mass conventionally called “America” — seeking proof through the night, as it were. My “best friend” on said journey was Andy Summers’ truly wonderful autobiography, One Train Later. While I don’t intend this paragraph or post to stand as a review, I started the book slightly before travelling, carried it with me pretty much everywhere I went throughout what are conventionally called “The Holidays,” and finished reading it back in Cali, on what is conventionally called “New Year’s Day.” It’s not mere rock-star navel-gazing; it’s a fascinating journey put into very witty words.
The reason this is all significant is because I grew up listening to The Police. Oh, sure, there were other bands — and several just as “good” — but The Police really did what guys want to do: They teamed up and “conquered the world.” How? They were brilliant — that’s how.
I had a deeply fucking depressing year, inside, in 2007, during which I somehow missed Mr. Somers — oops…Summers — signing his glorious memoir at UCLA during the annual Festival of Books. I felt pretty stupid about not getting over there earlier, because even though I hadn’t read the book yet, and certainly didn’t feel like dropping twenty-five bucks for it, Andy Summers is one of the absolute greatest musicians of my generation (or, actually, a generation or two before it!) — and you want to talk guitar prowess? C’est magnifique. For that alone, I really wanted to go check him out. Heck, I bought Outlandos d’Amour when it was new. (I Advance Masked, too, for that matter…)
Anyway, I missed that event — but previously, in 2006, I attended a very special evening at the annual AFI Film Festival: A screening of Everyone Stares: The Police Inside Out, the new film (Super-8!) by the band’s creator and drummer, Stewart Copeland. It’s an awesome movie — here, check out my review AFTER you read the rest of this post (silly). And…
…at the screening…
…a very vital two-thirds of The Police showed up!
I just got a bunch of disposable cameras processed. Here, here’s Stewart (whose new book I have yet to find and read — shall prolly close the year with it) — looks pretty happy, eh? Deservedly so!
And here’s Andy, same event.
(What was particularly amusing about the screening was the Q&A afterward, when Stewart almost squeaked out without being asked The Inevitable Reunion Question. Once asked, however, he replied: “When Hell freezes over” or “It’ll be a cold day in Hell,” or somesuch — and y’know, from my perspective, 2007 was indeed both Cold, and Hellish — and of course The Police reunited, and toured.
I finally saw them in 2008, at the Hollywood Bowl. Missed Declan “Elvis Costello” MacManus as the opening act. Didn’t mind. Got my photo with Harry Dean Stanton on the way in. Police rocked world. (Strangely, or not, they sounded almost EXACTLY like they did thirty years prior.) I’m not technically sorry for making fun of them for lying about the reunion, then doing that Grammy stunt and whatever — but I did enjoy the show (and the fab crowd), and thus found a new balance with the band.
So, you see, my Earth-year 2009 sort of began in Earth-year 2006 (or perhaps in 1978?…).
Anyway, I thank Mr. Summers for his genuinely thrilling tome — my copy of which was a library discard. Just a few days ago, a great friend handed me another copy of it — this one autographed by Summers. Perfect! Saves me the chagrin of asking. Thank you, Great Friend.
I just opened One Train Later at random, in order to present you with a very brief excerpt. Literally at random, here’s what we get:
I am forced to fall back on my defense — the guitar, the axe — with a basic attitude of “fuck it, I can play any of these wankers under the table.”
- Andy Summers
One Train Later
(And indeed: He can.)
Thank you, Mr. Summers, for letting your book be my “best friend” in my Holiday Travels, nearly one Earth-year ago.
And here’s me at the goddammed airport, stuck in the Twilight Zone between Last Flight In and First Train Out. The kicker: That stupid airport was a lot more pleasant than my domicile and neighborhood usually are.
[Not that you'd have gotten the photo unfuckedwith, but after an arduous search, I simply couldn't find that season's images; maybe later...]
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