Greeting. Although there have been some good and even very good experiences in the past while, it is nonetheless true that I meet these current days with great dismay. Not for everyone, and certainly not for people who are not evil and/or insane (insane counts for at least 90% around here) — but more than enough dismay that I simply don’t want to do this anymore, because my reflections bring repetitions of the misery, and I’d rather change the subject. It’s Friday, too — and I despise Fridays. I try, I really do, but generally Fridays have been so ugly, miserable, pointless and empty (most of my “life”) that I’d rather give Friday the big “FUCK YOU!!!” before it gives me the big “FUCK YOU!!!” And here we are — except I’m not anymore. It is true that there was going to be a rather complex “Closing Essay” of sorts — and I have written most of it (Gregorian Year 2009 showed such promise, and yet became so unimaginably ugly and stupid — from choices made by others — that I had no option but to appraise it, as if desperately clutching the wheel in a car with no brakes) — however I have decided, just this evening, to refrain from publishing it. Not for shame or discomfort — I have no problem calling anything and everything as I observe it — but because…well…because of two factors: 1. It has taken me the past few weeks, in very intense concentration, to comprehend the situation in which I find myself, and to comprehend the elements which conspired to create it — and theeeee hell if I’m going to give away all of that for free; and 2. I’m hardly unaware that my remaining readers of this diminishing journal — give or take an oddball — are icky, self-obsessed movie dorks, who (strangely) look to me to give them something — which I won’t, and can’t. Instead of looking to me, why not look to yourself? L: You’re not a bad guy — brush your teeth. J: You are a bad guy — and you really suck ass as a “writer.” J: Darkness and decay are good, too! That sort of thing. I’m sure that a couple of people about whom I care a lot also check in intermittently, and thank you, and cheers to you — but this medium no longer serves. I won’t be writing anything else here. I have completed a long, complex and arduous circuit — and I’m not about to repeat it. If you’re a friend, and any of this strikes you as odd or uncomfortable — well, I’m sorry about the uncomfortable part. You may laugh at this notion, but my nature is to be quite generous and open — and unfortunately this has led to some semi-psychos glomming onto me. Exhausting. No more. I can spot ‘em now. I’m tired of being drained by other people’s insanity — and then being left completely alone to make repairs. Enough of this stupid place. Buy a vowel, get a clue. I’ll be good to anybody who’s being good (or, at minimum, making some attempt at being good) in return (or just to the populace in general) — but no more secrets shall I reveal — in hopes of engendering “community.” Sorry about all the misery — I dunno, I sure didn’t want it or ask for it. But it is done. One needs hopes to feel disappointment — and my hopes are well and truly dead. That’s something, at least. And thank you for reading the fun parts, the respectful parts, the inspiring parts. Some good people doing some good things. Nonetheless: If I could do my past couple of decades over again (or, indeed, my whole “life”) — seriously now, I would. Alas for that. Some pivotal people profoundly let me down — and the blame falls squarely on them, and that’s the truth. My consolation is this: A future wherein I shall never again suffer shitbags gladly (or, at all). Go vegetarian. Read a book. Your dog is merely a mutated wolf or jackal. Stop having to be the loudest all the time (you asshole). Destroy all weapons. Rid yourself of religion as you would a disease or mental illness. Cars are stupid; take trains. Sing songs. Be nice to people. Bananas contain potassium. Pray for rain. Closing. ~G 26 February, 2010.
Hi. Happy New Year.
It would behoove you to get accustomed to stopping clicking here, because I really am about to finish and post the last appraisal (below, soon) of my “life” (as such) — and “move on” (I’m stealing back that phrase for common usage — since it proved useless and embarrassing in politics).
The movie site will remain; and renew.
I go somewhere else.
Meanwhile, I think it’s okay for this to be, by the Gregorian calendar, the last post of this awkward online journal. Presently, given this vulgar holiday, I reflect upon a lyric by Jonathan Richman: “Do you long for her, or for the way you were?” — and it’s kind of…neither, really. I could have done without the bludgeoning disappointments of the past quarter-century — damn, some of you people really are fucking shitheads; learn some MANNERS — but if you were in my life during that chapter, and you’re thereafter out of it, there’s a reason for that.
As it’s Valentine’s Day, I realise this year that I don’t love anybody. Not romantically — or partnerally (that should be a word). I like the concept — but nobody steps up and proves herself worthy. I am left with the hideous jokes of the past. Whee.
The rub (or lack thereof) is: Life sans partnership, to me, feels like a terrible waste, a cruel and sadistic ploy to drain and kill the soul. I have endured this, for years (alas, my “family” suck ass — no backup plan there) — but I really don’t feel like enduring it anymore.
Where’s my girlfriend? Huh? Where’s my girlfriend?
(She’s probably sucking her dog’s genitals, or rimming her cat, or both. Useful way to spend your time and energy, babe.)
Kindness, generosity, patience and ardor all proved fruitless — wasted upon girls whose stupidity becomes more apparent to me as the years pass. I don’t miss them. They’ll probably turn into “cougars” and wonder why their lives aren’t satisfying. Ha-ha. Stupid girls.
I don’t like fat girls, either. If you’re fat, you should go on a diet and get some exercise. Stop being disgusting. You’re depressing everybody.
Loneliness is certainly a lot better than those horrid fates.
Go hurt somebody else, fatty. Or better, go hurt yourself.
Anyway…
I do feel peace. I like peace. Being freaked out just because everybody else is freaked out is RETARDED. Go easy. Although there’s a melancholy vibe to this Valentine’s Day, I’ll sleep well through the remainder of the morning, and I’ll awaken reasonably refreshed and content to greet the world and its people. Yesterday I was even nice to a crazy-ass old guy with bad breath, who flung himself at me and started blathering about Lew Wasserman and trying to get at least twenty bucks out of me. I gave him three quarters and two minutes. He was one bitter son of a bitch, but he sought my attention so I gave a little bit. Now, if you’re one of those judgmental twerps in my “life,” you probably would have snubbed that guy, and you should probably note that I fit better in this world than you do. And it’s very hard work some days. That guy was 100% the opposite of what I wanted to encounter after dinner, but I let him talk. You, loudmouth, you don’t have that kind of patience. Go fuck yourself. Twice.
To balance, I’d like to thank those friends who’ve appeared, even peripherally and/or briefly, over the past few days. It is no exaggeration to say that your presence connects much, makes most endeavours seem “worth it,” and saturates my world with colour (even when I want it grey). Enormous appreciation to you.
It’s funny…I really am scrabbling through my memories, trying to come up with fuzzy-romantic reflections — but even this or that nice moment is totally eclipsed by how much of an asshole the girl really was, outside of that moment (and how much damage she chose to inflict). It’s a clean slate now; I don’t pine anymore. I could die and go, “Whatever.” But I guess I’ll live.
So there’s no “her,” and I like me better now than then. Hm. I suppose, if anything, I can romance the potential of what was — and, since I firmly assert that “time” does not exist, still is!
There was an era — before everything got ugly and stupid and fucking unbearably horrible — when I gazed upon the world…not with my eyes, really; I guess I gazed upon the world with my ears. A sonic horizon awaited me (reader, perhaps you can relate) — and I believed — not idealistically, not naively, but simply truly — in…potential, I suppose — potential when “potential” and “love” become synonymous and interchangeable and meaningless as words and yet infinite in resonance. A lot of people are into bullshit, and it programs their thinking and actions — but I’m not into bullshit. I am — and always have been, and always shall be — into great stuff.
The great stuff makes it worth it, imbues life with Life.
From before the recent era of toxic, unbearable bullshit, then, I close with two holiday-specific examples of the great stuff. As I’ve said before, I’d happily live in the present if the present offered pop music anywhere near as good as the ABC song (but it doesn’t)…and the Tanita song…which makes me fall apart, cry, and turn into mud.
I choose to be mud until springtime.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
And a pre-final goodbye from The Writer Formerly Known As.
Hi. I enjoy writing, and if it entertains you (if you’re a nice person; some of my readers, I know, are not) then it’s worth it — however Transitions are befalling me, and perspectives which proved useful during the relatively brief run of this particular online journal are very unlikely to fit in the next…well…whatever happens. Thus I prepare to conclude. Tonight I’ll give you thirteen notions to contemplate:
* Last Friday, the 8th of January, 2010, my “father” removed the door from my “mother’s” room (my old bedroom; I’ve been pleading with her for years to move out of there and LIVE LIKE AN ADULT FOR ONCE), and then he THREATENED TO THROW A CHAIR AT HER. She was supposed to call me on Saturday. Of course, she didn’t (she is a master of omission, manipulation, and — when it suits her — lying); thus from other, more reliable, sources did I obtain this information. That’s what happens when you let a psycho play “good boy” in order to get out of a well-earned lockup — both in jail and in a mental facility (Way to go!!!) — and then, surprise, he starts with the psycho crap again. The door and chair are mild, however, when compared to this — which I would like for you, and everyone interested, to know: HE ALSO THREATENED TO DESTROY THE HOUSE IN TWO WEEKS (That’d be the 22nd of January, 2010) — AND TOLD HIS “WIFE” SHE’D BETTER HAVE ALL OF HER STUFF MOVED OUT BY THEN, OR IT WILL BE DESTROYED ALONG WITH THE HOUSE. HE ADDED THAT HE “DOESN’T CARE IF HE GOES TO JAIL.”
(Now isn’t that special. That’s factual information, from a very reliable source — a source much more reliable than my “mother” — who claimed she was “misunderstood” when she first reported those threats. “MISUNDERSTOOD”??? How can one “MISUNDERSTAND” a threat to DESTROY A HOUSE??? And what’s he going to do? — go rent a wrecking ball for the afternoon? Nope. Only one way, short of explosives, that a skinny old psycho can destroy a house. If you know him, go ask him about it. Tell the police about it. And kick his fucking ass — hard — while you’re at it.)
Next notion:
* Tonight I walked into a fave eatery, just as one of my favourite songs EVER began playing. (I don’t mean Casual Ever — I mean EVER-ever.) That was astounding, as the song’s been running through my head, and I’ve been singing it, all week. Yet even more astounding: That song was IMMEDIATELY followed by ANOTHER of my fave songs EVER-ever — a very different song, albeit from the same era, yet another one I frequently sing and intend to cover. I know that this was supernaturally wonderful because of this: Everything after that was pretty much shit.
* BEOWULF or AVATAR? Why, this is simple: BEOWULF!!! Totally! The true “game-changer” was Robert Zemeckis’ Beowulf, in 2007 — which also looked like a damned videogame, but at least it was based on a real story. Avatar is based on a bunch of stuff Jim Cameron stole from real creative people. I mostly enjoyed mostly sitting through Avatar because I stared at it with a good friend — but otherwise I could have skipped it. Beowulf gets my conditional love.
* Everybody in SoCal is still self-obsessed and usually unpleasant. I’d still take it over the Midwest, where people are into Christ and football and guns. But I’d be happy to leave this country altogether.
* Recently I encountered that girl-woman I cared about the most throughout 2009. She looked at me, twice, as if she’d never seen me before — and she spoke not a single word to me. We used to carry on for hours, we went to events together, and I made it clear that I care about her. She stared at me blankly, like a stranger. There’s no reason for this — I haven’t even seen her lately. It’s just how things go here. I knew for most of last year that she had no interest in me, and I learnt to live with that. But perhaps this is why she gave me the zombie-face tonight: My desire is gone. Everything dies eventually.
* I went on one date each with two adult human females last year, and they were both stupid, selfish cows. Prior to that, over the past few years, I opened my heart to only two marginally-”adult” females. They both were, and are, skanks. So much wasted “time” and energy! I don’t know what I was thinking. Obviously, I wasn’t thinking.
* I have yet to trust an editor.
* I’m trying hard to think of a favourite business or restaurant around here which hasn’t closed on me. There are perhaps two; there used to be about twenty.
* It annoys me that people are already using Haiti to guilt-trip everybody else about taking care of their own business. We’re not all meant to go help people in Haiti. Let Obama and Schwarzenegger go rebuild houses in Haiti — they’re the ones who signed up to be “leaders.” (Actually, I’d be surprised if Carter — the only reasonable President in my lifetime thus far — weren’t there with his wife already, helping out. Even I can get past the fact that he’s a Christian. Nobody’s perfect.)
* At this point, exactly twenty years ago, I was deeply in love (or: “love”), and fairly certain that the girl-woman with whom I was hooting and hollering around “town” was going to be the one I’d ask to marry me (alas, my “parents” never learnt her name; and when I went to visit her in her country that spring, her parents clearly hated me). I was toiling hard-core at USC’s Film School (best in the world; suck it!), had generously allowed my film-partner to use the 16mm B&W stock to shoot his goofy “Lovers-Who-Murder-Each-Other” movie (ALL of the dorks were making those) while I kindly chose colour video for my own vastly more creative project (got an ‘A’ — suck it!), and I had some truly sensationally annoying roommates, plus a couple of frequent mega-obnoxious visitors who are now very rich A-list Hollywood directors, one of whom is severely worshipped by fanboys, whereas the other is severely worshipped by the French. (Amusingly, both have been having children — albeit in VERY different ways.) Mainly all I wanted to do was make movies, fuck my girlfriend, and eat Cheez-Whiz out of the can. Twenty years ago, I succeeded in all three objectives. Now everybody makes shitty little movies and sticks them up online, every girl is “bisexual” (and MEAN), and I prefer to go vegan. The girl I used to fuck became a lawyer; looking back, she was never really all that nice anyway. I’m smarter now, and I eat better, and I’m lonelier. Whee.
* Most people concur that Gregorian year 2009 was a bummer, and I concur, too. Nonetheless, the torpor and misery of that planetary cycle were for me punctuated by some acutely wonderful experiences. If you’re a friend, and were involved, whether in L.A., Chicago or various parts of New York, I thank you most kindly. I saw a bunch of celebrities and attended some terrific entertainment events in 2009 — but without those friends nearby, it’d be for naught. As Mel Brooks said to me: “Thank you. Bless you.”
* Although I’d like to conclude this entry on a happy note, first I must refer you back up to the first point in this list: That my “father” claims he’ll be “destroying the house” on 22 January, 2010. But don’t wait, don’t hesitate. Hit him. Hit him now. Hit him hard. Shithead needs to be hit. Nobody else in my alleged “family” is doing ding-diddly squat to improve this situation — they ignore my calls and emails, thanks!!! — so I’m asking you, whoever you are, to go punch the living shit out of my “father.” He likes to inflict pain on people. Go teach him what real pain is. You have my full consent.
As for everyone else — unless you’re a scumbag — you have my love, support and dedication for the calendar year ahead, and all of the illusion of “time” beyond that. I write, I give, I love; that’s all I do.
Hi. Today was Monday, and it rained. Perfect! Mondays are retarded, and rain makes everybody slow down. I love it.
I’m not sure whether it’s the negative ions, the sweet cool dampness, dumb luck, or some combination of all those things and more — but today, while pointlessly stressful and mildly stupid, was nonetheless also reasonably pleasant, and the atmosphere afforded me some clear thinking (I’m stealing back that adjective for common, free usage) and perspective and even a bit of pleasure.
The rain also knocked out the electricity for a while, and while such things send the ill-tempered into tizzies, I immediately applauded: Half because I enjoy it when the power goes out (Quiet! Candles! No ugly lighting!), and half because the technical aspects of life in SoCal suck so bad that they deserve a standing ovation for overall lousiness.
It was a light rain. Happens, in most parts of the world. Here, they can’t handle it.
And you should see the “drivers”! (So very happy I’m not one anymore.)
Yes, it was that sort of day.
As for recent stresses and online expressions thereof, indeed, these haven’t been happy days, or years. Frankly, I’m tired of retarded, obsessively self-promoting shitholes: They throw off the balance of reasonable enjoyment of life. And it’s not just the shitholes — it’s the people they make crazy by enlisting them into their ego armies. It all sucks. I’m sick of looking at it, listening to it, being around it.
However, as the rest of North America endures a rather severe cold wave, I wonder: Should I stick it out here a few more months? Wait for the spring thaw? I mean, honestly, I don’t know. I like New York, and I can tolerate Chicago — but everywhere else seems like: If you don’t have a life there already, why would you start one now?
I’m sure some haters or doubters became intensified in their negative appraisals of me by my admittance that I don’t like America — but I don’t, sorry. It would take too long to explain why here, via this medium, but in short: It’s not a dislike of any of the many wonderful people in America, and it’s not a dislike of some of the freedoms for which this excessively proud nation is known. I mean, great, some people get to have pretty good lives in this particular country (one of MANY in the world, I hasten to remind you). But…what else? Have we demolished the sick Puritanical foundation upon which this “culture” is wobblingly constructed? Nope, not yet! Have we really acknowledged the horrors of slavery and Native genocide — by which this land became “our” land? Does everybody have to have a fucking gun? Or a fucking car? Or ten fucking television sets? Seriously, where does it stop? Armageddon? Does the new war-monger president really have to step directly into the shoes of the allegedly “different” previous war-monger president, sending thousands upon thousands more people to a land where “we” ABSOLUTELY DO NOT BELONG — in order to play war games? What business have “we” there? Any? (No cheap answers, please. REAL reasons. And if your answer is: “We’s the World Police, duh-huh!!” — I ask: Says who?)
I’m not pleased with the way things are going here; I’m really not.
Socialising, supporting the Arts, praising friends and kindly people for their good works, being reasonably diplomatic, fair and true — these things I can do, and do do. (Oops! Heh. Americans like poop jokes, right?)
But this whole (for lack of a better phrase; there isn’t one) “America, Fuck Yeah!” approach — it sucks. I hate it.
I think one of the reasons I love the English — despite their many flaws and theatrical psychoses (or possibly because of the latter) — is that their empire has already crumbled and fallen. It’s over for Blighty — and they know it. Which makes the smarter members of their herd a lot more pleasant to encounter; they have achieved (or, at minimum, have had forced upon them) a sense of humility. The sun has very much fucking set on the British empire — and yet…now that that scene is over…we can perceive many of the truly awesome cultural contributions of the British. From Jane Austen to J.K. Rowling, I am totally on board. (I also like The Beatles, though Echo & The Bunnymen are better.)
But the U.S.? I dunno — it just doesn’t get it yet, which is sad. Here, let me quote from Douglas Adams again, so I can get back to work:
Every country is like a particular type of person. America is like a belligerent adolescent boy, Canada is like an intelligent thirty-five-year-old woman*. Australia is like Jack Nicholson.
-Douglas Adams
(*O, how I’d like to have one of those!**)
(**It’ll probably never happen here, though; American women, like American men, in general, simply aren’t very smart. Doubt me? Go look.)
Indeed, it rained today. I wish it would keep raining. I belong someplace where it rains. Living sans precipitation, for nearly whole Earth-years at a stretch (and let us not forget epic fires), is extremely freakish. Alien planet? I’ve been there, baby. I’m still there.
Oh: I got to see Terry Gilliam’s new film, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, again last night, via the American Cinematheque. Literally every seat was filled — and most people stayed to the very end (there’s a great giggle there), and applauded several times throughout. These were people who “get it” — who like smart entertainment. Between that, and the Cinematheque’s triple-feature of smart Star Trek films from the original crew (not the dumb new one with the nobodies), I felt at “home” this week-end — which is sort of a rare feeling (I also get it at the annual Mods & Rockers festival).
L.A. is not home; and it never has been. I just don’t know where else I’m supposed to be. Honestly.
I also have conclusive evidence that one cannot go “home” again; I tried a few times over the years — my “parents” just get crazier and crazier. It’s not Cuckoo’s Nest amusement sort of stuff — it’s…it’s…the opposite of living. It sucks. The useless piece of garbage “husband” is back in the house now — after being locked up TWICE in the past few weeks — and his idiotic “wife” has allowed this to happen. I try to support what’s good about her. I can do no more. It sucks like you wouldn’t believe.
If anybody who actually knows me secretly reads this thing and then doesn’t mention it to me, do me a favour, eh? If you have any clue how to relinquish American citizenship and become naturalised in a better country, I’m actively requesting facts and suggestions. I’d like to spend the second half of my life being happy and useful.
Too much has sucked here.
Thus, if my writing bugs you, or you don’t like me for whatever reason — think about these things, and think about how good you may have it by comparison — and then shut up.
The rest of you: Peace. (Really.)
I’ll prolly be back tomorrow with some Lighter Fare (which may include “time”-travel).
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.
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.
Pretty cool band. I know it’s also a play — but pretty cool band. Too bad nobody in America ever heard of them: If they’d broken here, we could have bypassed “grunge” altogether, and now every Gen-Xer would be dressing like an Armani mobster.
Oh — what’s that you say? — how’d my birthday go?
Gosh, how nice of you to ask. I know it’s a fascinating topic.
Here’s the thing: I’m not really all that big a fan of myself. I like myself okay, but feeling the need to tell people it’s my birthday would subside significantly IF I HAD A LIFE. Which I don’t — or barely do — thus, I employ, and often have employed, my birthday as a sort of Significance Barometer: Do I matter to anybody? Does my existence make any difference?
That might sound weird — or perhaps it sounds completely relatable — but what’s true for me is that, most mornings when I wake up (late mornings, granted), and most evenings when I lay my head to dream (early mornings, granted), I ask myself — am forced to ask myself! — “Should I bother continuing with this existence? I mean: It mostly sucks, truth be told, and I enjoy very little of it, also truth be told. I don’t even want the stupid attention that depressed people crave and often get — because I’m not particularly depressed; and I’m certainly not nihilistic! I love Beauty and Goodness and Warmth and Fun and SOPHISTICATION! However…I also rarely see the point anymore. And lacking any faith in religion, politics, sports or other drugs, I have a terribly hard time kidding myself that anything is good when it isn’t actually any good. Plus I fucking hate rap. And country. And most of America. So what am I supposed to do? Carry on living? WHY, exactly?”
I have these thoughts on nearly a daily/nightly basis. They’re neither the foundation of my thinking, nor anything I particularly enjoy — but for years I’ve had them — for most of my life after about age five or six when it really hit me that my “parents” are stupid fuckheads and there’s very little hope for anything good to come from older generations. They really fucking let me down. So I learnt to run around with “The Arts” or amusing novelties or whatever, trying to make it all seem worthwhile — even though most of me knows that it isn’t.
I should mention here that one thing I do not endorse is denial. Girls/women DEEPLY resent me for this — because most of them I know and have met have constructed their entire realities, however limited, upon denial. They believe their pets are people! They think shoes bring happiness! They still want to blame men for the ills of the world when their own gender’s out-of-control appetites are absolutely as much (or more) to blame for the waste and wreckage out there. But anyway, yeah, I don’t like denial. I don’t enjoy wandering around being morose — no…wait a minute…yes, I do, actually (I like it a lot) — but…um…let’s say I despise melodrama. That’s true: I despise melodrama. More to the point, though, I’m not a doom-head. I’m not some collegiate bunghole running around pretending he’s Nostradamus. Not at all. I like joy and pleasure and fun. However, I don’t enjoy these things when everybody around me is so full of shit it’s exploding out of their pores (L.A. being the epicentre of this). I like my fun on the level. (This is probably why I find Las Vegas sickening, too.) Thus, yeah, denial is not my friend; ask me to discuss something — anything — and I’ll discuss it. But let’s not pretend there’s no elephant in the room.
Most of the “time” (don’t believe in it), I do all right with this. I don’t want religion or drugs or television to tell me something is what it isn’t. I’m generally okay with what is — as long as intelligent and kind-hearted people are around (you’d be amazed how infrequently those two qualities go together). Just take steady strides toward productivity and goodness. Do what’s good, stop doing what’s bad. Example: See those trees? Don’t kill them! See that graffiti-covered wall? Paint it so it doesn’t look like shit! Pretty simple.
Sometimes, however — especially after years of trying to “live” in L.A./America — I fall, too. It is true that work, woman, whimsy and wonder have abandoned me — not I them. It takes a toll. Trust and faith have limits. Ask anybody who’s been reasonable with me over the years — I remain steadfastly reasonable toward them (and, usually, very kind and supportive, too). Then look at the actual facts of my situation: Shitty employers, shitty “girlfriends,” shitty city — and, you know, I’m NOT only focusing on the negative — but if I don’t mention where things went wrong — where things could have been INFINITELY BETTER — then I do my continued existence — and anyone who encounters it — a grave disservice.
Things HAVE sucked.
But…
…there is a chance…
…that things could improve.
Now I’m not Bigmouth Barry — I don’t want your vote, and I don’t need to overcompensate so badly that I’d want to become President. Nay-nay. He can have it. Vonnegut was right about “fuckheads” wanting that job. To hell with that.
In my own way, though — which is the long way, the high road, the expert-level obstacle-course — I think things could improve. From within, from without.
(And do I ever know about WITHOUT!)
Six years ago — and, I should mention, after slaving for four years non-stop for a very shitty newspaper company out of very shitty Phoenix (a bunch of useless, muckraking drunks; Q.E.D.) — I spent my birthday on suicide-watch at a local hospital. Whee. Why? I was alone, bereft, and miserable. What did I do? I EMAILED some people how miserable I was — and mentioned that offing myself was a part of my thought-process — NOT that I intended to do it (I made that very clear) — but I felt it necessary to note that, having been left so very alone and unsupported (nobody even called that day — all day long), I really did not see any point in continuing to live.
I think it was Samuel “Mark Twain” Clemens, wasn’t it? –> “The best way to cheer yourself up is to try to cheer somebody else up.” I believe in the validity of that claim. Not totally, but it’s pretty good. I’m certainly not a selfish wretch who can’t understand it, someone who would prefer to wallow in self pity!
But anyway, I told some friends and distant relations that I was miserable — and although a couple of them called me (rather worried; thank you) — the one who called the cops DIDN’T call me. She just called the cops. So what did I get for my birthday? I got THE COPS.
15 November, 2003, they gently but firmly insisted that I get into their car and be hauled away for questioning.
I was released, hours later, after being pronounced sane, and left to walk all the way back in the rain at night because the buses had stopped running.
I like rain. I love rain, actually. Sometimes when it’s raining, I just want to lie down on my back in a puddle and SLOSH and SLOSH and SLOSH while the rain pelts me in the face. I love it that much.
That night’s rain sucked, though. It was merely dismal. Insult to insult to insult to injury.
Why mention this (again)?
Well, because if Owen Wilson gets to have his ass licked for being a suicidal junkie, the least I deserve for being PURELY VERBAL about my lapse should be recognition for being smarter, handsomer, and altogether better in the nose than Owen Wilson.
(Heh: Actually, the night before Suicide Watch ‘03 I spent at the wondrous American Cinematheque’s annual Celebrity Gala, in service of Nicole Kidman’s body. Of work. It was okay. Perhaps the proximity to such rarefied windbagginess made for a painful crash the next day, though — the way child-actors collapse into drugs, only in miniature [and minus career, paycheck, acclaim, and drugs].)
(Oh, yeah: And a drunk teenage punk-ass girl brandishing a bottle of gin or something refused to get out of the street, so I tried to drive around her, and she flung the bottle at my passenger-side window — thereby cracking the glass. That was en route to the Nicole Kidman thing. My former car was routinely vandalised when I wasn’t in it, too. I don’t miss it. Nor those sorts of kids. Somebody kick their parents’ asses, please.)
All right then…now, with that presented as contrast, I can move us along, gradually, to happier thoughts (if, for me, also wholly self-indulgent thoughts — don’t worry; this won’t last long).
That was six years ago. Emotionally, the six years have been lonely and desolate ones — mostly stuffed with disappointment. HOWEVER, during these years I have also accrued MANY enlightening experiences amongst wonderful people working at the top of their game in The Arts — and to them — and also very much to my dear friends without whom I’d really literally be and have nothing — I relay my deepest and broadest gratitude and appreciation. I love you.
However: Did all that make life seem completely worthwhile? No. If, for instance, I just went to sleep in a few hours and never woke up again, that wouldn’t particularly bother me. I neither fear it nor wonder about it. Lights Out, Uh-Huh, Blast, Blast, Blast. No biggie. Not too many to miss me, no dependents, and no honey left weeping over our New Year’s reservations (until she finds a replacement the following day).
It’s not the same as being suicidal — not at all, actually: It’s more like, “Well, if it ends tomorrow, fuck it, at least some of it was interesting. Sure wish I hadn’t spent so much of it in America, though…”
I used to know a guy with severe anger-management problems (I seem to attract them; depressing), and he once mocked me (they love to do that) thusly: “So you’re gonna move to France, now, right?”
Well…kinda.
If only the Frogs wouldn’t fucking smoke so much.
It sounded so easy when Declan “Elvis Costello” MacManus sang, “I used to be disgusted; Now I try to be amused…” — and it seemed, as most things do, just a bit of poetic rumination. What I never expected was years-going-on-decades of hurt and disappointment and abandonment. It’s pretty hard to be “amused” about such things. Partly because this is allegedly a “first-world” country, where one would expect some modicum of civility from day to day.
Ha.
Barring that, what I have learnt is to be supportive of Intelligence and Beauty and Kindness. People who do good things — who are present and “real” and obviously want to play fair — I’ve got their respective backs.
Meanwhile, I turn my back on the shitstorm.
Boxing? Handguns? Afghanistan? Jesus? You people really want this stuff?
Sad.
There’s a big BEAUTIFUL world beyond hideous bullshit: Why not find a kernel of it inside yourself, and cultivate it?
(My “parents” don’t — and steadfastly refuse to do — which is part of why I harp on this so much. Please note: Entirely because of them, it genuinely shocks me whenever I find myself speaking with an intelligent person who knows how to listen. Please pardon if this handicap sometimes screws up my ability to “conversate” — I’m trying.)
And likewise — “out there” — I’m trying. You’ll just have to pardon me: I’m not into alcohol; I’m not into sports; I’m not into worshipping some weird, totally unprovable thingie. (Meanwhile, I know better, via observation, than to offend those severe religious types who’ll kill you for insulting their weird stories — nice! — so let us say, a bit more safely, instead: Jesus may have a more interesting backstory, but as far as I’m concerned, Lucky the Leprechaun is an equally valid mythic figure.)
(I’m not even obsessed with such things — if so much of America weren’t so claustrophobia-inducingly churchtastic, I wouldn’t bother addressing the topic at all.)
But where was I? Oh, yes: I am trying. Contrary to Yoda’s sage advice, sometimes all I can do is try.
There’s been a lot of change in six years. In most ways (family, profession, partner, creative advancement), I feel that I haven’t evolved one iota. But in other ways — well, either more of my nerves have been deadened by chronic ennui and disappointment — or I’m learning to get along in a world I don’t particularly like.
Good for me.
This was a good birthday. I’ll issue thanks for it below, at the tail end of this post.
Here are a few birthdays which were good:
Junior year in college, some friends threw a little party for me in the cockroach-infested but otherwise pleasant-enough apartment complex known as Troy East. There was a cake, an Asian girl with a crush (very briefly) on me (her poetry freaked me out, though), and a bunch of know-it-all-white-guy film-school friends playing songs together into the night. “Starfucker” by the Stones was the standout. We had a pretty good night.
My Fortieth: Just last year, frankly in a panic that my Big 4-0 would come and go without any significance and leave me back in the hands of “understanding” cops (I really don’t like cops; why would anybody want to be a cop? EXACTLY!) — I flew off to Windy to partake of Robyn Hitchcock playing I Often Dream of Trains live. That was excellent, that was the occasion (and of many RH concerts I’ve attended, it was one of the two very, very best) — however, it was the small gathering of friends that really made it worthwhile. Two of them were already married, and now two of the others are married. I like ‘em a lot!
~38 & 33: These birthdays were similar, except one involved Thai food and one pub-grub. Both were attended by some of my closest L.A. friends. As an adult — especially one working in a whirlwind of “journalists” (remember: it wasn’t a real newspaper) — these moments were priceless to me. FRIENDS BEING NORMAL! These “events” were in fact very small and humble, but they’ll always be very meaningful to me. I wasn’t confused enough to sign up to go sit in a ditch and shoot at other human beings and thus form friendships-under-fire like the stuff that informs Tom Hanks miniseries and whatever (What a soldier, that Tom Hanks) — but L.A. is its own kind of battlefield, and those mini-parties were, indeed, the tonic for the troops. (As an added bonus: At 9 a.m. the morning after my late-nite 33rd — and I didn’t know it was coming until I got “home” and played the heads-up message on my answering machine — I received a long and wonderful telephone call from THE Christopher Lee — whom I interviewed for his role as Saruman in The Lord of the Rings. I still glow about how delightful that was!)
Five (– or was it Seven?): I had some birthday wherein I got so excited that I jumped up in the air, came down weird, and whacked my head on the corner of the kitchen wall — thus requiring stitches. I recall the emergency-room doctor (this was way back in the days of Insurance) being from Kenya, thus having a “funny” accent, and the stitches hurt so bad that I kicked him. Not very hard, though. He gave me lollipops to commemorate me making it through another year without offing myself. I didn’t get the Six Million Dollar Man toy I wanted. Oh, well.
I recall a few other birthdays — a few of which are interesting — but obviously you’re not going to read much more.
Thus, this year’s THANK YOUs:
(This really matters a lot, actually. My faith is easily shaken, and, living very near the ocean, I sometimes consider just walking out into it until I can’t make it back to shore anymore. Not always — but sometimes. A day like this — which is actually very rare — reminds me that it’s worth it to keep…trying?…)
I cancelled the plan of my birthday “party” before it even took form, because only one local person seemed to have any interest in it — and he wanted to bring along a big stinky sociopath — and I’ve had enough punishment for one lifetime, thank you. (”Oh, you’re insane? How nice. Go away.”)
I did, however, receive little “moments” from some truly awesome people — and I’d like to thank them here, cryptically, but sincerely. I’ll use the first letter of their first name, and then the fourth letter of their surname if you spell it backwards.
NU: The voice-mail that woke me from my dreams of Already-Getting-Over-Janeane-Garofalo (and ’bout time, too). Sweet and funny and a breath of Autumny (sic) fresh aire (sic)!
AR: The card I actually received last night but re-examined today. Admittedly, I’m so totally not into German things that I wish the whole culture would disappear — but still a funny card. I bless you both.
EK: First online notice I received. Fun and funny, as always: I am so very happy that we’ve remained friends for BASICALLY OUR WHOLE LIVES! (And: Congratulations…again!)
TE: Actually, I just received your note a few minutes ago — but I think you know I really appreciate your presence. Please do not breathe any more RAID.
PI: You rock, mister. Dueting with you in the rubble this year was such fun. Sorry you couldn’t turn up today, but I understand the demands of theatah.
EO: (But not Captain.) Egad, that video you sent makes me seem totally normal! I think I have some catching up to do. May your home remain zombie-proofed through the long, actual Winter.
GN: Thank you for being the one person who confirmed, way up front. Thank you also for not bringing the smelly sociopath. I would enjoy seeing your latest movie.
SL: “You had me at smelly” is the funniest thing I read all day. I’m sorry I’m never as “alternative” as you — my tastes, alas, run more mainstream than some — however every time we cross paths, it’s great. You and him and him. Congratulations!
A very different GN: I like it when we have good laughs via text. Very amusing. You do awesome work, onstage and behind the scenes. Thank you.
JO: You’re the coolest Mummy I’ve ever seen; keep doing what you do; I enjoy your work.
NE: Always good to see you, fellow; you remind me that popular music is more than I know. Have fun with Rudd.
MR: One of the coolest authors I know; I always enjoy your enthusiasm, and really look forward to stealing a few hours to read your new manuscript!
EF: Of course it’s about proximity — or lack thereof! I must be frank and say I doubt I’ll ever endorse Rand — but I think you’re pretty cool (and you were at the Time Bandits birthday party!!!)
GC: Often I wonder how you do it — because you do it so well. Damn, you’re a GREAT painter! (Now please stop razzing me about SO, okay?)
LE: We only met briefly a couple of times earlier this year — but you’re so cool, man, it’s scary. Bowie better watch his legacy while you eclipse it. Let us all read the books soon.
SR: Pleased if I provide some sort of Left Coast Show-Biz beacon — but I also promise you it’s mostly not fun. Dig that man’s Brussels sprouts; you don’t get two shots at that in life.
PR: Thought I wouldn’t get to you, eh? Ah, don’t be silly! I was just trying to figure out a way to encode your elegant name; pretty tricky. Great we’re in touch again. Your wit is always welcome! Prolly see you this winter…
SH: Great almost seeing you in L.A. this year. Pardon me “lumping you in” with PR, but you guys both run marathons and I sincerely have no idea why anybody does that — but I admire you for going out and doing it. You have impeccable musical taste — not so common in the territories…
MD: What a great chat today, thank you. Fun to work through the details. Hope your dinner thereafter flat-out ruled.
RR: We spoke briefly on Thursday. I don’t actually know you, but you’ve been a presence in my life for over two decades, and a much appreciated one at that. You told me I’m “a young man.” Thank you. (And how odd that once upon a time there was a crossing of paths with…)
RI: Super-cool author and always a terrific presence. So very happy I ran over — albeit self-indulgently — so I could inadvertently see you today. Our conversations are always fun, and they always remind me to strive harder, think broader, to do better work. And you have nice hair. I just noticed that today. Who cuts your hair? I should have them do mine; they do a really great job. (Oh, and don’t let me forget to bring you that DVD…)
JR: Known you since 7th grade, feels like forever, and yet even a little online blip means a lot to me — knowing you’re somehow surviving Texas. You’re much, much, much cooler than Texas. Domo arigato.
(home-stretch here)
PL: Fab dinner, man.
SL: Fab dinner, woman.
and of course:
CW: Oh, do pardon me for being so curt on the telephone. Two nice women were suddenly leaning in bizarrely close, and I thought they were about to start singing to me. Alas, they didn’t — but that’s what I thought. Happy to hear your mighty voice, as always. Perfect cap to an imperfect (but pleasant) day.
And if I didn’t mention you, or didn’t mention you enough, it’s only because the sketchiness of the process here is not intended to be comprehensive.
I have a lot of inspirations — some human, some not — plus of course I make no secret of my bevy of Honourary Grandfathers (when actual family is either useless, gone or dead, one must improvise) — however, tonight I salute my zany uncle, Ray.
Now, as I am prone (and most people can’t handle it) to weigh the cons with the pros (especially if I end up lollygagging with “Pros” at a “Con”), it suits me to say that most of my L.A. associates have their heads up their tight little bungholes when it comes to Popular Music. You’d think the opposite — this being a “cool” “town” and so forth — but no: In reality it is a selfish, self-obsessed city of the damned — and even if somebody does evince an appreciation for this or that Pop act, more than likely it is done with aggression and ugly exclusivity — which is, of course, TOTALLY MISSING THE POINT of Pop — but whatever, enjoy the interiors of your respective recta. Sound echoey in there?
Meanwhile, I bow to the few friends I have here who DO go out to partake of amazing music when it is so generously offered to us. This is Life! (Mr. T. who joined me for Bunnymen, I salute you, too. Heh.)
Plus of course there’s Rodney.
Apart from that, I am admittedly weary of, “I only like THIS!!! And everything else CONFUSES ME!!!” C’mon. Grow up. Partake.
Do you think I attended one of James Brown’s last shows because I grew up listening to him? Of course I didn’t. I grew up in pabulum-saturated hell. But I went to LEARN SOMETHING and to EXPERIENCE COOL PEOPLE HAVING A GOOD TIME TOGETHER. (Which we did; you missed it.)
Sounds like a new and imaginative pursuit? Why, that’s because I JUST INVENTED IT.
(Heh.)
Anyway, I’m not “hip.” I don’t own an iPod. I have a nine-dollar (now back up to ten) mp3 player from Target — which more than suffices, and I’ve only filled it to a quarter of its 1-gig capacity and yet I’ll strongly wager that the content is vastly more diverse than what you’d find on most people’s 80-gig iPods.
But I do know what I like — and I love Ray Davies. His songs I did literally grow up to (feeling so cavalier as to leave a dangling preposition there, just for fun). Ray Davies is a genius. The Beatles were good, the Stones were good, The Who (”The Two”) are still brilliant (even football fans will figure that out this winter) — but I do so love The Kinks. And Dave aside for a moment, who’s The Kinks?
Ray Davies is The Kinks.
Now…having just seen her in a movie, and having actually considered her for the first time, I have an eensy crush on Janeane Garofalo right now — as in tonight-right-now (a realist in real life, I strongly doubt any such chemistry would ever succeed) — and yet if I could have anything in the world for my birthday eve tonight — and I mean anything completely selfish, and not at all compassionate or concerned with world affairs or licking Barack’s booty as he busily accomplishes next to nothing (it must be great to get one’s ass licked for running around yelling and basically doing nothing) — it would be to see Ray Davies performing RIGHT NOW at L.A.’s Orpheum Theatre, with choir (!!!) — doing Kinks classics — with Janeane Garofalo on my lap.
(I rarely make myself chortle; I just chortled like a drunk pirate.)
Anyway, yeah, Janeane’s out there looking after the Liberal-Feminist-Weirdo end of the spectrum, so I don’t have to — but I respect her for it (and I respect most of it: Girl emcee’d a benefit with Billy Bragg in it!). I really had no idea about her — I thought she was just another actress-comedienne (deal with the gender-specific terms; do you call your waitress a “waiter”???) — but she’s obviously a lot cooler than that. More’s the pity about the breast-reduction and tats — but the rest sounds pretty great.
So yeah, Ray tonight, with Janeane on my lap. Because the one I’ve been wanting doesn’t want me, and she’d probably have no patience for amazing Pop anyway. And over the years, the others all either went psycho and/or left me for dead.
My birthday gift to myself is this: No longer giving two flying fucks what some girl is “into” just because I like her. Let her fucking go do her stupid fucking shit; if she wants to be with me, she can learn to like a few things that I happen to like.
Otherwise, she can grow old farting around in the sandbox with the retards.
(That’s The Voice of Experience speaking; my good karma overfloweth.)
Which is all a very roundabout way of saluting Ray Davies, innit?
Fortunately, I’ll survive the lapse this evening. Going downtown sucks, and I know that nobody I know will fucking care about this show, so I didn’t bother.
I got to see Ray perform live at the glorious Wiltern a few years ago. He put on a terrific show — some then-new solo songs plus of course the globally-beloved wonders he has penned — and although he gave us a terrific evening he was actually a bit bitter onstage — no surprise, considering that he’d recently been shot in the leg (typical gun-crazy Americans!) for trying to do a good deed. He was also bitter about L.A. specifically, suggesting that perhaps that would be his last show in this stupid city. A lot of musicians — I mean real musicians, not merely lucrative novelty acts — have openly admitted this unfortunate feeling: They hate playing L.A. Why? I don’t know, but I think somewhere between the burnt-out old coke-head executives whose time has long since passed, the promoters (whom some call “thugs”) and the security (whom I call “thugs”) — much of the fun is drained from the experience. It ain’t all bad — but it’s certainly a less attractive city to play than many. It’s often goddammed uptight. Let the show go late! What’s your problem! It’s an evening out!
Well, it looks like Ray has overturned his ruling. I’m sure it’s glorious inside the Orpheum right now. I went alone to his previous show — but I just couldn’t muster going alone to this one.
I did get to meet him after the Wiltern show, though. I’ve met Paul McCartney at a party, and he was pleasant — but meeting Ray Davies in the semi-darkness, amidst a bunch of fawning fans, alongside the stupid Denny’s on shitty Wilshire Boulevard, there was something vaguely miraculous about that. He’s an incredibly smart man. And he was kind to the children. Great voice, too.
And with that, I salute my zany Honourary Uncle, Ray Davies, and give you this gift for my birthday:
(Damn, this song, like “Waterloo Sunset,” makes me cry instantaneously…)
Hi, everybody! I’m the reincarnation of John Lennon — except I’m much better!
(Waka. Heh. When in Bizarro World, say something Bizarro.)
It’s definitely Friday the 13th — or behaving in the cliched manner of such a day, anyway.
I’ve been having lots of dreams with ghosts in them; not scary dreams, but odd and unsettling.
(Then, when I go to sleep, the dreams intensify! Bwah-hah-hahhh…)
I put a significant amount of effort into something this week — something which is now, presently, doing the hippy-hippy shake. Bewildering. (If you’re reading this and have anything to do with it, hey, send a note. Explain. Gimme some transparency; goodness knows I give plenty of it.)
Yesterday I was wandering in a Whole Foods for overpriced naturalesque victuals, and simultaneously speaking with my mother via portable communication device. She was more grounded (in a good way; not in the bad way) than I’ve heard her in several weeks — but, nonetheless, she mentioned that her “spouse” (i.e.: The Asshole), upon not finding her at “home” at a specified hour last week, ACTUALLY FILED A MISSING PERSON REPORT WITH THE POLICE. SPECIFICALLY — now get this — SPECIFICALLY TO BE (wait for it) AN ASSHOLE!
Why are these people doing these things? Why is this a part of my life? Have they no brains? No brains at all?
(”Missing Person Report.” Fucking shithead.)
For my birthday present this year — and it’s Sunday, incidentally, and I’m not overly proud or self-aggrandising (really), but I mention it because: A. I’ll be forty-one (weird; I certainly never imagined it like this); and B. I told my mother there’s a special gift I’d like: I’d like for her to tell her stupid, shithead “spouse” that his alleged “son” (I disowned him a decade ago) thinks he’s a stupid asshole.
I have a few happy and good things in my life — but that makes me smile. Why? Because it’s true.
Ah — wait — macaroni ‘n’ soy cheeze has achieved the ideal temperature for the connoisseur of such products. Hold that thought.
…
…
…
(Yum.)
Let’s see…although I loathe personal definitions (I’m an Individualist inasmuch as I’d like for every human being born with a spirit to get to enjoy it to its fullest — as long as they’re not hurting or even annoying other people), have I mentioned that I’m basically an Atheist, Moderate Vegan, and Friend To The Downtrodden As Long As They Don’t Stink, Yell, Or Take Up More Than A Comfortable Ten Minutes? Totally.
Also really not fond of Germans. Tone it down, Germans. We’ve noticed you. Chill.
I have seen four Major Motion Pictures recently, and yet proper reviews of them are mostly unlikely. Here’s a bargain: I’ll include a movie I haven’t seen, and give you an even five micro-appraisals:
2012: No slight to the good people at Sony, nor to anybody who worked on this thing to feed their family, nor even to John Cusack, who, contrary to most reports you’ll hear, was actually pretty nice to me the couple of times I’ve met him. But I’ve given Roland Emmerich too many hours of my life already, and his movies are all ultimately stupid, and I won’t be wasting my “time” on this one. (It’s also hella stupid to think that the Mayan calendar’s apocalypse or whatever would OH SO COINCIDENTALLY land PRECISELY on the tidy GREGORIAN CALENDAR date of 12/12/12 — but that’s morons for you; as for me, I’m considering having a picnic that day on the San Andreas fault.)
Fantastic Mr. Fox: I fell asleep for about twenty minutes in the middle of this movie. It doesn’t suck — but it’s just not compelling. Whenever something quirky would happen, I’d chuckle mildly (and I also puzzled over the rather random use of Beach Boys and Stones classics) — but the movie feels smug and self-congratulatory, rather than fun and fresh. And as an actor (even a voice actor), I consider George Clooney terminally boring. In terms of stop-motion stuff, The Corpse Bride and Coraline were and are terrific; whereas this was and is merely Meh+.
After.Life: This is an interesting movie — with the word “interesting” employed not out of laziness but out of thoughtful and intelligent regard. Pretty sure it doesn’t have a distributor yet, saw it at AFI Fest with a couple of critic friends nearby. We concurred in our approval — and (I’m hoping) not only because it’s got loads and loads of Christina Ricci nudity (all creepy/yucky; thanks, girl) and we’re male and straight (well, my hand is up, anyway; that’s my hand), but because writer-director Agnieszka Wojtowicz-Vosloo (can’t wait to hear that name spoken after “Diablo Cody” at the dubious Oscars) creates an unusual story (albeit out of many familiar elements) and successfully sustains a strange and unsettling mood. Think Sixth Sense meets Boxing Helena. Liam Neeson is good-not-great as a chilled-out undertaker (notably: with no apparent assistants in his entire funeral home), and Ricci is a mostly-naked body on the slab who may or may not be dead. The movie is about death, but actually it’s about life — but, no wait, it’s actually about death. The Hot Topic kids will fucking love it (note obvious Radiohead track at the close). I liked it (for what it is; which isn’t very nice), and was also annoyed that every showerhead and lightbulb EXPLODES!!! with thunderous auditory fury every time it’s switched on. (WTF?) The director shows some promise, although she certainly has some growing up to do.
Baarìa: This movie is basically (I am not joking) Cinema Paradiso (which, for the record, is not pronounced “Cinema ParaDEE-SEE-OH”) on HARD CORE METH. While not a “bad” movie — it is ambitious and humanistic and occasionally fleetingly “awesome” — this now-familiar tale of “The Humble Italian Village And Its Denizens As It And They Transform Throughout The Twentieth Century” will very likely give you a big fat headache. Honestly, I had a hard time watching it. Almost all of the characters (I am not joking) YELL!!! CONSTANTLY (and there are many of them, and they never stop YELLING!!!). Not meaning to be rude, but I didn’t feel anything at all from Ennio Morricone’s score — although the poor man was probably worn out just trying to smooth this movie’s innumerable, nonsensical segues. Seriously, this is less a narrative than a LOOONG series of extremely impressive (if LOUD!!!) short films — thus, rather than sitting through it tip to tail, I sincerely recommend dipping in and out of it in random ten-minute intervals — which I believe will prove more satisfying. Debutante leading lady Margareth Madé is insanely pretty, essentially a new Sophia Loren, and I afford her props because, although she could easily sustain a career as a model, it’s more than her bitchin’ chassis that sustains her through this movie: The woman can act. Several of the scenes prove intriguing, and this is not trash (I’m also not hating on it due to its brief slaughtered-cow-onscreen scene; of which I disapprove but I’m bigger than that) — but this thing is all overkill in an aggressive, oppressive way, and honestly, you’re probably better off with the original theatrical cut of Cinema Paradiso. With thanks to the American Cinemtheque and Cinecittà Luce for letting me and us see this Oscar contender — long before you’ll be reaching for the aspirin.
Love Hurts: My socks remained on during the trailer, despite being (me, not my socks) a true fan of Richard E. Grant — whom you could call “my favourite actor who isn’t Christopher Lee” and I’d let you get away with it. Then I went to see it, and the bottom line is that this is the best of the bunch, one of the best films I’ve seen all year: Funny, human, surprising, unpretentious, and laced with humourous wonders huge and subtle. Pardon me not lavishing further praise on it here — but I’ve been thinking and writing about it all week, so let it suffice to say that I went in cold, loved it, and highly recommend it — to those with souls and brains.
All right…I think I need more lunch. I think I may…go out somewhere…and…eat some food…or something.
This is my week-end. I am invincible. I am also very kind. But get out of my way. Love is coming to town.
Hey, for once I’m not advancing a personal philosophy here. That’s actually the title of a really great movie I saw earlier this week, which opens in SoCal on Friday. Trailer below.
Meanwhile, now — I mean literally presently — I am completing the script for a unique motion picture in its own right — but one, I hope, which conveys Life and Love as brilliantly as Love Hurts does.
