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.
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…)
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.
Can’t you see that your posts — particularly the past couple — are extremely sexist?!
So? So what’s wrong with being sexy?
Sex-IST.
Oh. No they’re not.
What? Of course they are!
No, they’re totally not. You’re just closed-minded.
“Upskirts”…objecting to “upskirts” is being “closed-minded”?!
Hey, sugar — calling ‘em as I sees ‘em is not the same thing as endorsement; I was merely relating a strange and mildly amusing personal experience via contemporary parlance.
Don’t call me “sugar.”
Won’t happen again.
So what do you want, Gregory?
What do you mean: “What do I want”?
In a girlfriend. What do you want already?
[Peculiar wheezing sound.]
What’s that supposed to mean?
It means it’s a moot question.
Why?
When?
What?
Where?
WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY “MOOT QUESTION”?
Don’t yell at me. Look: Diminishing returns, babe. It sucks, I hate it, why play the game anymore?
Don’t call m–
Right. Done.
So what do you mean b–
All right, I don’t know if it’s America (probably), or television (likely), or L.A. (definitely) — or even a little bit me (and a little bit you…toooooo…) — but I’m struggling, really struggling, to think of any girl-woman I’ve dated in the past twenty years who didn’t turn out to be a pro-level asshole — and, honestly, the only ones (and they’re few and far between) I’ll spare that rude definition are the ones I only briefly or barely dated (including those whose friendship I still value, in distinct and different ways). But romantically? Shee-it. Epic fail.
[Rubs thumb and forefinger together.]
Don’t bother.
You didn’t even know what I was going t–
Yes, I did, actually — that’s the problem with females: You think your stupid little jokes and cutesyisms are adorable — or, worse, unique — but in fact the shtick just sucks. Don’t do it, please. It sucks. Try a little harder.
Fine.
Oh, now don’t get the fucking “huffy” face.
I’m not getting a “huffy” face.
Yes, you are. Uncross your arms. What are you, seven?
Hey — I’m here to interrogate you!
Well, fine, do it.
Why are you grinning?
Well, you’re me anyway. Carry on, genius.
You’re impossible!
No — I’m just highly improbable.
I return to my first question.
“What’s my deal”? Okay, my deal is this: Every now and again, I give really good energy to a seemingly deserving girl-woman — and I get shit in return. That’s my deal. And I want a new deal. Immediately.
How can you be s–
How can I be what? How can I tell the truth of my experience? It’s gotten a lot easier since I gave up hope, actually. I strongly recommend giving up hope. Hope is for idiots.
I suppose you’re going to say that “love is for idiots,” too.
Uncross your arms.
Fine.
No, I’m not going to say that, actually.
Well, what are you going to say?
I like Paul Simon.
Pardon?
Paul Simon. Little Jewish guy from back east. Genius songwriter. Used to make hilarious apprearances on Saturday Night Live way, way back when it was watchable.
Why do you mention that he’s Jewish?
That is actually an interesting question. It’s irrelevant to me, truly — just as I feel that all archaic religions are noteworthy but have passed into obsolescence. However, for some reason some people in some ethnic or social groups feel the need to remind people constantly — and I mean constantly — that they are such-and-such or whatever. It certainly doesn’t offend me or bother me — but it’s kind of like if you and I were both standing somewhere together, and I kept feeling the need to remind you that I’m a biped or a mammal. It’s kind of like, “Um, yeah, that’s nice…and it’s related to our immediate conversation how exactly?” That’s all.
This I did not expect.
I’ll talk about anything, anytime, anywhere. Whoo, just look at me go. But really, the Jew thing is fine — just, like, if you’re already wearing a Star of David sweatshirt and waving an Israel banner in my face, it might not be necessary to remind me that you’re Jewish. I may figure it out. But taking the point even further, I mean, at least you’re not Christian. I’m not a big fan of either faith, but “The Messiah ain’t here yet” is a whole lot more comforting than, “The Messiah already came and left, and when he returns he’s totally going to kick your ass if you don’t do EVERYTHING exactly the way WE tell you to do it!”
Would you like a blowjob?
What…now? Here?
Yeah.
No. I don’t find you appealing.
Yeah, but it’s a blowjob!
Blowjobs, more often than not, lead to terrible unhappiness.
Yoiks. Let’s go back to talking about religion!
We weren’t talking about religion.
Yes we were!
Well, “we” weren’t — but I was, but only peripherally — in the sense that I find it annoying NOT what religion or ethnic identity someone chooses as their personal definition — but that they feel it necessary to slip it into conversation every forty-five seconds. It’s just boring. Why be boring?
I think…I think I get your point?
Well, duh. You’re me. But hey, Hava Nagila. Do as thou wilt.
Thanks.
Sure.
But you’re sexist.
No, I’m not.
Yes, you are.
Did I pay for an argument?
What?
Nothing. I didn’t expect that to connect.
Okay…so…wait…Paul Simon?
Oh, yeah. He’s pretty great. As extremely wealthy Jewish-American singer-songwriters go, I like him better than Neil Diamond, Barry Manilow and Robert “Bob Dylan” Zimmerman combined.
What about the Beastie Boys?
I hate the Beastie Boys.
What? How is that possible?
I’ll admit that a small percentage of their shit is catchy — but those screechy voices make me wanna die. Hate ‘em.
Why are you even in this country?
You’re asking me? It wasn’t my idea.
Well, where would you rather be?
I don’t know. Anywhere but Germany. I hate Germany, too.
But wh–
They pride themselves on being assholes; I just can’t get into that.
[Long, exasperated sigh.]
Hey, would you like some cunnilingus?
WHY SURE!
Oh. Um. I was just k–
I know.
Whew.
Yeah.
Paul Simon has this great song — one of many — called “Born at the Right Time” — it’s on his terrific Rhythm of the Saints album — which, perhaps not coincidentally, was given to me as a birthday present from a neurotic Jewish friend of mine who never calls.
Do you still have it?
Yes, I still have it. But it’s in a box somewhere.
Your point?
Well, now it occurs to me to say that everything connects. I mean, he bought the CD (presumably he bought the CD) at the Warner Bros. company store, on the lot in Burbank. I mean, how many people can say that about their Paul Simon – Rhythm of the Saints CD?
Not many, I imagine.
And you’d be right about that, sister!
Don’t call m–
Oh, I won’t. I’ve been through the sister thing. Talk about assholes. Anything anybody has ever told you about sisters being kind, intelligent, supportive, loving beings — believe me, I’ve got the counter-story. Miserable.
So obviously this strongly impacts your perceptions of women.
Wait, should I get on the couch first?
Reconsidering that blowjob?
Hardly. You’re totally not my type. But in fact I can very easily distinguish between sisterly and romantic inclinations. It’s simply that, when one has sisters, one’s hopes and longings and desires get severely warped before one is even out of the gate.
Or the closet.
You know, that brings up an interesting point.
Okay.
You may not like it.
Try me.
For as long as I can remember in my life, any time I haven’t instantaneously gotten a boner and turned into a mush-brained romantic moron for some stupid girl, it’s been turned into some leering, reactionary homosexual appraisal. As if.
As if what?
Honey, maybe the problem is with YOU.
Don’t call me h–
I promise you, I really promise you, it won’t happen again.
But what if you are?
What? Gay? Ha. I mean, if same-sexers are into that, hey, their business, not mine. But really I’m only typing this part because I know that the human attention span has diminished to nearly nothing — especially whilst reading (a skill more people are losing every day) — and so I’m taking a tip from Bowie: Make ‘em wonder; it’s lucrative (or, at least, it keeps ‘em paying attention). But I’ve gone over this for myself years ago, and it’s a lifelong thing: I don’t like ding-dong; I like bing-bong.
Why do you feel you even have the right to–
To what? To write whatever I want on my own web journal thingie? Gosh, and I suppose that fat housewives ranting about their periods is more acceptable?
You don’t know that they’re fat.
Let’s call it a good guess.
Paul Simon.
Oh, right. He has this song called “Born at the Right Time” — and it’s excellent — but it also really pisses me off. Because he pretty much was born at the right time: Money, real estate, “free love,” experimentation, great big wide fucking horizons leading way out into the Hamptons.
And let me guess: By contrast, you were “Born at the Wrong Time.”
Precisely.
That’s pathetic.
Is it? Dig this, sticky buns–
Don’t call m–
I SAID, DIG THIS, STICKY BUNS: Boomers scooped us, and this can be proven — statistically proven — by examining just about any perspective on our current economy. It’s a catastrophe — and why? Boomers. Greedy, stupid, self-absorbed Boomers. Me, me, me, me, motherfucking ME. Well, great, thanks a lot. Excuse me while I sit here trying to build a house out of crumbs.
Wow, you really need that blowjob!
Actually…nah. But that does signify another aspect of the misery of being born Gen-X.
Which is?
Romance. It really is dead. As a doornail. Or — as Dickens put it — as a coffin nail. The “I Like Ike” generation got romance — they got to cut a rug to Glenn and Bing and The Andrews Sisters, and have a gay old time before gay meant gay. They toughed it out, made love last. Then you get your Boomers: A few interesting innovations, I’ll grant — but boy did they ever fuck up romance — and then they killed it. If you doubt me, just take a look at their kids. You won’t have any trouble recognising them: They’re the ones playing Rock Band on Ritalin.
But where do you fit into all this?
I’ve never been one for definitions — I used to know people in the Pac NW who spent all day every day trying to force people into stupid little pigeonholes, whether politically or spiritually or whatever, and it sucks, it sucks, it sucks — however I would say that I rode into the picture just exactly in “time” (unlike the more idiotic humans, I don’t believe in “time”) to witness the murder of romance — and the rise of Female Empowerment.
So what’s wrong with that?
Well, may I make a dubious and potentially career-killing example?
Shoot.
I don’t shoot; I despise all guns and want them all destroyed immediately.
Okay.
You mean it?
No — okay, get on with it.
Rats. Well, I speak now in generalities — and only from personal observation — but, for instance, there are a lot of Jewish people in Media.
Yeah, and?
Well, many of them I have encountered are super fucking rich, and can do and say pretty much whatever they want all day, and they get fun and glory and snazzy trophies to boot.
You’re freaking me out now.
No need. My point is actually extremely benign — merely very curious: And yet — and yet — these same people — who have power, prestige and freedom to burn — many of them are profoundly paranoid, and act like — this is the part I seriously do not understand — they act like they’re being persecuted, and that this in turn allows them to be as awkward, unpleasant or antisocial as they please.
Your point?
No — it’s not my point. It’s merely an illustrative example. I’ve carefully surveyed the Bible Belt, and I sure as “Hell” wouldn’t want to live there, and it deeply upsets me that the people who are into that very limited worldview feel it necessary not only to obsess over their ignorant and misinformed claims — but also to try to push them — push them, exactly like drugs — on others. Just stop it! It’s disgusting!
Okay, but Jews.
Hey, fine. Six thousand years, a boatload of wisdom there — even if the religion can be fucking weird. (Eat dead pig? Don’t eat dead pig? Why? Etc.) But it’s the “THEY’RE PERSECUTING ME!!!” thing — from people who are literally running the show — that I find bizarre. But again, it’s very, very much a general observation — and a local one, too — and is not in any way, shape or form to be applied to any individuals, or to be misconstrued to bring harm.
So why mention it?
Well, frankly, it’s parallel to the way I perceive women today, generally. Power: You got it. Money: You got it. Freedom: You got it. Control: You got it. And yet still, there’s this pathetic, knee-jerk, “I’M BEING PERSECUTED!!!” button any female gets to press, at any time, anywhere, whenever they feel like it, if they’d like to turbo-boost their Power/Money/Freedom/Control — at the expense of whichever unlucky man happens to be around at the time to take the blame.
Wow, you’re really something.
Yes, I know.
So you were “Born at the Wrong Time,” and women are all out to get you.
I never said that. Well, the first part — yeah, I only really enjoyed parts of the ’80s — the rest thus far has been total fucking shit.
Nice.
Hey, I didn’t make all that crap.
But the women thing.
Yeah, like I said, I’ll talk about anything. And here’s what I’d like known in regard to that: When I was a kid — I mean literally a kid — I got into Punk Rock. Not in a big way, and not the ugly stuff. The Clash, mainly — because they were and are awesome. And I kept struggling to write songs — loads and loads and loads of lyrics. And you know what one of the songs was called?
[Yawning.]
Hello?
Oh — sorry. I was thinking about shoes.
I’m sure you were.
What were you saying?
The song was called “Serious Girlfriend.” Because that’s all I’ve ever really wanted.
You’ve had a few opportunities, haven’t you?
Not really, no. Like I said, there were a few nice people — ships passing in the night — and I bow to them and thank them for their continued existence, and I bless them. But any real attempts — based in part on context and available resources and other variables — have met with terrible pain on my side of things — because I made the idiotic choice to give it a go with nutcases and sociopaths.
What have you learned?
No fat chicks. I have learned that.
Come on.
Well, around here it’s not all fat. There’s also that psycho-actress look about the eyes, or the horror of it in the voice: Warning signs. Stay away!
This is all very sad.
Tell me about it.
So what now?
No fucking clue. I didn’t vote for the Bitch party. My romantic inclinations — and I think you’ll find this backed up in magazine articles both scientific and tawdry — are challenged beyond the breaking point by these allegedly “Empowered” women.
You hate them, don’t you?
Of course I don’t hate them. I think most of them are assholes, though. And I think it’s perfectly acceptable to call an asshole an asshole when they’re being an asshole.
So how do you fix this, at least for yourself? Make it livable?
Again, no clue. What I have done is I’ve gotten accustomed to solitude. Gotten very comfy with it. I stay up all night, but when I choose to sleep, I sleep well. I mean, I could go hook up with a wide variety of available females on any given day or night, just ply them with this or that stupid luxury and the legs pop right open — but even though that is a very real reality, it is also of no interest to me except for verbal shock value.
It worked.
Thank you.
Sure.
But like I said, this is a rotten “time” for romance. It’s certainly not the males’ fault, either. 99% of males are stupider than I am. They want sports, and then they want food, and then they want pussy, and then they want sleep. They read a book every five to ten years — and it’s usually about sports. But they’d also like to be considered suave lovers. They will usually do anything to make “their” woman “happy.”
It’s no wonder women are so fascinated by gay men.
Yeah. Duh. But anyway, I’m a reasonably smart male. And a smartly reasonable male. I’ll mouth off like hell if provoked, but my heart is good, my intentions noble. Fuck you if you don’t believe it — it’s totally true. Just don’t shit in my face. I’ll do the dinner thing, the movie thing, the support thing, the listening thing, the meeting-the-stupid-family thing, the taking-trips-to-places-about-which-I-could-give-two-shits thing. But just don’t shit in my face. That’s all.
And then they do.
Yes. They do. And they want to be ADORED for it.
That is pretty weird.
Damned weird! “Check me out! I’m a wretch! Love me for it!”
Even I can see that.
Well, don’t forget you’re actually me.
I haven’t forgotten that.
Good.
Are there alternatives?
Well, again, this may be America, or it may be L.A. — or it may have something to do with the Boomers ruining everything for everybody (clean up your fucking mess, Boomers!). But here’s what I’ve noticed about successful romantic relationships these days.
Oh, this ought to be good.
Oh, it is.
I’m all ears.
If you’re a guy, and you’re an abusive asshole — you WILL get an adoring girlfriend.
Check. True.
And, if you’re a guy, and you’re a pathetic loser — you WILL get an adoring girlfriend.
Also true. I see it all the time.
So do I. (But I don’t believe in “time.”)
So what do you do?
You know what I heard a dubious character say this year?
No, what?
“Abuse ‘em or lose ‘em.”
Surely you don’t endorse that!
Of course not. And don’t call me “Shirley.”
Hey, that’s from…that’s from– [snap, snap]
Airplane!
Yeah!
Hey, pretty good. You’re almost worthwhile.
But the abuse thing…
And the “pathetic” thing — well, it’s all pathetic, isn’t it? My problem is that I’m smart — women don’t seem to like smart very much. Why are so many women so fucking stupid that they think they can heal their daddy issues by fucking STUPID guys who remind them of exactly how their daddies fucked them up in the first place?
I’m speechless.
Why?
That’s really beautiful, man.
Well, it’s TRUE! I mean, in many cases. Oh, we are so very fortunate on this planet that those trends haven’t gone epidemic. But it sure seems like it sometimes.
So what do you have to offer?
I don’t know. Any girl gutsy enough to date me is going to be on probation for a couple of years.
Come on.
No, I’m serious — I really don’t have much trust anymore. I’ve dealt with some real monsters. Observed some amazingly unacceptable actions. I don’t play that shit anymore. Game over.
Come on.
Well, I’m the one who needs a change. My hopes and desires manifest almost entirely in dreams now, so in my waking life it’s pretty flatline. Again, part of it is from living in this fascinating but quite sick city — but personally my expectations are definitely nil. I already know that aberrant behaviour will manifest itself rather quickly, and then by attempting to discuss it I somehow become the “bad guy” (amazing: I’m a guy who TALKS ABOUT ISSUES, and that’s somehow “bad”), and then I get the shit end of the stick while she goes off to ride some shithead’s stick. It’s really not interesting to me anymore.
Well, it must hold some interest, or you wouldn’t–
Let me make this very clear: I SINCERELY BELIEVE THAT THE FEMININE PRINCIPLE IS THE ELEMENT — AND REALLY THE ONLY ELEMENT — WHICH CAN SAVE OUR PLANET AND ITS LIFE-FORMS, AND REDEEM OUR LARGELY INSANE HUMAN SPECIES. I deeply and sincerely believe that. It’s very obvious that human males have made a shithole of the Earth thus far, and that’s coming strictly from a Masculine principle (which, alas, many women also adopt — and all of this is usually cemented by sick patriarchal religions based on mind control).
Wow, you really, really, really need that blowjob.
It’s too late for blowjobs. Mainly it’s this: I think where women are fucked in the head is that many of them believe that they — being human beings, bipedal mammals, whatever — are somehow the actual, physical embodiment of that Feminine principle…WHICH, OF COURSE, THEY ARE NOT.
They’re not? We’re not?
Heh. Of course you’re and they’re not! People — human beings — are a colossal jumble of all sorts of crazy things. But pure embodiments of psychological and spiritual principles they most assuredly ARE NOT.
And you think this is somehow part of the problem?
Dig: Women don’t even smile at me anymore when I pass them on the pavement. A smile. A nod. Acknowledgment of a fellow human. That’s too much for them — too much strain, too much work. That’s not my doing. I shower every day, and shave every two. That’s their doing. That’s them being stuck up their own asses. And that’s a big chunk of why romance is dead as a coffin nail: My inclinations are sincere and good: I’d like to be nice to an eligible girl-woman-lady and bring her happiness and security and support and as much fun as this shit world will allow. But she — “she” meaning many of the ones I encounter — she wants to pretend she’s somehow more than human. Which of course she is not. She’s a thinking animal — which slopped out of another thinking animal — exactly as I did. Let’s not lose sight of that. Let’s employ a bit of humility.
Wait…what? What is this “humility” of which you speak?
Precisely. That’s dead, too.
Sure seems like it.
If you weren’t me, I’d be gratified by your concurrence.
Thanks.
Sure.
Blowjob?
Nah. I need a hug much more than I need a blowjob.
[Freaky link! I can't believe I initially missed that excellent headline option! Not only is it a nice match, but I should mention that I created the bands XTC and Dukes of Stratosphear, and wrote and recorded all of their songs, and "Andy Partridge" is really a guy called Jeff Peabody and he has no talent whatsoever, being merely my "stage-fright"-stricken, nerd-pullin', money-spinnin' stooge. Okay, now on with the convenient, economically-priced Essay-ette! -Ed.]
Hi. It’s Monday in America. Fug dat.
As I’ve been working the correspondence and the sun hasn’t yet risen, I must admit I don’t quite feel like doing this, but shall keep my word and deliver this strange little thesis about English people. (It won’t be particularly amusing, but with any luck it’ll clarify streams previously muddied.)
Several days ago, I attended a gathering on behalf of a very nice and highly intelligent person who is, technically, English (although that doesn’t really occur to me that often), and despite my presence being specifically at the behest of said Englishperson, I met with what I felt was a peculiarly chilly reception — even briefly — at said gathering. The gathering was inherently good, but personally it kinda took the wind out of my sails, and although the experience was relatively mild, it played into my repeat-pattern of People-In-Stupid-L.A.-You-Think-You-Can-Trust-But-Who-Suddenly-Turn-Motherfucking-Wretched-On-You (my list of such experiences would reach to the moon).
I know that the Englishperson in question is a good person, and I respect and like said Englishperson — and yet I found myself forced to appraise about what that vibe the hell was. I thought: “What did I do wrong? My presence was requested; I showed up; I refrained from ogling and/or fondling the redhead; and then I left. I was even almost punctual. WTF-WTF-WTF…”
A bit later, it clicked: Maybe said good Englishperson reads this thing! And — if so — said good Englishperson would have encountered in my recent blab this sweet mini-declamation:
“I used to have such a crush on English people — but increasingly I have determined: The English people who come to America, they’re rather fucked in the head, really.”
(Whoops; I did it again…)
Well, if I were an Englishperson — good or otherwise — I’d greet the declaimer of that declamation with a bit of a chill, too (except of course that I, Gregory, have no pride in any nation, thus no nationalism, thus no national identity, and I don’t even respect the concept of national borders — so go smoke that.)
Back to point: I don’t know, and it would be terribly awkward to ask (goodness has thereafter ensued), but maybe I caused offense…oops!…I mean offence, with my comment.
Thus, as a blanket statement to the people of England, I offer my sincere apology. This is not to be construed as an apology to any individual or distinct party, but to all Britons everywhere. Pardon me.
Not that you or anyone else asked, but the reason for my outburst is actually threefold, and involves three separate and distinct English people — all of whom kind of suck, actually. They’ve made me quite miserable, and I’m not at all happy about it, and I don’t like them anymore. However, the fact that they are all English is, I believe, coincidental.
Avid readers may of course already know that most of my past three personally devastatingly unhappy years has been spent volleying the insanity of one English transplant — known colloquially as “the actress” — who sucks. She means well, she sometimes makes nice veggie food, and she schmoozes like a champion. And she also sucks. She is literally a whore. She attached herself to me for — I dunno: “faux-gay-best-friend-ness”? — for the past many months as she went from fucking one retarded old sugar-daddy to the next (for Fabulous Prizes!!!) — and eventually, between that and the constant shit-pop-culture (she is into the worst of the worst — and, at one point, even confided in me that she believes she does not have a soul; hey, guess what, I believe it, too!), I just couldn’t take any more of her chronic, shallow, idiotic, self-obsessed insanity (an “English rose” she 110% is NOT) — and, thus, on the hot-ugly recent day she asked me (yet again) to come help her, and met my arrival with insults, I cut her loose for good; good riddance to bad rubbish. (I’ve felt a lot happier and lighter without her in my life, honestly.) But, oddly, although she traded in her fragments of cultural credibility to become merely another Yank, she is technically English — and she did, for a while, hoist high my hopes for the culture — only to dash them.
The second unfortunate representative of that culture is a female I accidentally dated, very briefly, over two decades ago. She recently started emailing me, and I received this correspondence with vague fondness at first — until it turned extremely ugly and (once again) very insulting toward me — and you know what? No. One word: No. Another statistic.
Those two on their own would be enough to put me off tea and biscuits for a decade, but they pale in comparison to the third English person who decided, quite recently (although now I note that the resentment has been growing for years), to attack me with a shocking verbal viciousness. This is a guy/bloke I’ve always liked, since I first met him, years ago, when we were both working for a pathetic newspaper company which sucks shit. He was one of the only friends I sustained from that professional error, and I was always very fond of him. When he switched careers to a more technical field, I brought him my computer and strongly encouraged his work. When he wanted to play live music, I brought my guitar and we shared a studio in Hollywood. When he had his alcoholic birthday parties, I showed up, played along, and drove his inebriated arse back to his apartment. And when he couldn’t hack L.A. because he’s a pansy, I helped pack his truck, shared the ride with him to pansy-ass San Francisco (”Oh! You’re an artist!? My, how fascinating!!!“), and moved him into his new place. I cared about the guy, and went to significant lengths to show my support for him. But leave it to online correspondence: Every chance he got, he sniped at me, made shitty little insults, and just generally tried to make me feel bad. On a recent occasion of this, I gave him a taste of his own “style” — and, as a result, the pansy who cannot take his own medicine went online-ballistic, insulted the hell out of me (Hey, thanks, “friend.”), and trashed me. Having experienced this sort of thing intermittently throughout the years, allow me to say that it is not okay with me, and the guy/bloke is simply not my friend anymore — nor will he ever be again. I don’t play that way — life is hard enough already without your “friends” actively trying to destroy you.
A shame, these three mishaps — but really they speak much more of these three individuals than they do of England (of course) or of me. I’m easy: Don’t shit in my face; I’ll be friendly. That’s it — there is no more to my formula. But these people — damn! — their combined malaise caused me to insult an entire People; and to that entire People — but not to the three individuals (they suck) — I sincerely apologise.
I like England, and English people. That portion of that tiny island has broken my heart more than once, but in general I feel that my life, sans the English, would not be worth living. It’s a shame about the alcoholism and dental issues and emotional denial and hooliganism and hipper-than-thou disposable music scene and Dan Craig — but in general my year in England was the happiest year of my life, and I really miss the place and its people (generally) quite acutely.
It’s just a shame when English people turn psychotic, though. I wonder why that is. But I don’t wonder hard enough to want to know the actual answer. (I’ve already listened to Morrissey more than enough.)
Thus, again, I’m sorry, you lovely Limeys, that a few rotten fruits in your crate made me say something inappropriate. Won’t happen again. Rock on.
~G
P.S. Help me in wishing my bitter/denial-ridden mum well today; she’s finally going to get professional “help” in dismantling the wretched “life” she’s been not-living with her wretched “husband.” (A bit over two decades ago, I actually managed to get them to extract their stupid thumbs from their stupid asses long enough to get over to England — !! — to see the sights and maybe get a grip that life is worth living beyond being miserable creeps forever. Nothing good came of it. The attempt was a failure. But I do cuddle the vestiges of my shredded hopes.)
Often I don’t feel like travelling, because I often travel alone. While experience has taught me that this condition is usually preferable to travelling with ornery and obnoxious people, it is nonetheless not at all my favourite thing, to have to pack and worry and fret over shifting climates and then, finally, to be parted from my library (which I often dream about bringing with me, the night before — if I sleep at all).
Many strange experiences have occurred en route to the very unfortunately-named LAX — most of them bad — and thus I greeted with some significant relief a fine friend who volunteered to relieve me of my pleasant-and-economical-but-slow bus-ride and simply drop me off, via his motorcar, at my gate — thus setting this adventure firmly on the right foot. I was off to attend a wedding, to visit lifelong friends, and possibly to resolve several decades of familial torture (though I doubted that), all tightly compacted into less than five days, so any factors facilitating my journey were and are greatly appreciated.
I had a lot of leftover Italian food from the previous night’s repast, so I brought it along with me, actually gorging myself on garlic mashed potatoes in the actual security queue, actually — and then attempting to sneak the marinara past those nervous guards — to no avail. The garlic bread and the sauteed spinach made it through, though. I ate the latter on the plane, and toasted up the former the next day in the suburbs of Chicago. I like little bridges like that.
Anyway, this is the view, the morning of 24 September, 2009 (by the Gregorian Calendar), from Southwest’s gate #…1, is it? Included here not so much as Awesome Photography (for much of this material is not that at all, with some aesthetically-superior photos being withheld, actually, in favour of those with a bit of soul) — but so you can look past Courtney Cox there on the billboard (she is considered an Important Person in this region; isn’t that odd?) to see, hanging along the mountains in the background, the ABSOLUTE CRAP that passes for a “breathable atmosphere” round here. Nasty, eh? You bet!
Then the large metal tube with wings went up into the sky, and because I’m not into Southwest’s little extra-fee-for-preferred-boarding scheme (whatever happened to populist flying?), I got a middle seat, but managed at the last moment to finagle the camera out of the bag at my feet, to shoot past the window guy, to garner perhaps the worst shot I’ve ever taken of the depressingly grey-beige, grid-like shoreline development that passes for an habitat (sic) in SoCal. (It ain’t all bad, btw — but it sure doesn’t look…lush…from the sky!)
Upon landing in Chicago, I reached into my remarkably-efficiently-packed travel-duffel to get the phone (can you imagine? portable phones!), only to slice open my finger on a shaving razor I brilliantly decided to stuff in there unsheathed. (L.A. Airport Security: “Carry-on razor blades = A-OK! Carry-on marinara sauce = PAT THIS BASTARD DOWN!”) Bleeding profusely into a Midway-restroom paper-towel, I nonetheless managed to squeeze off some photos of The Blues Brothers — those Sacred Sons of Chicago, from one of The Greatest Motion Pictures Ever Made — who dance in wait for any and all Southwest travellers who care (I care); plus there’s also a set of them sitting on chairs — but this image is the livelier. Amusingly, Elwood’s shades — Scotch-taped onto his head — fell off twice in my presence. I loved this bit. Welcome to Chicago, indeed!
Once on the ground, I was deftly intercepted by a dear friend, who brought me to his lovely home, where the wondrousness of his family swiftly eclipsed my rough L.A. expectations of life. They’re great. We went to the Oakbrook Mall for lunch on Friday, and dined in a sushi place with a bold green motif going on. Outside, Brooke Shields stared at us from some sort of posters all over the place (eyelash campaign?; anyway, she totally flirted with me once), and the ’80s (or ’80s-styled — it was new to me) music in their Urban Outfitters was truly sensational. The Chicago suburbs still feel very, very Ferris Bueller-y (meaning, specifically: The illusions of Hope and Fun and Comfort are still sustained). Anyway, here’s the interior of the excellent (they do vegan!) restaurant, OYSY:
We simply had a really nice evening, the lot of us (give or take a football movie; at least I got some mending done; really!), and then on Saturday we drove into Chicago proper for the wedding. I wore a much-too-glammy shirt (one could probably see it from space), and everybody else looked nice and normal. Rushing along on the busy highways, I was reminded of previous reflections I’ve had of Chicago — of the cab-driver who simply would not quit trying to push the Koran on me; of my feeling that Chicago is basically L.A., only with utterly unbearable weather for a total of one half of the year — but anyway, that part looked like this:
And then, once we got into the Loop, it looked like this:
I wasn’t helping enough with navigation (sorry about that), as we were busily discussing creative concepts, plus I was distracted by considering how it could be possible for anybody to believe they actually have the right to rename the Sears Tower. Our driver, however, was brave and true. He got us there. En route, I noticed what appeared to be the wreckage of a crashed U.F.O. (or a set from some stupid fucking Roland Emmerich movie) — and, peculiarly, nobody else deemed this sight peculiar. Scope it:
By some urban miracle, we managed to find nearby parking, and hoofed it double-time to the church — which is apparently the oldest church in Chicago, or something — ca. ~1830 or thereabouts, and now rebuilt into the foundation of a tall office building. I don’t go to church, because I believe we don’t need to be corralled into favouring one myth over another — however it was a nice place. Very, very old (for America) — and kinda castle-like, heavy stones, thick wooden doors. Its website boasts its social inclusiveness, and indeed the photo montage looks like a Benetton ad with bonus gay people. Hey, whatever. (The wedding was straight, though.) We arrived on the dot for “Dearly Beloved…” (whew!). With heartfelt congratulations to the handsome groom and beautiful bride, it looked like this:
After the lovely ceremony (which was also kind of funny, as the preacherman went a little overboard on how we’re all going to become old and sick and ugly but still have to love each other), we — “we” being the wedding’s sort of “B-team” — had to bide our “time” (for those who believe in it) while the “A-team” toured Chicago for photo-ops — and thus, for us, a rollicking conversation (90% concerning how great our homemade video comedy shorts are — I swear I didn’t start it!) over sweet-potato fries ensued at the local Elephant & Castle. But before that, my friends (pictured; tiny) and I dashed over to Chicago’s famed Daley Plaza for our own little photo shoot. This is the place with the gigantic metal Picasso sculpture (pictured; a bit less tiny) — plus (I was genuinely excited to recall), it’s where the climax of The Blues Brothers takes place! I’m slapping the little copyright-type caption over part of the Picasso rather than the fountains, incidentally, because I think the fountains really set a mood and launch one into the photo. Don’t you agree?
Then we “timed” it just perfectly — we ended up entering the differently-labelled but nonetheless eternally SEARS Tower along with the “A-team” — the actual wedding party (they get those photos; you don’t). There was plenty of happy banter and mild confusion over which “elevator” (lift) to take to the appropriate floor (#66 — about 2/3 of the way up — plenty high, I assure you; our ears popped) — and various personalities began to exert themselves. And I went over to the window and took photos much like this one:
The wedding reception was wonderful, and really classy — yet casual. It was perfectly plentifully populated, ideally paced, and the music and food were truly excellent (not merely being nice: Delicious selections for everyone; and: When a band folds “Kiss” into “Sex Machine” and wraps it all up in “Superstition” and makes it sound good, that’s a partay). I’ve had many fine social experiences in my life, but this reception sits amongst the most elegant and enjoyable. Prompting a visual metaphor to sum it up, check out the wedding cake:
The room was nicely filled, so don’t let this spacious shot fool you. This was the first dance — and I hope my friends don’t mind the vague representation thereof as presented here. Observing this brought me great joy.
Knowing well in advance about this event, I really didn’t want to attend alone — plus (signifcantly), had I my druthers, there’s only one person I’d have wanted to bring — but instead — as it usually does — Life spoke to me not in Direct Experience but in Symbols. The girl I feel is the most beautiful in the whole world ever just happens to like Star Wars. Taking a brief break from the band (who were awesome, if kinda loud at our nearby table), I strode down a corridor and immediately encountered Yoda! (At first I thought this Symbol was a purely metaphysical message to me: Not to give up hope [although the blank-nothingness vibe I've been experiencing indicates that giving up hope is exactly what I should do] — but in fact a little glance-about revealed that it was merely “Kid’s Club Star Wars Night” [sic] in the nearby Michigan Room.) Hey, I can still pretend we were partaying on Coruscant…
Heading back into the reception, I can say this: It’s a good thing I was hungry from all the recent stress — because otherwise it would have been impossible to eat with this sound-mixer’s X-Treme Hair-Don’t hovering right behind me (see the pointy thing sticking off to the left? that’s half of a long, scary, rigid, dangerous moustache). The upside of this horror: At least I don’t have to feel so badly about myself; clearly there are far worse conditions in which to be.
And the rest of the evening was glorious. Great friends, great setting, happiness abounding, all topped off with a male human and a female human consciously deciding to make a good go of it! And then there was sleep, and submarine stories, and an automobile ride with very nice people back into the city, where I boarded a train. Much of the region traversed by the train is ugly, and looks like this:
Then, for reasons unknown, the train stopped in Gary, Indiana — which is not fun like the show-tune, but neither is it as ugly as it used to be. It is, essentially, the True Hometown of Michael Jackson and the rest of the Jacksons — but I didn’t see any of them there. I did manage to snap a quick photo of what appears to be the courthouse, or city hall. I didn’t have any specific feelings about any of it.
Arriving at one terminal, I noticed this very telling sign. You know you’re really in the Midwest when… Ha. Unfortunately, this is a bit of an optical illusion, and the sign does not actually refer to the games arcade below it. I did win the high score on Galaga, though. That was, like, spiritual.
While we’re on the topic (religion, alas; not Galaga), it is my opinion that: THERE ARE ENTIRELY TOO MANY CHURCHES IN AMERICA. The churches scare me. The churches make me uncomfortable and unhappy. I’m no devil, but it does bother me, deeply, that everything in America (particularly in the Midwest) has to be so damned churchtastic everywhere one looks. Hast thou not an open and receptive mind? Your stories may be good — but they are dwarfed by the combined stories of the Whole World. I don’t live my life in the shadow of a fictional deity who allegedly suffered relentless torture, allegedly died nailed to a board, and then allegedly came back to life again. I sincerely wonder why so many extremely frightened people feel it’s necessary to embrace only that one very limited myth. It bothers me. I love several people who are into it — much in the way I can love people who eat animals or listen to Kings of Leon — but I sincerely wonder why they cannot see that their way is not the Only way. Anyway, here’s one of those ubiquitous churches, this one captured in an image precisely at the moment of the Rapture:
My mother and I had dinner. Well, I had dinner, and she had a little bit of it. She’s been quite literally tortured by her alleged husband over the past few weeks (it’s been bad; very bad) — and part of it is her fault because she knows she’s being a martyr-victim, but she’s gotten so good at it that it has become her primary source of strength (or, “strength”) — but it’s very, very obviously mostly his fault, and he totally sucks at life in every possible way, and thus even though my mother was putting on the brave face for me, it was very transparent, and after the celebration of a new love at the week-end, it was now up to me to contend with the misery of a bitter and terrible domestic situation which should have been dissolved decades ago. Then, as a massive bonus worry, my mother informed me that my uncle — her brother — suffered a heart attack over the week-end (essentially while I was at the wedding) — and had had his life narrowly saved by his son and some paramedics performing CPR. I thought about all this as I ate my veggie Boxty, which was rather tasty, thank goodness for small blessings:
After this I went off to stay with a friend, in his house. We had a nice long conversation as he watched a football game on television. I despise football (American) — particularly on television (If you Americans must have your stupid guns, I think it would be fascinating to declare open season on Sports Commentators — who are amongst the most irritating humans on the planet, right behind Twilight fans) — and even on the previous Friday night with the other lovely friends, their choice of entertainment was the aforementioned football movie (about which I just sort of had to pretend I cared; which I didn’t) — but what can one do? It’s their house. One plays along: “Oh, those latent homosexuals in the tight pants and armor, passionately grunting and slamming their bodies together, oh, they’re so interesting, aren’t they?” My friend also commenced our evening together by devouring two huge sections of barbecued cow-ribs (presumably they were cow); and again, one just rolls with it (and hopes they’re eating rolls with it — otherwise yo’ veg-ass gonna go hungry; Rrrrrubber Biscuit!!). I see people eating bits of slaughtered animals quite frequently, and I try to pretend it’s normal — but this was kind of hilarious in its extremeness. Very beastly. Very Dead Alive (a.k.a. Braindead)-visual-effect-type “food.” He’s a great friend, though; and we’ve had many good talks, of which this was yet another. When he went to bed, I told him I wanted to go outside for a bit of night air. “You’ll get wet,” he informed me (for it was raining!); “That’s the plan,” I responded. Frankly (and not at all surprisingly), having lived in many other places since, that whole region now feels somewhat suffocating to me — but oh, that magical rain — after something like two years of not experiencing anything resembling a real rain — O! It was heavenly! I let those sweet drops fall. Here’s exactly what I saw when I looked up:
And then it was bed-”time” — or, more accurately, couch-”time” — and I found that one of my friend’s cats had taken a liking to me. This paragraph could go on for days, but to put it somewhat finely, I’m not a cat fan; AND I’m generally quite nice to cats, in a sort of vague, detached, utterly-worshipless, non-sphincter-slurping manner. Outside, they want a little pat, I give it to ‘em. Inside, not a fan. I feel that cat-fanciers have mental problems (except for my friends, of course!), because cats are inherently cruel, selfish, and even idiotic creatures. (I was at a birthday party at a fancy nightclub in Hollywood once — a remarkably hipster-crowded birthday party for a dog, I kid you not [in actual mathematical terms, there were literally one-hundred times more people there, for a dog, than I, on average, pull] — and somehow I fell into listening to a dime-a-dozen insane-blonde type LOUDLY proclaiming that she had a boyfriend over recently, and he shoved her cat off the couch, and if he ever does that again SHE IS GOING TO STAB HIM TO DEATH!!!!!!!!!! — and people wonder why I’m sceptical toward most humans, particularly SoCal women.) Anyway, I love or at least like 99% of all animals (I. Feed. Squirrels.) — but cats, to me, are not royalty; they can go fend for themselves in the weeds. As many more enlightened people are fond of pointing out, if cats were slightly larger, and humans were slightly smaller, the cats would be more than happy to torture and slaughter and eat the humans. True. Obviously. Plus their smug attitude doesn’t please me. I’m not much into stupid dogs, either — but to me a cat, however seemingly “regal” or “adorable” — is mainly a fleetingly charming novelty. My Chicago friends have cats, and one is rather antisocial and the other mainly absorbs luvin’ for a livin’ — and those novelties I like and appreciate, despite a general lack of interest in them, coupled with a curiosity about why anybody would want to collect extremely vile turds inside their house (not that I’m Martha Stewart with my stupid place, plus that box is never in sight in theirs, but it’s still a freaky thing to contemplate: Rabbit turds: 1 / Cat turds: -1,000). Whatever. Getting to this vital point: The next friend’s cat decided that it wanted to sleep exactly in the designated spot (on the cat-hair-covered couch) where I was to lay my weary, televised-football-abused head. It was, in short: Me, or It. (Note also how “cute” this creature is — with its razor-sharp claws extended in the universal gesture of “cuteness” — actually, I’d be okay with completely declawed and de-fanged cats; that’d be cool! Cuddly and harmless-yet-idiotic things that eat mush and can’t scratch or bite! Awesome! Deal with that, bleeding-heart cat-fancier idiots! Ha!) Anyway, absolutely refusing to sacrifice one single second of my sleep for a cat (even the semi-friendly cat of a dear friend), I had to struggle for a couple of minutes with a pillow, in order to prise the creature from my couchly crash. Why a pillow? The cat made as if to bite my hand every time I gave a friendly nudge. Thus, shielded by the pillow, I finally managed to dislodge the creature to its nightly duty of stalking invisible vermin — and then dreams (and mild allergies) overtook me.
(That’s probably the only photo that interests the women on the duller end of the spectrum who glance at this thing; sigh.) The next morning, I awoke ridiculously early, but hovered in semi-consciousness to allow my friend the priority showering privileges, then said ta-ta, and went to breakfast with my mother. We drove around a bit, looking for an appropriate place, and I felt the heaviness of businesses I used to know and love (especially cinemas) being razed and gone without a trace of their ever existing. Thanks. We finally found an acceptable diner, and they brought my food with little slices of dead pig on the side — but I have learnt, in two decades of vegetarianism, how to be kind to ignorant (and, apparently, deaf) savages. Nothing went gracefully at that breakfast table — I’ll leave it at that. However, across the road, the sky — Now that’s a sky! The shitty orange haze of L.A. is hereby fully humiliated! — looked like this (which I liked):
And then it came up again — my uncle’s recent heart attack. My mother and I were driving around, across semi-pretty bridges of which the image below is a detail, and we had to decide whether or not to try to decide to visit my uncle in the intensive care wing of the nearby hospital. My mother didn’t want to do this — no less love for her brother, but she hates hospitals. I hate hospitals, too — I think they make people sick! — but I’m all for visiting loved ones, especially during emergencies. We decided to decide. I asked if she had made any calls, to learn my uncle’s/her brother’s condition, or visiting hours, or etc. Because her alleged husband has been disconnecting the telephone (plus other evil tantrums), she’s been scared to use the thing (I am not joking; why is ANYONE being forced to deal with this insanity?) — thus, she knew nothing. About her own brother. Who may have been dying. Great. Thanks, brilliant people, thanks so much for being brilliant. At about this point, I talked her into going to the hospital with me, to see what we could find out about visiting my uncle/her brother.
I don’t want to spill the intimate details of my uncle — not that he ever calls me or does anything uncle-y, but he’s always been nice to me — thus I’ll begin by telling you that my mother got all weird about finding a goddammed parking space, so we had to fight a bit about that pointless detail (1. Find a space; 2. Put the car in it; 3. Get out of the car. There is nothing more to consider.) before going into The Great Hall o’ Illness, Pain ‘n’ Misery. Once inside, everything was awkward, but we did discover that we would be admitted into the intensive care wing. The door of the place looks like this. On the other side, through glass and around a curtain, I only saw a quick glimpse of my uncle, in one of those hideous hospital-y set-ups, lying on his side, pumped with sedatives, asleep.
This experience didn’t upset me, per se, but it was all rather numbing. Putting it simply, my uncle, in his mid-seventies, had been exerting himself, with power-tools, in a way people of that age just generally should not do. As aforementioned, he was saved via quick CPR — and, it turns out, also got his ribs cracked by the pummelling he took to his chest. Fabulous. My aunt was in there, and she had been up all night, but came out of the hideous hospital-y room to speak with us — or, rather, for 98% of the conversation, to speak with my mother. I was standing right there, inches away, smiling and nodding very gently and comfortingly as seemed appropriate — but she didn’t know who I was. No blame — she’d been through almost three days and nights of sheer hell — but certainly uncomfortable. What does one say? Well, I didn’t know this that day (nobody did), but whatever the doctors did to his heart worked. He’s recovering. As I said, I only got a quick glimpse of him — a hearty man in the unheartiest of settings. On the way out, I photographed these frozen-but-jovial dolphins, whose presence brought at least a little life into the gawd-awful place:
After that, my mother had a full day planned for me (of course I was not consulted on any of it) — but we only had a couple of hours before my quick, sad visit would end, so we agreed on just going to see her sister, my aunt. This involved some significant driving (the whole trip was literally “planes, trains and automobiles”; fitting, if far less funny), including passing through some rougher areas, as pictured below. Hey, pawn shop and gun shop — and nobody around there seems to note that it’s in the general area where some liquor-store owner is always routinely being murdered. Gee…I wonder if there’s a connection!
Clearing that region, we went to see my aunt/my mother’s sister — who is a wonderful person, and for any faults she may possess, they’re all eclipsed by her grand, exuberant spirit. She’s present and attentive and funny and filled with good stories and just great. Although I strongly doubt that we’d see eye-to-eye on many worldly issues, she’s always a welcome presence (possibly because she always allows me to feel like one). Hers has always been a house with a lot of love in it, and — compared to the shitty “relationship” of my “parents” — it shows; and one can feel it. The three of us had a nice little conversation while my mother attended, successfully, to a small domestic repair job. Unlike as a child (when I was less appreciative of humble but vital experiences), I felt very fortunate to be in their shared presence. And then there was a bit of culinary poetry to be enjoyed: My aunt sliced, breaded and fried up some robust zucchini which my mother had grown. Nice! Really tasty, too — you can’t get this in a restaurant. It was so good that it briefly made my left hand radioactive.
Not long after that, I was back on another train. My mother sat and watched it until it departed — which involved several minutes. Ever since I initially left for university years ago, she has done this with various modes of transport: Watched them until they departed (with me on them) — as if, perhaps, if she doesn’t keep her eye on them and confirm that they’re actually leaving, they might just sit still forever. (Sometimes I yearn for the crasser, less sentimental, more practical designs of other people’s parents: “There ya go! See ya later!” — and zoom; gone.) The train ride felt longer and more boring than the previous one, so I amused myself by taking photos of myself in the mirror inside the shitter. Fluorescent green. For some reason my hair was looking pretty great — must have been the rain. Then I passed out cold (in my seat; not in the shitter), and woke up back in Chicago, alone, with a whole afternoon to live, before flying away. I emerged up these steps, and ignored the people soliciting shit at the top; I hate that. At least bring a starving raped child along with you as proof of your cause, please.
Then there was a bit of a wander, leading past that crashed-U.F.O. shit again (leftovers from Disney Hall?):
Much earlier that day, dazed on the cat-hair-adorned couch, I had employed various alien technologies to reach out to a fine friend I hadn’t and haven’t encountered in ages (though we share mutual friends) — hoping perhaps we could have lunch (although I no longer have expectations about anything; ever). She’s sort of launched into a life which is a parallel-universe/female version of the life I’d kind of wanted for myself (career; romance; future; etc.), so I was somewhat intrigued by that (who wouldn’t be?) — but mainly she’s nice, and she’s smart, and she’s funny, and — from this vantage — she’s local. As I began to wander, I also began to wonder if suggesting the short-notice luncheon were gauche — but, fortunately, being devoid of any and all expectations of all humans on this planet, I found myself simply enjoying being in the middle of a city which is almost as good as New York — and on a grey, cool, blustery afternoon! Looking up, one sees buildings like this. I mistakenly thought that the pointy-angular one was involved in the climax of the (original version of the) pretty-good John-Hughes-ripoff movie Adventures in Babysitting — but it’s not — however, that one is vaguely visible in the background of the shot of Daley Plaza with the Picasso sculpture (earlier, above), plus in a senselessly artful little shot (coming up). At least, I’m pretty sure those two shots include details of that building — but hell, I’m not an architect nor a cartographer. Adventures in Babysitting was written well over two decades ago by a neurotic guy I know.
He never calls.
Looking around some more, one sees yet more tall buildings. Nice. Not thrilling, but nice. (Scope it, below — on the right is that Adventures in Babysitting one again; and it shows up once more, three down, if you peer carefully.) Wandering around near Millennium Park, I felt fairly peaceful (it can be nice to be in a big city with no plan and nobody breathing down your neck — particularly on a grey, cool, blustery afternoon), and yet full of thoughts: I greatly enjoyed the company of my friends, urban and suburban (one of the latter voiced the question: “All those big buildings, all those people, I always want to ask them: ‘What do you DO?!?’” — I think he should do just that); I had some awesome meals; I hate American football; I don’t like my “parents.” That’s right — even after the nice little bit of fried squash with my mother and her sister, I’ve got to admit: I hate my “parents.” Or…”hate” is the wrong word, as it denotes a flip-side of “love.” (And I’m sure this will make me extra-popular with the ladies — and with those who don’t deserve the term.) Rather: I simply do not like them as people. I really don’t. I wish I could — I’ve been wishing that for literally my whole life. But he’s a willfully ignorant, mean asshole; and she’s a willfully ignorant, bitter bitch. I’ve had a life of ugly and embarrassing family scenes — and enough already, they suck, I don’t want any more. Granted, some of this realisation arrives two weeks later, as I type this entry — but the concept is not new to me, and it’s been enduring all onslaughts of kindness, culture and common sense for four decades (at least), and you can have it on my expert authority: They suck as human beings, both of them. Feel free to tell them I said that. They need to hear it. To Hell with them (they probably believe in it anyway); I’m tired of being unhappy. Here — have some buildings:
Perchance emboldened by this Gestalt (”My ‘parents’…suck!…as human beings.”), I immediately found myself face-to-face with the embodiment of confidence: a lion made of metal. This particular King of the Jungle stands guard with his male domestic partner in front of the Art Institute of Chicago. They’ve got some cool classic paintings in there, and some lousy modern crapola. I didn’t go in during this visit — not due to a lack of interest, but because I find it depressing to haunt museums alone. (Some friends and I ventured inside three and a half years ago, the day after I convinced ‘em all to see Queen + Paul Rodgers [a.k.a. "Mercury-Free Queen," alas -- but May'n'Taylor still hold court grandly] on their Chicago stop [the crowd felt a bit...dirtier...than the L.A. crowd; great show, though] Wait…holy fuck…three and a half YEARS ago!) Anyway, as I photographed this metal lion, it had just given birth to an ugly little human, and was about to afford it suck:
And here’s the first lion’s male domestic partner — which, as you can see, is undeniably male. Nice of the sculptor to strive for accuracy. At least now we can reason why lions (like stupid businesspeople) are desperate to seem fierce up front. This one’s for you, cat-fanciers — nutsack and all.
And here’s the aforementioned artsy little shot. As useless-pampered artists are fond of saying, it doesn’t actually mean anything!
Even after the lionuts, I nonetheless felt hungry, and briefly considered partaking of the regional pride-source known as Chicago Pizza. But then I thought, nah — and found a very nice little Japanese place, where I experienced the only source of gratification in my day by being nice to the service girl behind the counter and having her be nice to me in return (which was repeated via a more matronly employee on the way out, with only four-fifths less gratification). People probably don’t make eye-contact with them while they’re ordering. I did. I ate inari and slurped miso soup on a bench across the street. It was tasty. Then I wandered out onto a bridge above several sets of train tracks, and remotely checked my messages: Happily, I received a response (!) (!!) (!!!) from the friend I had hoped, vaguely, to meet for lunch. She was diplomatic about not meeting, but also seemed quite friendly about it. This — after years of “living” in Hell-A — gave me reason to smile: A Genuinely Nice Person. Whew. Thank you. Then I decided to be early for my flight out of the area — rather than miss it (which I tend to do, about half of the “time”…oh, yeah…”time”…hm…pesky concept) — and sought the train which would take me to O’Hare International — a.k.a. An Hyoooge Fuckin’ Airport (sic). My initial instinct was wrong, but it led me to this delightfully-filigreed portal to a subterranean platform. Art Nouveau. Pretty. If an entire city looked like this, I’d have moved there, to stay there forever and never leave, twenty years ago.
Down below was a bastard playing a goddammed saxophone. No…wait…that’s just a conditioned behavioural response: To expect a bastard playing a goddammed saxophone. In fact what I encountered was a very dirty-looking white-trashy guy bellowing over some ugly acoustic-guitar strumming. I avoided him as one would a leper. Not cool. Merely horrible. Still navigating by (incorrect) instinct, I approached ticket windows where I was promptly and completely ignored (I often get this; very, very often — it’s like I’m in purgatory and the whole world is Kinko’s), and then almost got on a completely incorrect train headed somewhere completely incorrect. Instead, I decided to ask a cop what the hell was going on. He told me to go ask the people at the ticket windows who had been ignoring me. Fug dat. There was a detour wherein I found myself in an underground parking structure, thus bringing a nice laugh at all the stupid people who drive cars (HA!), and then I found this map. The objective: Get from Über (lower right) to Ciné (upper left). Long walk! I rushed back past the shitty folkie and dove into downtown proper, in search of the appropriate train.
Downtown Chicago is much like downtown Manhattan, only about 2/3 as stylish, 1/3 more friendly. A lot of African-American traffic-cop women are always waving about, and, surprisingly, the two I asked for directions (ladies, check it out! directions!) were very friendly and helpful. Thank you. I also needed to urinate, which is usually a trick in big cities. In the past, McDonald’s has always been my #1 choice for where to put my urine (the business has no other purpose), but in this new millennium, Starbucks is the best place to put one’s urine — and/or you can also leave your fecal matter or vomit at Starbucks, if you happen to have any ready to go. That’s pretty cool. (I also like it that — unlike boring old McDonald’s with its corny, old-fashioned, twentieth-century apostrophe — the hipsters @ trendy, post-millennial Starbucks have done away with that nerdy punctuation! [Though they've also done away with the tits on their original logo; pansies!]) Then I found my train, and got on it. All summer, I’d been pining for a specific woman who likes the Harry Potter franchise (amongst other things), and that was for naught; another wasted year; charming — and yet, lo: As soon as I sat down, a rather pretty (if shrill-looking) woman (bearing only costume jewelry) stood right beside me on the crowded train and opened up a new paperback copy of The Deathly Hallows approximately five inches in front of my face. (Although the odds of this happening aren’t bad, they’re not good, either.) After a few stops, and as my bladder began uncomfortably to refill, with ten long stops to go, I went for it and mentioned to her my affectionate recent re-reading of the book (the review of which I completed hours before this misadventure began). Profoundly aroused, she immediately chucked the book over her shoulder, whipped down her panties and began enthusiastically riding my ding-dong, and we’re happily married now. Actually, she merely seemed distracted (she was probably daydreaming about going home to lick her cat’s anus), and I lamented how there really is no point in even trying to approach women in America — not even when a damned mountaintop-signal-fire like that book is literally thrust into my face. She got off, I didn’t, and then I vaguely marvelled at the very pallid and surly-looking Euro-girl who was surrounded by extremely loud B-boyz, all of whom kept YELLING and YELLING and YELLING as they checked their stupid little electronic devices for who knows what-the-hell what — en route to the airport, with no bags. Odd company. I crossed my legs. Once at O’Hare, I donated my liquid assets as yet another terrible folksinger made a wretched stab at “Your Song” in the outer corridor; annoyed and mildly frustrated, I loudly improvised dirty lyrics along with him — which nobody seemed to hear even though they were really dirty and funny and I wish I could recall them presently. Despite the success of my early mission and the non-lethalness of my later one, I was five-day bleary and ready to go not-home. Thus compromised, I broke my vegan stance and grabbed a grossly overpriced bag of “Nuts On Clark” mixed caramel’n'cheese corn (fucking yum), which I munched on the stupid plane as I was forced to listen to the stupid bitches directly behind me stupidly yapping the entire stupid way to stupid Vegas.
I knew from experience that the terminal in Vegas reeks of decades of cigarette smoke and decimated human lives, but I’d still rather connect through there than ever go to shitbag Texas again, plus the return flight was cheap. I had about an hour in which to do nothing. There was a statuesque blonde seated near me on the plane, with a hyperactive black guy between us, and frankly, statistically-speaking, I’m surprised they didn’t start ostentatiously fucking as soon as the pilot saw fit to switch off the Fasten Seatbelts sign — but she seemed disinterested in all but her laptop presentation of When Harry Met Sally, and I fell asleep listening to Billy Joel (speaking of an attraction to dumb blondes…). I saw her milling about the Vegas terminal several times during that hour, whereas he seemed to vanish. As we boarded for the next flight, a young extremely drunk couple forced their way ahead of me. I let them. The ticket lady stopped the guy — he was absolutely Dean-Martin stinking — and made him go sit down and wait. I boarded. The young extremely drunk couple didn’t board. The flight was uneventful, except that the fuckable-but-probably-very-stupid blonde ended up seated in my row again. I wondered if I was supposed to do anything about this; and I didn’t do anything about this; and back at LAX she dashed into the arms of an equally-stupid-looking brunette guy, whom women would probably also find fuckable, and it looked like they were a match made in hell. Meanwhile, I had been told that my same friend would not be picking me up, and I was weary but otherwise happily prepared to do the bus thing, when I checked my messages and discovered he had suddenly changed his mind and was en route. I’m grateful for that — but there is no consistency in my life whatsoever. (Whatever anyone says, expect the opposite, and immediately.) Anyway, before all that I wasted a few minutes looking at a display, in the Las Vegas airport, of mannequins representing airline maverick Howard “The Duck” Hughes and one of his stewardesses from the allegedly-swinging ’60s. He was merely a boring Ken doll in leathers; here’s her:
Oh, yeah, and could Las Vegas be more fucking depressing?
And then I got back to Hell-A, and a couple days later came a Full Moon, which, regionally, round dusk, looks kinda like this (lower left-of-centre; much like me):
And that’s it.
With utmost sincerity and kindness I dedicate the good parts of this Travelogue to my newly-married friends, and to loving couples everywhere…
Okay, this still isn’t the big photo spread (which you may find boring anyway) — but, as you may note, I eventually followed through on the Harry Potter review (which I loved doing); I keep my word(s) absolutely whenever possible (and quite often whenever impossible).
Tonight is a nothing night, a dead-end night, a night of unhappy pressures mounting to crush the hull of my spiritual vessel adrift on the vicious torpor of pointlessness. Believe me, I’m trying to make good with it — but I’ve already done all the reading, eating and sleeping one man can possibly cram into an evening (and, unfortunately, I know from years of experience what sort of assholes await me out there). Thus am I drawn, as always, to the tapping.
Warning: This post may contain some (ooh! waggle fingers) sporadic negativity, as I appraise yet more of How Things Actually Are — but none of it is meant to be terribly heavy. I’ll just feel better making some notes here (some of it is good, too, after a fashion) — whilst also enjoying the strange obstacle course of exploring personal issues whilst not divulging anything significant to any of the crazy people who read this thing.
Let us begin with Business: Business is DOWN. Way down. It used to be a lot more fun to live in Southern California — but now I can’t even count on both hands the number of local businesses (and haunts) I really liked, which have closed their doors forever. You know, you make a lot of memories in a place, and then it rudely and abruptly fucking shuts on you. I blame the Baby Boomers. (No surprise; but still accurate.) There really are some terrific Baby Boomers — and I’ve met them, but they’re rarer than Bigfoot — however most of them are greedy, thoughtless scum. The Baby Boomers were supposed to PASS ON the baton! What did the Baby Boomers do? They RAN AWAY WITH THE BATON! This is the reason all these previously excellent businesses are gone — because the Boomers have no soul. I am displeased. I hereby boycott their products. Starve ‘em out, make ‘em atone, the “Summer of Love” ended forty years ago.
English People: I used to have such a crush on English people — but increasingly I have determined: The English people who come to America, they’re rather fucked in the head, really. One specimen I’ve called my friend (and respected, and supported, and helped quite a lot over the years, actually) turned bat-shit-evil-mean on me today. Nearly ruined my whole day. No good reason — merely: English . . . and alcoholic. I am learning not to trust so easily. Not even the long-termers. Alas.
The 2016 Olympics: I really don’t care. I tend to enjoy watching the figure skating, but otherwise the Olympics don’t mean dick to me. Illiterate clowns, running around. Whee. I’m also not terribly fond of increasingly trendy South America — owing to the fragments of its cultures, which reach up north of the various borders, being rather annoying, ill-mannered and unpleasant, really. I actually gave that world my attention and even love — and it shat in my face. Consequently, I say they can have it — I’ve never been particularly interested in any of it anyway (apart from perhaps the grapes, the llamas, and Machu Picchu). A total ban on all Peruvian flutes would be comforting. As for the Olympics, though, it doesn’t bother me at all that Rio gets to throw yet another non-stop Carnival — but I’m also not cheered by it. It just seems like another reason for complacent people around the world to sit on their stupid butts watching television. Boring. This excerpt from an AP report gives me pause, though:
“How wonderful is this? We couldn’t be any happier,” 22-year-old student Fernanda Justo said. “It’s going to be like Carnival for a long time. We deserved to win the Olympics, and now we have to celebrate.”
Two things about that quote bug me: 1. They deserved to win the Olympics? Is that like a punishment? Or — apart from cultivating outrageous poverty and violence, is there something special they did in ol’ Brasil to make them a sportier city than Chicago, Madrid and Tokyo? (well, they probably smoke more in Madrid than anywhere in the world…thus: Fourth Place) and 2. They have to celebrate? Is that an order? What happens if they don’t celebrate? I’d like to see that!
David Letterman: Undeniable proof that some women will fuck anything associated with money and prestige.
Space Travel: I sincerely feel that all space missions should be discontinued immediately. Human beings have proven beyond any doubt that they cannot effectively manage even one planet (and this is an easy one!) — thus, what business have they flying about ruining others?
Movie Dorks: I have some friends who are into movies, and they’re not dorks, and I think they’re awesome. There is, however and unfortunately, a virulent strain of human which is male, technically mature, usually white, obsessed with inane movie trivia, outrageously self-obsessed, and fucking intolerable. Increasingly, here in SoCal, I’ve been noticing these guys, and how delusional they are, and how utterly lacking in any and all social graces (i.e.: most haven’t learnt to wipe yet), and — well — although there is sort of a grey area between pleasant, wonderful movie people and hideous Movie Dorks — my unhappy encounters with representatives of the latter group have convinced me to err far, far on the happy side of the grey from now on. (Side-note: It’s usually easy to spot Movie Dorks, as they generally tend to yell a lot and then fall into a heap and start angrily fellating each other.)
Wasted Years: Pretty cool, huh? Kind of like when an album’s title song isn’t first or last, but sequenced (back when it mattered) somewhere in the middle! This evening I was feeling really stuck — like: “Y’know, I could just lie here and keep the lights off and moan.” And that seemed pretty stupid. So I thought about it. I thought about Movie Dorks (yick), and shallow-idiotic girl-women, and shitbags yammering on their phones as they careen through ugly streets in their monstrous SUVs, and movie executives (I’ve met my share) who don’t know fucking shit about anything, and how they’ve (The Boomers) closed almost all of my fave haunts about “town,” and how just about all of the reasonable people I know are on either their second marriage or their fifth kid or both, and about how many of the people I previously considered my friends suddenly went apeshit and started SHOUTING INSANELY AT ME because I happened to introduce some philosophical concept (”Love: It’s Complex!”) they didn’t happen to want to hear because they’re stupid, and about people sucking on the rear-ends of their cats and dogs entirely too much, and about working in Hollywood (fun and painful and painful), and about working for a newspaper company I direly wish I had never even acknowledged because everything associated with those vile creeps has turned to shit and I despise them, and how when I tell someone I like something (Hint: Guys like to share stuff they like!) they suddenly start SCREAMING about how much it sucks whilst flecks of spittle fly from their lips (and yet they like Al Pacino; go figure: Short. Loud. And?), and yet, well, to draw this bit to a close, how I feel like I’ve done everything (and more) in the power of one single beleaguered man to keep up with the shitstorm — and it totally wasn’t worth it. I sure wish I had my thirties back. My twenties, too, actually.
Flowers: I like flowers; I’ve taken thousands of photos of flowers. (I hate it when women start bitching about flowers, though — “Put them HERE!” and “Water them like THIS!” and whatever — that totally ruins the flowers. Flowers want to do their own thing; gracious is the human that allows it.)
Chicago: Having visited the place recently, I’ve gotta say that it simply does not stack up against New York — however, despite some shortcomings in terms of style and purpose, I was impressed by the relatively elevated level of friendliness. (Photos to follow.)
Hallowe’en: I love Hallowe’en as much as any good white American boy — but I simply dread (go for it!) the horror of spending yet another one in stupid fuckin’ L.A. I want to have a costume party in a remote, misty location. Something like that. Not a bunch of assholes dressed as fuckin’ Twilight-shit characters. Damn.
Girl Trouble: Not much, actually — but this is an awkward and stupid phase for me presently. Over the years, my sincere approaches (infrequent, but real) have become painful failures. Meanwhile, I harboured hope for one far away, she who was my friend and, inside, gave me that indescribable feeling (trust.); and that turned out to be an illusion, and she’s sort of a selfish jerk, actually (cats). Dated a piece of trash in ‘07 — that was a damaging error. Smatterings of details aside, there is only one about whom I feel strongly now — and she clearly doesn’t care enough to respond in any way (so okay, I let that go). Meanwhile, someone I dated briefly twenty years ago starts emailing me a lot — and she’s kind of crazy. Nice friend, intelligent — and married, with two kids. Nope! No way! I can still be very nice to someone under those circumstances, but what’s really aggravating is that the party in question has tunnel vision and is incapable of processing any and all opinions and views not her own. Me, I like to be heard; that’s vital. As she is persistent, I have responded (until recently) with: “This doesn’t work” and “That doesn’t work” — and tried to be friendly about it — but patience does wear thin eventually. Thus, presently, my stance: I get over five years of buildup of really liking someone — someone right here, right now — and for who she actually is (I haven’t missed a word, or shade of subtlety) — whilst contending, alone, with crazy crush shit over the stupid computer. Yuck. Am I paying off something from a previous life? Is the wretched screaming brat next door also part of my penance? (Five years of that shit, too, btw; I’m on the brink of signing up her mother for parenting classes. Two hours of that kid SCREAMING as though being stretched on the rack, every evening, begs adjectives meaning “tiresome” to the 1000th power. I still say her “mother” should have stuck with the sick cat.) What — as Marvin sang — ’s going on? Well, in any case, it just about kills me to endure a gorgeous full moon alone. (And it also just about kills me to have to hear that fucking-annoying-as-shit cover of “The Killing Moon.” Starbucks-label wannabes.)
Parents: Hey, as long as we’re talking Marvin Gaye — my alleged “father” is proving himself to be much more insane and damaging than any of us had previously supposed. Fun! No way in hell I’m going back there without a S.W.A.T. team, but I do feel bad for my mom — who is a martyr-victim to the end (most likely), and who has been enduring terrible (and obviously very undeserved) punishments from him over the past several weeks. She doesn’t need this. I don’t need this. Nobody needs this. I despise my “family.”
(Note to the studious: That line is not to be interpreted as “he hates everyone to whom he is related” — or even as “he hates anyone” — but rather, it means that, growing up, I NEVER got to enjoy the feeling of having a real family (there is some good stuff involved, right?) — and, thus, I despise the faux-”family” with which I got stuck, and am deeply and probably eternally disappointed in those responsible for making a potentially good home a living hell. Thanks a bunch, fuckbrains.)
Whoo.
Movies: It’s a bit uncomfortable for me this week-end, listening to people talking about roller-derby movies and bleeding-heart-fat-guy-wannabe-journalist movies and bald-action-zero movies and — well, actually the Ricky Gervais movie sounds pretty good. But it’s like the train was leaving the station and I decided to stay on the platform. I wonder what’s in that forest over there…
Erm…I guess that’s it for now. I’ll futz w/fotos soon enough.
It’s a cool, grey Saturday evening in Southern California as I begin this book review — and, ultimately, phenomenon-review — of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, the seventh and allegedly “final” book in author J.K. Rowling’s at-once astounding and confounding series of children’s books for adults. The location is significant, as I have made my “home” (as such) in relentlessly, mercilessly sunny and NOISY SoCal throughout the entirety of this series, and, of late, in the nasty dog-days here at the end of summer, as much of the region has been literally engulfed in flames, with the rest left choking on the smoke and ashes, Rowling’s moody, gloomy, gloriously cobbled-together fantasy world has proven my favourite — no, “escape” is absolutely the wrong word — an ignorant, rude, “Muggly” way of defining the experience (and yes, I am aware that the word for non-wizarding type is “Muggle” — however I am at heart a grammaticist, and that noun begs an adjectival partner!)
Rather, the word is enhancement; yes, let us call it that. Non-readers (and America is overflowing with them, alas) may scorn the appreciation of apparent kid-lit (I know a hyperactive and short but otherwise technically adult person who had the first Harry Potter book pressed upon him by an eager girlfriend — and proudly claims he read only a few lines about the world-famous orphan before flinging the book across the room in disgust — it seems I rarely attract friends who share my tastes; sigh) — but I am happy to declare my strong affection for this series, an affection witch — erm, oops — which has grown significantly in this new Gregorian millennium (catalysed by the release of the mostly-terrific Warner Bros. movie adaptations), unlike in the tail end of the previous thousand years, wherein I found myself (as usual) distrusting and shunning hype and sensationalism, albeit in this case that of Hogwarts-thumping women of at least slightly-above-average intelligence or at least slightly-above-average aestheticism (many of whom are prone to flouncing about in ostentatious velvet and dubious-looking crystals, but there you go.)
So . . . yes . . . I feel quite enhanced by my reading of the Harry Potter series (this ugly summer I mightn’t have survived sans it) — and in fact, now, well over two Earth-years after the enormously-hyped midnight release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (hereafter in the review: Book the Seventh) — an event witch (ha! last time.) which, perhaps noteworthily, I attended at the Borders in Hollywood with another friend of limited stature (although this one, by no means less the pugnacious movie nerd, is also possessed of some feminine qualities, and he generally “gets” it) — I have finally gotten around to reading the book properly (my 2007, marketing-hype-busting breeze-through took the form of the popular leaked PDF file of all 759 photographed pages — which I did indeed read, but hastily, and screw your Kindle™; only paper, paper you can smell and caress, is The Real Thing). Yes, now I have eaten with the Deathly Hallows, I have slept with the Deathly Hallows, I have carried around the Deathly Hallows in my utterly untoward man-purse, and (most pleasingly), I have gazed up from the Deathly Hallows into the face I deem the most beautiful. That’s reading; and I now know, well enough, of what I write.
I offer two warnings before we dive into my review. One: This has been a long series, exploding with personal and social associations, so go get yourself a cup of herbal tea and/or some good vegan dark chocolate, because this review will be appropriately lengthy as well. And Two (and most conventionally): YOU CAN COUNT ON CONSTANT SPOILERS FROM THIS POINT FORWARD. ANY NUANCE, SCENE, CHARACTER-TURN OR PLOT-POINT DEEMED WORTHY OF COMMENT WILL BE REVEALED HERE. YOU HAVE HAD PLENTY OF “TIME” TO READ THE BOOKS. NOW, IF YOU HAVEN’T, YOU MAY EITHER ABSORB (OR CONTEND WITH) MY PERSPECTIVES ON THEM — OR PERHAPS, PUTTING IT MORE NICELY, IF YOU HAVE READ (AND ENJOYED) THE BOOKS, PERHAPS SOME OF MY VIEWS THEREUPON WILL SERVE TO REFRESH AND REUNITE.
Onward…
Here’s a nice little paragraph for the three remaining people on Earth who don’t know what the Harry Potter series is about: The Harry Potter series is about the eponymous boy-wizard who attends a school of magic (”Hogwarts” — if you can believe it) in Scotland, and gets into many zany, Scooby-Doo-esque pickles as well as many dark and disturbing mortal scrapes. Essentially, his is yet another Hero’s Journey paradigm — his path has much in common with that of Luke Skywalker of Star Wars fame — except his archnemesis is not his own father, but rather an overly ambitious and extremely evil fascist-wizard called by various names but most commonly known as Voldemort. The struggle between these two sustains all seven books (and, eventually, eight movies; at this writing, “they’ve” just wrapped principal photography on the adaptation of Book the Seventh, as two films), as Voldemort killed Harry’s parents but failed at killing Harry himself (who was only an infant in the attack). From the ages of 11-17 (when witches and wizards “come of age”), and thus through Books the First through the Seventh, Harry struggles to unravel the mysteries of both his potential assassin and his own increasingly complicated lineage. He is joined on most of his adventures by his school peers Ron (a well-intended bumbler) and Hermione (an “unsufferable know-it-all” — in the words of one enigmatic professor). An exceedingly colourful cast of characters (students, faculty, Muggles, goodies, baddies, in-betweenies) rounds out the adventures, which provide immense entertainment for those who like wit and mood combined, and several moral issues are contemplated en route to the ultimate clash between Good and Evil (in the school cafeteria, no less).
Now, for those who deem the Harry Potter series original — well, you’re wrong, totally wrong. The magic of Harry Potter lies not in its nearly non-existent originality (nor in its bludger-like marketing assaults, which feel like ‘77-’78 all over again) — but in author J.K. Rowling’s astounding gift for weaving together what are apparently her favourite threads of fantasy literature and world mythology and pop culture — and making the mix feel very fresh, appealing and alive. Rowling literally steals from the best. Consequently, the Harry Potter series is so captivating that casual and even obsessed readers may not notice that it lifts its memorable character grotesqueries from Roald Dahl, its witchcraft school from a number of sources (including especially Jill Murphy’s The Worst Witch [1974], Ursula K. Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea [1968], Diana Wynne Jones’ Charmed Life [1977], Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Game [1985], and Jane Yolen’s Wizard’s Hall [1991]), and its eponymous boy-wizard from the “Tim Hunter” character in Vertigo Comics’ Books of Magic (plus it’s no secret that the very name “Harry Potter” is lifted wholesale from the 1986 horror movie Troll). Further lifts abound, most notably, obviously and by this point terribly redundantly from Tolkien (much of his iconic imagery is simply snatched up and renamed by Rowling — thus sneaky “Wormtongue” becomes “Wormtail,” and spectral “Nazgul” become “Dementors,” etc., etc.), but, to be fair, Tolkien was mostly doing the same sort of lifting in his day — only via more obscure, and difficult, mythologies, and in a much more conservative and less fantastical era), but also from Dickens (this orphan Harry owes much to the classics) and a sort of relentless desire in the author to repackage ancient myths and fantasy creatures as if she had invented them herself (see especially her entertaining but also irritating Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them). Putting a fine point on it, Jo Rowling is a fine writer — One of the greatest ever! Her work thrills this 40-year-old man who should be thinking about other things! — and she is also a shameless thief. But a talented thief — ridiculously talented — possessed of storytelling skills that are nigh on (wait for it!) magical.
Indeed, not since George Lucas signed his name to Alan Dean Foster’s ghostwritten novelisation of the original Star Wars has a pop-fantasy franchise taken on the massive weight of the Harry Potter series (though many have tried) — and it amuses this writer that the Warner Bros. film studios turned down Star Wars during initial pitches, but ended up catching the Golden Snitch of the Harry Potter series (the special effects of which are produced primarily by Lucas’ ILM studios; small world!) — but the key difference between the very comparable franchises is this: Star Wars is conceived by one man but its stories are created and delivered unto the world by armies of writers and artists; whereas Rowling has not only conceived of (or cobbled together) the Harry Potter series — she is its sole author! In other words, Star Wars goes through nearly infinite machinations prior to becoming focused narrative product — whereas the Harry Potter series begins with the focus (the books — as far as we know being written by but one person) — and only then spirals outward into the nearly infinite machinations of movies and marketing and merchandising, etc. etc. etc. And let us not neglect to mention the forthcoming Harry Potter theme park (under yet another studio — Universal — shyeah, they’re “competitors”) presently under development in a place even more the polar opposite of Hogwarts than Little Whinging — Florida.
I just find all that nonsense intriguing. Apart from boys liking Star Wars and women liking Harry Potter, the comparison (though in no way comprehensive) really puts things into perspective.
Now the review of Book the Seventh:
For those many humans with no patience and/or who hate details (I know too many of you; alas), here’s what the seventh Harry Potter book could be called: Harry Potter and the Entertaining Narrow Escapes/Surprisingly High Body-Count/Ultimate Confrontation and Generally Happy Ending. If you want in and out of this story without reading another word of it, that title pretty well covers all you need to know.
For those who love a great story, though — and the Harry Potter series is a great story — you’ll want to pore over the brilliance of Book the Seventh — which is no masterpiece and certainly not even the best of the series (I’d give that honour to any of the first three, or the sixth), but which is an alarmingly engaging read and most definitely a book for the ages. It’s bold, this one. (Kids and favourite characters suddenly die; snap; boom; gone!) And besides, the pleasure of reading Rowling is not in the plotting — which is sometimes admirably complex for “children’s literature” (and sometimes charmingly sloppy, as in Books the Fourth and the Fifth — tellingly, also the least of the movies), but which too often hinges on those darned Scooby Doo-type reveals — but rather in her wonderful knack for character tics and treacly prose. Even — especially! — her “darkest” scenes prove as delicious as a big, fat, inappropriate dessert.
So you want to know who dies, eh? Okay, those details will fill the next paragraph. First, the Brief Synopsis: After the shocking (if somewhat absurd) death of headmaster Albus Dumbledore near the end of Book the Sixth, the comfy predictability of the Harry Potter series (i.e.: Annoying Muggle Family; Back to Hogwarts; Mystery; Villain; Chases; Classes; Creatures; Quidditch; Quirks; Showdown; Verbose Scooby-Doo Wrap-Up) has been irrevocably dispelled. We open instead in the very lair of Voldemort, who has taken up residence in the spooky house of dark wizarding family the Malfoys, where they and other minions (including especially the apparently murderous Severus Snape and the definitely murderous Bellatrix Lestrange) hold court on plans to kill Harry Potter (whom Voldemort deems his only obstacle en route to ultimate power and immortality), and then — for good measure — Voldemort kills a kidnapped, tortured, levitating and previously unknown professor with an empathy for Muggles — only to feed her to his huge, symbiotically-linked pet snake. And this is only the first chapter. What happens throughout the remainder, however, may be described in fairly short order: Harry’s deceased mother’s love-blessing is about to wear off, so his foster family the Dursleys are evacuated from their imminently-unsafe Muggle home, then there’s a massive nocturnal aerial chase as teams of wizards, young and old, either disguise themselves as Harry (with the transformative “Polyjuice Potion”) or act as his decoys’ guardians, en route to relative, temporary safety. Thereafter follows a fancy wedding at the Weasley house, the Burrow (burned down by Voldemort’s gangmembers, the “Death Eaters,” in Movie the Sixth but not in Book the Sixth; this should make for a weird new plot onscreen), after which Harry, Ron and Hermione go on the lam as an adventuring trio, bemoaning far too few immediately-evident clues from their beloved old Headmaster, with loads of Death Eaters (including the scary Yaxley and scarier werewolf Fenrir Greyback) giving lethal chase. The goal of our heroes? Destroy the remaining “Horcruxes” — magical items containing portions of Voldemort’s severed (thus, for now, immortal) soul. (”Children’s Literature.”) This takes them through some rather thrilling adventures via the fascist-co-opted Ministry of Magic, through familial discoveries in the invisible house of Harry’s murdered hepcat godfather Sirius Black (significant revelations coming via the passionate recollections of the previously intolerant and intolerable house-elf, Kreacher), through some mystical sylvan camp-outs, through the whimsical and wonderful dwellings of the likes of Luna’s dad, Xenophilius Lovegood (another great escape) and newlyweds Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacoeur’s super-quaint Shell Cottage, and even a massive (and wicked fun!) heist scene in Gringott’s, the Goblin bank. With assists from both the dead (magic-world authoress Bathilda Bagshot; great scary scene!) and the inhuman (we actually get close with Book the First’s Griphook the Goblin), the noble (Dumbledore in a late-in-the-game dream sequence they’d better well film!) and the dubious (wandmaker Ollivander, who delights more in power than morality), Harry and his cohorts, though often miserable and quarrelling amongst one another quite believably, are drawn ever closer to the ultimate showdown (again?): Harry vs. Voldemort at Hogwarts itself (and guess who wins; well, obviously…)
Now, skip this paragraph if you like, but here’s the short list of who gets their arse snuffed: Previously peripheral professor Charity Burbage quickly becomes snake food. Mad-Eye Moody dies in the great mid-air chase. Harry’s owl Hedwig dies in that same chase, hit by a killing curse, and he himself destroys the sidecar in which she plummets. Bitter old Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour bites it at the hands of Death Eaters shortly after delivering three apparently innocuous parting gifts from Dumbledore to our trio (they end up being quite useful, but much like Dumbledore’s burnt hand in Book the Sixth, their mystery is employed by the author more as a tension-builder than as any significant payoff; one of her few weaknesses, IMHO). Dobby the House Elf dies — stabbed through the heart by Bellatrix, with a dagger flung at Harry. (That’s right: DOBBY DIES. Shocking, innit?) Thereafter, the action heats up, but the deaths become more singular and dramatic: Wormtail dies, attacked by his own bewitched hand. Hogwarts falls under attack, and we actually lose several students (Rowling specifically mentions fifty corpses), former and present: Bad boy Crabbe dies — having conjured some truly terrifying infernal fire in the Room of Requirement. Cute little Harry-fan and amateur photographer Colin Creevey dies (!) — possibly as payback for being a paparazzo and sycophant. Much more shockingly, jocular Fred Weasley is killed in an abrupt, very-terrorist-like blast of dark magic. The Weasley sister Ginny is very nearly killed — but her mother pulls a “Ripley” (”NOT MY DAUGTER, YOU BITCH!” she bellows — children’s book, mind) and takes out her would-be murderess, Bellatrix. Meanwhile, perhaps most shockingly of all, oddly-matched newlyweds and new parents Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks are both killed in the final battle. Good parents! Killed! In Kid-Lit!
And then, despite the magnificently obvious (Yes, Tom “Lord Voldemort” Riddle dies — by his own spell, bounced back by Harry), the series’ most ardent fans were and are perhaps most horrified by this revelation: Everyone’s favourite purring semi-villainous wizard-turncoat, he of mysterious sexuality and bitterest turns of phrase, Severus Snape, dies — again, by the big mythic snake (meh). As a formality, no less — a mistaken formality involving the rightful ownership of the most powerful and lethal wand of all. But don’t despair, Goth brethren and sistren — for despite Snake’s rather pathetic demise, we nonetheless gain, in Book the Seventh, a bitter-bitter lifetime of Snape highlights in flashback (convenient, these bottled memories!), featuring Hogwarts’ #1 Emo-Goth hooligan before he was all growed up. Love it.
(Despite the film series’ many, many excellent portrayals, incidentally, it is definitely Alan Rickman, as Snape, who takes the films beyond the level of terrific fantasy and into the pantheon of Great Cinema; his appearances, though sporadic and limited, deliver iconic greatness for the ages.)
Now let us appraise Book the Seventh in seven specific categories, and then conclude.
Themes: While readers of the series up to this point are unlikely to find new thematic material, per se (death; friendship; death), Rowling is aces here in terms of enriching and expanding upon what has come before. Here we richly perceive human imperfection and its attendant acceptance (gorgeous Fleur with werewolf-damaged Bill; Harry with the cliched bad-boy evidence of Sirius; Harry and Hermione struggling to forgive Ron for temporarily deserting them; even the kids feeding hungry and horrible giant Grawp post-battle). We are generously afforded perspective of Harry’s expanding guilt over being “The Chosen One” (with attendant body-count!), plus his determination to carry on, not as a fighter so much (unless necessary), but as a boy-man with a destiny only a coward would try to dodge. Perhaps most politically, we are shown (especially via a particularly hideous statue of wizards oppressing Muggles) Rowling’s stark distaste for fascism (for old Voldy is nothing if not a magical kiddie-book Hitler). And throughout this alternate Britain’s magical landscape — drawn more broadly, beautifully and harrowingly than in any of the previous books — we really get a strong taste for the author’s blending of worlds: How, for instance, the (dark) wizarding world with its hijacked propaganda machines may spell doom for the no-more-innocent but far-less-powerful Muggle world with its…well…also with its hijacked propaganda machines.
Plot: While I’m perfectly content to cast niggling complaints at Rowling for some of the absurd coincidences she employs in order to tie this story together (especially during the protracted camp-out scenes, where various implausible meet-ups and overhearings run rampant), I gotta say, this is otherwise one hell of a tight and engaging read. Were this purely a capering adventure, it’d be a classic on that count alone. But Rowling — thieving, perhaps, but stunningly ambitious — imbues the story up top with astounding revelations both past (Rita Skeeter’s The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore! Snape’s fucking great “flashback reel”) and nouveau-mythic (”The Tale of the Three Brothers”). Thus, what could have been a very exciting big chase becomes, really, one of the most enjoyable books I’ve ever read (requiring, of course, the reading of the previous six).
Characters: This is where Rowling really shines — bringing her kid-lit populace to highly expressive, and seemingly real (and not infrequently savage), life — and Book the Seventh is no exception, if not, in this specific way, the best of the bunch. While there’s much to be said for mystique, finally really getting a handle on Dumbledore, on Sirius, even on Griphook’s griping and Lupin’s losing-it — and especially on the “Half-Blood Prince” himself (finally) — proves remarkably satisfying. Why? Because Rowling very clearly understood the generation previous to Harry’s (including his imperfect parents — well, his dad’s imperfect, anyway, big surprise), prior to proceeding with her very lucrative eponymous hero’s story. I can stand up and applaud this sort of dedication to one’s art and craft.
Setpieces: Due to the aforementioned hype (and no rare smatterings of idiotic hysteria), it took me a while to get into even Book the First (as in: not too long before the release of the first movie — and partly because the first two films were November releases, as if tailor-made for me) — but right away (and, tellingly, before there were brilliant set-designers like Stuart Craig on board), Rowling understood the significance of the Grand Set. The Great Hall, the Quidditch pitch, the Chess Board, the Forbidden Forest — she certainly learned well from her fantasy forebears. Granted, some scenarios in Book the First were slightly sketchy or hackneyed, but with each installment the grandiose rooms and settings have grown (I love the Chamber of Secrets; I love Hogsmeade; I love Hagrid’s Hut and wish to move in immediately — uh, solo, of course) — and in Book the Seventh — even after the freakish cavern in the cliff in Book the Sixth (which is briefly revisited) — Rowling outdoes herself. The wedding at the Burrow is (pardon) fabulous! Godric’s Hollow is so enchanting you can feel the snowflakes on your cheek! The Lovegood house is magnificently weird! Gringott’s turns extra-spooky (and dangerous)! And then it all converges — where else? — at the freakishly-named Hogwarts Castle itself (if Jo ever reads this, that’s my one question: Why did you call it “Hogwarts”? Oh — wait — and: “May I have two billion dollars?”) — which is familiar and yet nearly literally turned inside-out! Awesome.
Tone: It’s a tough balance, to start killing off children (or, early on, even George Weasley permanently loses an ear — from the sort of irreversible dark magic with which Rowling waffles occasionally, as is convenient), and yet to make a book engaging and funny. And Rowling not only manages this, she creates a vision of a world that is at once desperately personal (losing her mother, all that loudly-trumpeted “welfare-mum” p.r. = she’s not afraid to put her characters through terrible pain and loss), and yet publicly topical (the terrorist attacks of the dark wizards and witches so reflect contemporary news that they could scarcely come from any other age). Mix this with wonder and whimsy on a nearly epic scale (although the action remains in Britain, Rowling is not sheepish about flinging Hermione’s memory-wiped parents off to Australia, or weaving subplots about wizardly exploits in Eastern Europe), and this is, as they say, really something. You can keep your John Grisham and Dan Brown — they’re totally boring compared to this.
Failings: Don’t worry — I’m actually nothing like those film-geek guys who thrive on saying things like “it holds up!” or “not bad…but flawed” about virtually everything. I have been a professional critic for a decade, and unless I’m merely dicking around, I choose my targets carefully. In the case of Book the Seventh, in fact, I have very few slights to hurl. Killing Snape is unfortunate, but just as Han Solo was originally slated to die in the Star Wars saga (before George wussied out and went Ewok), I think the ambivalent professor’s demise adds tremendous weight to all that went before (alas that his death itself does feel hasty and not all that well plotted). Speaking of plotting — yeah, Jo could use a little sharpening in this area — way too many minor kawinkydinks and “conveniences” are employed to hold things together (such as: Okay, now when you say his name, Death Eaters instantly show up. Buzz! Too easy!). But that’s minor. Um…it does annoy me that the very, very youthful romances at Hogwarts are taken to be lifelong pursuits — as anyone familiar with adolescent longing knows that it feels eternal (which Rowling gets right) — but usually it either burns out or is snuffed out (often in favour of all-new bullshit) in one’s late teens or early twenties. And it’s also annoying that the locket Horcrux here is a total rip-off of The One Ring (wear it around your neck, become rude!). But: I suppose that the deaths of Creevy, Tonks and Lupin bug me the most — Creevy because he shouldn’t even have been present at the battle (and yet his death — a child’s death! — seems to signify nothing); and Tonks and Lupin because we wanna believe in that love! — plus now their infant is an orphan (even tidying up with the blithe nineteen-years-later epilogue on Platform 9 3/4 doesn’t assuage the sense of pointless — narratively and emotionally pointless! — loss. It’s as though Rowling merely got bored of the characters and needed to kill somebody.) But again, I think this is an excellent book. As a winking parting criticism, I am personally offended that Rowling decided to make green the colour of “evil” magic. Green is pretty! Get your head on straight, Jo!
Significance: Well, only time will tell (if you believe in “time” — I don’t). Thus far, we’re looking at about twelve years of a steadily mounting literary and narrative and commercial and cinematic phenomenon. In many ways, although most of the parts are borrowed (or stolen), nonetheless this series, this franchise, has never had an equal. So in a purely worldly, commercial sense, this whole Harry Potter thing is essentially an unprecedented three-and-a-half-second catching of the Golden Snitch. It is magic. As for its human ramifications, believe me, I’ve gone over this stuff with a fine-toothed comb, seeking, seeking, seeking (heh) what could be wrong with it, what was off, what sucked. Answer: Not very much, mate. Written by an English woman, I expected a lot of pissy sexism throughout (they’ve had a hard road, English women) — and, nope, hardly any, really (her goodies and baddies come in both genders in equal measure). In all the aforementioned ways, especially narratively, Rowling generously delivers (of course, I’d also love to sell a hundred bazillion books so I could buy Scotland — but we’re talking generosity on the page: She’s a regular literary Santa Claus). As works of popular modern fiction, the Harry Potter books belong amongst the very best of the best. And what do they say to us?
I pause to sigh. (Literally. I just sighed.)
I think what these books say to us (at least in part) is this: The world is extraordinarily complex; we must trust our instincts and follow our hearts but also our minds; we must protect our friends and yet rise to our own challenges; the Dark and the Light are not always opposites, but rather are often blended, with much Shadow in between; question authority; sidestep the immovable obstacle if getting from ‘A’ to ‘B’ is crucial; control your temper; don’t hate people just because they’re different from you and your “sect” (Rowling has gone on a bit about the “plea for tolerance” shtick, but whatever — it’s still a good message); oh: And death is all around us, all the “time”; (dare I say it? . . . yes, I dare) thus: LIVE, BABY, LIVE!
Now personally, in my own sphere of experience, I have learnt, alas, as this series has evolved and taken over the world, that some curses are indeed unforgivable. However, happily, Harry has also reminded me, throughout Ms. Rowling’s cobbled-together and extraordinary literary series but especially in his climactic confrontation in Book the Seventh, that the Love of Power is nothingness; whereas the Power of Love is everythingness.
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: 9.7/10
The whole Harry Potter series: 9/10
~G
(The Critic Formerly Known as Gregory Weinkauf)
13 September & 23 September, 2009
