01.20.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 11:59 pm by G
Nope, not yet. Been slammed from all sides. This thing will end, though. Couple more days. Then I have better things to do. Thank you for your clicks.
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HI. FINAL NOTE ON THIS WHILST I FINISH IT: I REALLY HAVEN’T BEEN PLEASED (GENERALLY) WITH THE WAY THINGS HAVE GONE THE PAST FEW YEARS — AND PART OF THIS IS L.A. (WHERE SELF-OBSESSION IS ALMOST EVERYONE’S TOP PRIORITY — IT AIN’T PRETTY!), PART OF THIS IS MY BAD LUCK IN TERMS OF FAMILY AND SOME FORMER “FRIENDS,” AND PART OF IT IS PERCEPTION. THAT’S WHY I’M DOING A FINAL POST: I’M DROPPING WHAT I DON’T LIKE. BUT DON’T WORRY — IT AIN’T ALL BAD. SOON AS I CAN. HAVE A NICE DAY UNLESS YOU SUCK. ~G
Hm…well, you’re still checking back, aren’t you? Here’s the thing: I have written about half of the closing post — but it’s much more “negative” than most people (particularly Americans) could hope to handle, and although I don’t intend to introduce any significant edits, it will require its second half to feel balanced and complete . . . and I have too many projects breathing down my neck to deliver it all just yet. A couple of notes on “negativity,” though: I was in a restaurant recently, and a somewhat dim waitress who’s in love with her dog told me that the rain makes her happy; in turn, I replied that part of that is due to negative ions in the atmosphere; she firmly clarified to me that no, what she felt was happiness. Moron. Also, what may read to you as “negativity” is in fact, to me, only about catharsis — opening up and expressing, rather than bottling up and toxifying. If I feel, see, hear or otherwise experience something, then I have the right to write about that — just as you have the right to write about your feelings or whatever. That’s all it is. I’m sorry if you don’t get it. If you need a refresher on the concept, I suggest seeking out Peter Gabriel’s only LAME album (”Us” — figures it’s from the goddammed lame ’90s), and listening to the track “Digging in the Dirt.” That’s all it’s about. There really is no more to it. Females in particular seem to have a big problem with my sporadic “negativity” — but guess what, honeybuns? I don’t like your stupid ‘tude, either — and it’s been years since I’ve encountered anything remotely resembling a “lady.” This is my online journal, much of it concerning years of unhappiness punctuated by Fun Events!, and I’m concluding it because I don’t want life to feel like this anymore. It sucks here. I’ll present the final installment as soon as it’s ready. If you don’t like it, don’t read it. ~G
Hey, you were hitting it pretty hard here on Sunday, folks. Full week-end for me = haven’t completed the last post. If you’re even finding this, it means you’ve been a regular reader, so thank you for that. But here’s the irony: I was never doing this for attention; I was doing it because…well…at this point it gets metaphysical, but either “I painted myself into a corner” (if you’re into that view on things; I endorse that for stupid people…but I’m not one of them) or “life began to suck quite viciously no matter how you try to spin it” (which is much more the case, I assure you; unlike many, I do not thrive on trouble and unrest). In any case, I tapped through many lonely nights here because life really wasn’t giving me anything else worth doing (or, it was leading me on into pointlessness; fug dat) — and it still isn’t giving me a whole lot with which to work (or, one hopes, play) — and I totally blame the Boomers for that, because they are greedy shits and are destroying the world (boycott them! watch them dwindle!). But aside from that, although I can’t change the world, I do very much have the power to stop reflecting on it — or, at least, to reflect on it much more selectively from now on. Which is why I’m closing this thing — there were many ecstatic moments throughout these years…but no genuine happiness (I’m stealing back that word); thus I’m tired of writing about how much everything sucks — even though everything pretty much has sucked (and provably). But this isn’t the closing message. This is simply the: “Hey, whole lotta bangin’ on Sunday — people must be intrigued! I’ll attempt to placate them…” message. I’ll be back with the Closure Post soon — as the wretched can be heard to bellow from the slave pits of Hollywood, “ASAP!!!!!!!!!!” — but be forewarned: It’ll probably be mostly text, and if there are photos they’ll only be added later. I love images, but this was never intended to be a picture site. But it will return to being a movie site. And this “blog” will die. Which is cool. Check back whenever.
Hi. The last post will appear here either Friday or over le week-end.
Since I’m so brilliant that I can actually DO things and also REASON WHY I’m doing them, here’s the reason why:
This life has not been satisfying. I am disappointed. No point in continuing any reflection thereupon; thus, rather than ending the life, I’ll just end the online journal thereof — and say fuck-all, and do whatever I please from now on.
Anyway, come back later for the Grand Finale.
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01.09.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 12:42 pm by G
Hi. Still clicking here, eh? Well, my energy is wafting away, but this thing will remain as some sort of movie site.
There’s a lot to say — and then of course most people interpret what one is saying through the prism of their own views and prejudices, resulting in inaccuracy mild to severe.
Mainly, things are kind of okay. I saw someone I’ve missed, and that brings a smile.
Coming from the heart here, though, is something I don’t think I’d like to do, much, anymore — as every now and then some creepy comment will seep through, and I have to decide whether to tell the person to get a life, or else ignore them. (In any case, it’s surely not welcome.)
I can say that strife continues within my alleged “ancestral home.” Very bad news. I do not understand people who are addicted to unhappiness.
Nor am I some shallow little puddle (which, in SoCal, is actually an asset, alas) — but I believe we can feel, and deeply, without crapping on everybody else’s day.
America still needs to learn this.
Have I mentioned that I despise: 1. Smoking; 2. Any and all televised sports (the louder the commentator, the more I hate it); 3. Country; 4. Rap (except for RUN-DMC); and 5. The trailer for the very, very, very stupid-looking remake of Clash of the Titans?
Just seems worth mentioning.
There are also plenty of things I like — but why give away the good stuff here?
Speaking of America, though, the substance (if any) of this post involves my recent travels by aeroplane, across the nation currently called America — in particular the airports involved — and in particular-particular, the art within, which I have personally glimpsed and appraised. It goes like this:
NEW YORK: Most of the art is of the tedious “funky/edgy” variety, and features, primarily, PEOPLE. The close-ups of these people generally look like outtakes from a racially-forced Benetton spread, and their message seems to be: “CHECK US OUT! WE HAVE ETHNICITY! ISN’T THAT FASCINATING???”
THE MIDWEST: Most of these airports feature “art” from local photographers, the subjects being primarily leaves and creeks and dirt and shit. Their message seems to be: “HEY!!! CHECK OUT OUR ULTRA-HIGH-RES IMAGES OF THE EXTREMELY FLAT AND BORING NATURAL ENVIRONMENT REMAINING BETWEEN OUR STRIP MALLS!!!”
LOS ANGELES: The airport “art” in LAX is composed mainly of junk nailed to other junk in total bullshit ways, signifying nothing. The message of this “art” seems to be: “YO!!! WE RETARDED!!!”
LAS VEGAS: I couldn’t bear to look.
I think I need new worlds to explore.
Shall conclude this thing soon.
Cheers.
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12.21.09
Posted in Uncategorized at 9:47 am by G
Around the holidays it seems that people either succumb to Tradition (or its modern equivalent: Food; Movies; More Food; Televised Sporting Events; Much More Food; Gifts; Disappointment; Much, Much More Food; Token Misunderstood Religious Experience; All-Out Gluttony; Fucking Massive Argument; Comfort Food; Packing To Return To Faster, Shallower Upscale Life; Regifting; Pilates) — or else, if they’re lucky, they go in for a bit of Reflection; this latter experience being what I’ve just had, on Sunday and overnight.
First I struggled with the various personae in my world — most of whom (the alleged “nearest and dearest”) I essentially never see, and who very, very rarely (if ever) get back to me when I telephone or email them. Or, in some cases, when I do actually engage in conversation with them, they really and truly ignore every single thing I say — so basically it feels like I lost a quart of blood and have nothing to show for it. This is usually how things are; I didn’t start it; I didn’t make it this way; I’ve done my damnedest to improve relations; nothing works; I really don’t know what to do anymore. If I occasionally show up, they treat me like a friendly intruder, I get the very worst possible sleeping arrangements, and then I get about four hours of rest per twenty-four, subsisting mostly on crap, and then having to pose for highly stilted photographs. Then I return to my life feeling very, very WTF? indeed.
Nonetheless, I do have some love for some of these people (although now there’s really literally no love, at all, for one of them in particular; when he dies, its impact on me will be entirely symbolic) — and so, for them, I try to put together a bit of Holiday Cheer. Unlike many people, and particularly unlike many males, and altogether unlike most American males, I kinda shop for people throughout the entire year. I see something that causes me to think fondly of them, or something I figure they’ll like, and I pick it up, and it collects a bit of dust as the motherfucking asshole “gardeners” blast their abominable leaf-blowers right next to “my” windows twice or three times per week — but then, when Holidaytime comes, I actually have some material thingie for this family member or that. It works out pretty well, my little system — except for two factors: 1. It would be a lot easier to get these tokens of my esteem to them if they’d FUCKING CALL ME, EVER, OR LET ME KNOW WHAT THE FUCK THEY’RE DOING AT LEAST A FEW HOURS BEFORE THEY’RE DOING IT; and, 2.) I really hate packing and shipping things (particularly at the holidays, when the outlets for such enterprises, particularly in Stupidland, are overflowing with whatever the antithesis of “cheer” is).
But I try.
Thus, there was quite a bit of that running through my mind on Sunday — and notions of how my nephews and nieces are mostly grown-up now (or, in a couple of cases, rocking adult life a lot more than I am) — and how I accidentally forgot to reproduce, or get a house, or get a reasonable occupation, or have any security in my life whatsoever…etc. etc…
It’s not really greed or selfishness (although I can be covetous with certain media items); rather, it’s more like: “HEY, EVERYBODY! CHECK IT OUT! I’VE GOT ALL THIS AWESOME POTENTIAL ENERGY HERE! AND UNLIKE A LOT OF PEOPLE WHO ARE ADORED AND CODDLED AND GET A TOTALLY FREE PASS THROUGH LIFE AT THE EXPENSE OF OTHERS, GUESS WHAT!? I’M NOT AN ALCOHOLIC, DRUGGIE, USER, ABUSER, FUCKUP, SHITHEAD OR DICKBRAIN! YEAH! WANT ANY OF THIS? WANNA WORK TOGETHER AND MAKE OUR DREAMS COME TRUE FOR A HAPPIER AND ALTOGETHER BETTER TOMORROW?????”
And they’re all, like, “No.”
(If I get an answer at all. One answer. Per year.)
So, hey, I can’t do a lot more than that. And couch-surfing through blizzards — regardless of how kind my host(s) may be — truly sucks.
(Unlike a lot of people, too, I’m totally not a hypochondriac; however, I know enough to avoid sitting on airplanes with the Not-So-Great Unwashed in cold’n'flu season. Fug dat.)
So…here I am. I don’t know why. I’ve done my best with available materials and behaviours.
This has been an interesting year, actually: I kicked a few people out of my life. Not in any loud or melodramatic way — simply: A few people went apeshit on me FOR NO GOOD REASON — OR NO REASON AT ALL, REALLY — WHATSOEVER — so I was all, like, “G’bye.” I’m sure it makes me look bad, but fuck it, whatever, I’m not. Interesting patterns, though: The gingers I deleted because they were getting dangerously delusional and deceitful (and talk about brimming cauldrons of hatred, waiting to spill over); whereas the brunettes I removed because they displayed serious anger-management problems. I don’t understand that shit — at all. I’m cool with people until they start shitting at me: Then it’s goodbye. Otherwise, live and let live.
What remains has been a reasonably pleasant, if compact, circle of friends: For them I am extremely grateful. They’re not just nice to me — they’re inherently awesome.
On Sunday, the actress Brittany Murphy suddenly dropped dead — at thirty-two Earth-years old. I had never paid great attention to her, but I thought she seemed kind of pretty and kind of cool. Having given the matter some thought, I sincerely feel that The Industry rode her too hard — which is what really killed her. This is entirely my speculation, of course — but I have worked in and around The Industry for years — and it ALWAYS rides everybody MUCH too hard! This was a young woman; young women don’t just drop dead; there has to be some significant reason. I looked at Murphy’s list of credits — and there are a lot of credits for a young woman! That was a young woman who was being driven very hard — like a sled-dog, or beast of burden. Maybe she even wanted it — a lot of children of divorce desperately crave attention — but nonetheless. Heart defect? Maybe that was part of it: But I think we’re seeing a warning sign in her unfortunate passing: Hey, Industry — LIGHTEN THE FUCK UP! Eight-hour days! Proper benefits! BE NICE TO YOUR EMPLOYEES.
I have spoken.
Since most actresses mean less than beans to me (I dated a wannabe in 2007 — and the experience was so vile and insane — she really was, and I’m sure still is, a completely unconscionable, deceitful and destructive creature), I really wasn’t sure what Murphy had been in, until I looked it up. My feelings proved bittersweet, and are, from least to most significant, as follows:
- I recall almost going to see a press screening of Uptown Girls — thinking, hey, maybe I’ll understand more about young, essentially carbon-copy clone females (Most o’ y’all really ain’t special) — and then I can write a thoughtful piece about what I’d seen and experienced, from a more masculine perspective — but then the movie didn’t look that great, so I didn’t go.
- In 2001, I was basically reviewing movies constantly (in a way, a Slave to The Industry — again!), and one of them was that Michael “I’ll Never Be Anywhere Near As Cool As My Father But At Least I Cradle-Robbed The Welsh Tart” Douglas movie, Don’t Say a Word. I could have given two shits for Don’t Say a Word — but I was doing my job. I barely remember the movie (although that sort of “rape-chic” facial expression was very popular amongst shallow girls at the time — it probably still is — in fact, I know it is, because the stupid wannabe used it a lot) — but I can recall the trailer, because it had a stupid line of high-pitched dialogue from Murphy, going (sing-songy voice), “I’ll ne-ever te-ellll….” Why mention this?…
…well, because I used to go to L.A. journalism parties, which, generally, were overstuffed with alcoholic hacks, wretched hangers-on, and then an actual reputable journalist here or there. At one of these, I recall entertaining my dead friend Marnye by repeating that Brittany Murphy line from that trailer — and in the stupid sing-songy voice: “I’ll ne-ever te-elll….” That made Marnye laugh. Marnye was too crazy and emotionally violent for me to get any reasonable handle on her — but she was also extremely friendly and vivacious, loads of fun, and a true friend to any and all (which is probably also part of what killed her — her old “boyfriend” certainly never discouraged her hard-core drinking habits — especially when she was on cancer meds!) Sad memories, but in between them I can pick out a happy one, here or there — and one of them was amusing Marnye with that stupid line. Such a bizarre twist that now both of those young women are dead — and really DROPPED dead! — and why?
The Industry clearly rode them too hard.
They became fodder.
I think it totally sucks.
- The other Murphy-related memory was, and is, purely happy — as in: Happy Feet. I love Happy Feet. I think it’s a glorious and wonderful movie, filled with life and song and exuberance. That’s really, really saying something — considering that 99% of the movie was created in computers, oceans apart. It’s even-more-saying-something when I note that the movie’s lead is annoying little Elijah Wood — who should be bussing tables in Cleveland or something. But whatever: Happy Feet is a classic, a great work of art, and I love it. And who’s the voice of the girl penguin? Why — Brittany Murphy. Admittedly, she does a pretty good job with Queen’s over-covered “Somebody to Love” (that probably wasn’t my initial opinion — but as it was also used in Ella Enchanted, I was getting irritated) — but, yeah — maybe it wasn’t entirely to my taste, but good on her for filling that role. She not only helped gratify me against the like of that ridiculously homoerotic and entirely too sadistic “James Bond” knockoff that year — she also helped bring my mother a great deal of happiness: As she happened to be in town when the good folks at Warner Bros. offered up a sort of penguin party (with actual penguins!) at the Pacific Design Centre…oops!…”Center” — and I got to bring my mom, and we munched chocolate-covered strawberries, perused the penguin paraphernalia, and got to enjoy clips of George Miller’s true gem of a motion picture. I’m really happy to have gotten to share that with my mother. And then, when the movie actually came out, she and I brought her two little grandsons to see it. They danced up their “happy feet” in the parking lot afterward. (That in itself is an achievement — as they, like most little American boys, are obsessed with obtaining the largest weapons possible, and then slaughtering everyone with them; a pattern I’d like to end IMMEDIATELY — wanna help?)
Thus, yeah, farewell to Ms. Murphy — she did some good things.
Later on, I napped uneasily, and worried a lot. It’s not my natural tendency to worry — but as I’ve said before, my life here has been, and still is, basically the Kobayashi Maru scenario: A no-win situation. I don’t say that to be coy, self-pitying or attention-seeking: I just mean that whatever I do here, it’s not enough to keep Life going. Job/Home/Partner/Finances — it all just gets sucked away. As I am naturally a rather easygoing person, the unfortunate effect of this is that I sometimes (particularly in writing, where I let it all hang out) come across as a bitter jerk. But really, I’m just being objective: I say what sucks, sucks.
Gimme something good, I’ll sure as fuck tell you it’s good!
After the nervous nap I was summoned by a friend to go consume a veggie burger which approached a cost of twenty American dollars. Seriously. He paid. Bless him. That’s more money toward my retardedly huge rent.
It’s such a good thing I don’t drink — and to elabourate (heh) on that phrase: Drunk, I’d probably spend the evening conversing with a plush toy, and then either vomit on it or try to seduce it. What I mean is: Alcohol is expensive, plus it takes a terrible toll on the body — I enjoy not consuming it.
Hey, speaking of taxable vices, yesterday I saw something very amusing: Some younger friends of mine were gathered outside near a storefront, talking and smoking. I hate the smoking part, actually — it sickens and angers me — but for friends I can stand upwind and pretend for a few minutes. Anyway, a frumpy, fiftyish woman came galumphing past, and stopped abruptly and starting berating the youngsters for smoking — technically illegally? — within this-or-that amount of feet from a doorway. When one of the youngsters offered a vaguely sarcastic response, she grew enraged (really, even though I totally despise smoking, the situation was no big deal) — and sought an authority figure, to whom to complain. The funny thing was, the smoking youngster was the authority figure — which enraged her to the point that she shouted out, “I GUESS I LOSE, THEN!” and swiped her claw at a large, full, nearby drink — causing it to cascade extremely sloppily across the whole scene. This small, isolated outpouring of insanity is offered up here to indicate how most people here are actually seething cauldrons of crazy, just about to boil over. It was still fun to watch. Even better, I got to enjoy the youngsters’ immediate appraisals of What Had Just Happened and What They Had Learned From The Experience. There are some sharp kids around here — even if they’re not quite smart enough to know that smoking is utterly foul and repulsive and stupid — and they give me some hope for The Future.
Anyway, later Sunday night, post-expensive-veggie-burger and happy discourse, I noted the darkness and the changing of the seasons, and started separating out presents for the whole fam damily (or, most of it) — which, in turn, led to moving a great many things around in my chronically overcluttered and utterly feng-shui-free flat…oops!…”apartment” — which led to me discovering, and then examining, photos I took during the first half of this about-to-end decade.
Talk about bittersweet!
First of all, everybody looks younger. Not heartbreakingly so — but dewier enough to discern a difference. There’s a liveliness and sense of fun and adventure in a lot of the photos. Heck, back then I still bothered to torture myself by owning and operating automobiles — and, indeed, photographic evidence of this abounds — not so much of the cars themselves (although there is one noteworthily totalled one — Arizona shitheads slammed me off Highland on their desperate way to a Burger King which no longer exists — and that’s not poetic license; it’s an accurate appraisal of the accident and aftermath) — but in Where I Went via them. I used to explore California a lot more. There are some insane people in the photos, with whom I did some of the exploring. They mostly ended up in San Francisco. Typical.
I am a bit melancholy over how many people are in these photos whom I considered friends — or at least friendly acquaintances — and many of them I’ll probably never see again. And a couple of them turned out to be Typical White Guy Assholes (the evidence was already there then — but it took me a few years to comprehend the disturbing depths of their assholery). And then there’s a hint of Marnye in a couple of them — and of course she’s long dead.
I am smart enough to be grateful that I’ve only had four friends, thus far, who’ve died — and especially grateful for the good souls still co-inhabiting this world with me — and it’s still kind of painful to go: “Oh, that was quite a while ago, now. They’re really not coming back. We have to go on without them.”
I’m in some of the photos, and I look very happy in most of them. Which is odd — because in fact I wasn’t very happy. But I guess being productive kind of comes across as “happy” on film.
And it was actual film, by the way. Imagine that! Taking pictures on celluloid!
I found a photo of me with Vincent Schiavelli. He’s dead, too. It’s a good photo, though. We both look quite happy.
Maybe that’s what it’s about: Make sure to get some photos of yourself looking happy!
Well, I haven’t prepared a conclusion for this ramble. I didn’t expect the photos — and in turn all those fairly-recent-but-far-enough-back-to-seem-like-dreams-now memories. I’m really not sure what to make of them. I know I was there (and then), and that all those people (and places, and things) were around also — but the likelihood of any of it ever coming together again is pretty much nil. There is no remaining evidence, apart from the photos, of any of it. Which is weird. Why go through something that leads to nothing?
Anyhoo (I never say “anyhoo” — I’m totally not that sort of fuckhead — it’s only employed here to keep you awake), I really don’t intend dourness here. Things aren’t particularly cheerful, and there are assorted stresses, and it seems like most people will be experiencing much more Fun and Togetherness at The Holidays than I will be — but it’s almost okay. One of the useful essences I am able to distill from loneliness is Discipline. Horrid word, really — horrid! However, I mean Discipline in the best (and nicest) possible sense: I get all my domestic chores done (well, except for clearing out the clutter — no pizza boxes, though), and I read like never before, I practice music like never before, and, especially, I write like never before. And why? Because there really isn’t too much else to do here. Then I go to films, because I love the community brought together by Cinema.
Apart from that, most people would probably find my existence dreadfully boring; I don’t even have cable*.
(* on the television**)
(** which has been unplugged for months)
So, yeah, sorry if reading this depresses you. I don’t mean it that way. This is, however — galactically-speaking — the closest to The Dark Night of the Soul that we get all year round in this hemisphere on this planet — so I guess that’s what it is about which I am on.
Not much else to say here right now. Try to avoid processed sugars, opting instead for long-chain sugars, such as you may find in agave nectar, maple syrup, and brown rice syrup. You’ll thank me.
~G
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