05.31.06

Bird

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 7:35 pm by Gregory

A few minutes ago, I was taking a stroll in the hot, ugly haze amongst the crazy, filthy, gibbering asshole-people, and along the way I noticed a grey, average-sized bird of the family Birdus Kindasmallus. It was sitting in a tall bush and chittering at me with great passion. I acknowledged it but did not reply.

Then it took a dive at my head.

The little grey bird grazed me on the starboard — didn’t break the skin, but clearly gave it a good shot.

Then it lit upon a power-line. And continued chittering at me.

I dared it to try again.

It daredn’t.

I glanced about for Tippi Hedren.

Nope.

I noted that the creature’s beak was long and pointy: a miniature heron — beakily-speaking, anyway.

[My friend Robert was recently shocked by the sudden arrival of a heron in his face -- and vice-versa -- whilst we (he and I, not the heron) were talking with each other via our luxurious cellular devices. I didn't hear the huge bird make a sound, but my friend squawked enthusiastically enough for both of them; it was great.]

And no, my little attacker wasn’t a sandpiper. I have stayed in enough hotels with bars called “The Sandpiper” in them to know what a sandpiper looks like. It wasn’t one of those.

It was something else

It was wilfully malicious, belligerent.

Clearly, this bird has been studying the people around here — or possibly practicing for a career in journalism.

(Incidentally, when I was a lad, my friend Frederick and I used to play a little game with a blackbird who had built a nest in the tree alongside our house. The blackbird — whom we named “Bullseye” — was very protective of that ill-chosen location, and as we flicked a lower branch and ran past — hey, the blackbird started it! — it would SWOOP at our heads, missing by a narrow inch or three. We used to joke that Bullseye would part our hair for us. She never did hit us, however now I like to think that she was only waiting for that moment to arise.)

As it would with many of the people around here, any sort of contact prompts thoughts of what tiny and unwelcome creatures might end up transferred — in the case of the bird, from its plumage to my own. (Most of my friends are crazy-neurotic germophobes; I’m not, but I don’t like the notion of playing chauffeur to mites, either.)

Guess I’ll go wash my hair again. Considering how almost literally everybody around here (or their Mexicans) constantly (and quite uselessly) hoses down their driveways (probably at a rate of about a glacier a week), I feel absolutely zero environmental shame about bathing frequently.

In this respect (and plenty more), I am very, very different from most Germans I have encountered.

Hey, speaking of the middle of Europe — I didn’t like Germany very much. Germany is kinda yicky. (I don’t consider myself even remotely German.) But just north of there, I had a great time in Sweden. This connects, incidentally…

The first movie I saw on a big screen in Sweden was:

Bird.

I honestly think it’s one of the best things that Clint Eastwood ever did (apart from Sondra Locke) — and it’s particularly enjoyable with Swedish subtitles filling up the bottom of the frame. (Unlike many of their neighbours to the south, the Swedes have the good sense not to dub their imported films for domestic release. Bless them.) I recall fondly the moment when Parker kind of meets Stravinsky. Reminds me of my own encounters with Ray Bradbury (except that I don’t bother the man at home). Great stuff.

Okay, I’m off to go soak my head.

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05.29.06

Exquisitely Bored In California

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 2:17 pm by Gregory

Yep, another Townshend reference. (All The Best Cowboys… was quite a long time before the fool decided to do very stupid things and get ‘imsewf arrested.)

In the natural foods market today, I notice that Paul Simon, k.d. lang and Jewel “I’m An Idiot” Kilcher all have new albums out…and I don’t actually care. Maybe I care 2% for Simon, but Kilcher has long since blown any hopes of receiving good will for her “cute widdle spiritual me” schtick, and lang…whatever. Simon gets my attention for the moment, due to writing oodles of smart songs and bemusedly repeating the word “smelted” on SNL, way back when it was at all worth watching.

Speaking of cowboys and Kilcher, though — remember that song by that woman who was essentially Kilcher with a suckier manager, called “Where Did All The Cowboys Went?” or whatever? I have for years wanted to answer that song:

WHO CARES?

Anyway, the only thing of any real interest in that Starbucks-like mini-rack of non-moving CD impulse-units is Neil Young’s latest, which does indeed contain a track entitled, “Let’s Impeach the ‘president’” (lower-case and extra quotes mine).

Hooray for that!

Otherwise…bleh. Hot and hideous out there. It’s the sort of weather that stupid people adore and I do not. They can have it.

Today is also the unofficial first day of “summer.” I find this particularly (and sadly) amusing: That not even the proven 23.4-degree relative tilt of the Earth which puts the Northern Hemisphere’s actual beginning of Summer about three weeks into June is safe from those demonic marketing executives.

Next thing you know, they’ll be telling us that the Aphelion is on the 4th of July!

(oops…well…apparently that is; but they’re still damned wrong about the “summer” thing)

And me?

I notice today, very acutely, that the primary culture in this area is not Creativity, nor Music (of any real sort), nor Romance (ditto), nor general Civility & Courtesy, nor any of the Arts I find vital. The primary “culture” around here seems to be driving around in overpriced status vehicles en route to honking needlessly at other people doing the same — with a side-dish of ENDLESS leaf-blowers, emergency sirens and chronic POWER-SAWING (the hell of the last being particularly nerve-shredding; it’s like “living” inside a dentist’s drill all day, every day).

To put a fine point on it:

Assholeland!

Indeed, there may be some reason to be here, suiting some of the people — however, I’m really not perceiving what this could be. On a personal level, I can’t see any reason to stick around and pretend anymore: My hard-earned job was stolen, most of my “friends” here are “screenwriters” (listed in the thesaurus, under “absent” ), I’m waiting for well over a dozen people to get back to me who, in a courteous world, would (thus). Plus I’m sick of inhaling pollutants all the time and bearing the constant rudeness of this “community.”

It’s been an interesting ride, but I’m happy to get off and walk away now.

Too bad everything sucks here. I mean — at least it’s not the Midwest — but it would have been nice to think that these many years were not a total waste.

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05.27.06

Washing My Hand

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 3:25 pm by Gregory

I sit down to type this entry after having just washed my hands — the right one in particular. It was vigourously shaken and uncomfortably prolongedly clasped, twice each, by two insanely aggressive women a few minutes ago. Regular readers of this journal may surmise that I have issues with women, and while this may be true, the problems mostly stem from women in this general area being obnoxious to the point of utter intolerability.

If it’s any consolation, it’s probably more about the region than the gender; if I were female or gay, I’d be saying much worse things about the men around here.

Anyway, whilst walking today under the bludgeoning sunglare, I felt that uncomfortable feeling that the mildly psychic get upon sensing that they are being followed. I realized that I was being followed, so I stopped and pretended to find my current location fascinating (it wasn’t), in order for my pursuers to find themselves in short order no longer following me, but beside me or in front of me. Suddenly, two women leapt upon me — not literally — but socially-speaking, this was the effect. In order to refrain, for a few moments, from character-assassination, I shall simply refer to them as Woman #1 and Woman #2.

The interaction, while paraphrased and truncated below, essentially went like this:

WOMAN #1: HI!!! How are you today?!?!

ME (flatly): Fine. You.

My hand is suddenly seized and shaken and held prolongedly. I do not like this.

WOMAN #2: Hi-i-i-i-i-i-i-eeeeee!!!

ME (flatly): Hi.

WOMAN #1: Were you shooting video? Because we saw you walk by and it looked like you were shooting video, were you shooting video?

ME (suddenly feeling quite comfortable with lying to these two, plus flatly): No. I was just shooting some pictures. The area keeps changing and everything keeps closing, so I take pictures as it does.

(I have taken an instant dislike to these two, however even the lie is pretty close to the truth: Video is, essentially, “pictures,” and I really do mark the passing of various eras thusly.)

The two women have now maneuvered themselves so as to be blocking the direction I was heading.

WOMAN #1: Oh, because it looked like you were shooting video! Hey, it’s not so bad having two women chase you down the street , huh!? Ha-ha!!?!

Woman #1 and Woman #2 introduce themselves to me. I instantly forget their names.

I begin wondering how much of a leap it would take to land atop a nearby building. Probably too much of a leap. Or perhaps I could outrun them. Yes, I could probably outrun them. As a compromise, I decide to keep my dark sunglasses on. I do this, except for rare slips or when it’s blinding out, when I do not like the person addressing me.

There follow many, many, many syllables about taking pictures and such, and I mention a recently closed restaurant and my feeling about the neighborhood going to shit around us. I assure them several times — because they admit repeatedly that they are paranoid — that I am not with any organization or group set on spying on them. The following dialogue clarifies the situation:

WOMAN #1: Because we work at the new cafe… (blah, blah, blah…)

WOMAN #2: I’m the owner, and we’d love to have you come in and take all the pictures you want — as long as you email them to me! (fumbles) …so I can see how it looks!

This woman’s false enthusiasm is curdling now. I feel an urge to scrape myself. I say nothing.

WOMAN #2: My husband and I took over and we’ve had all these problems getting set up, and now we’re paranoid that you, that somebody, that–

WOMAN #1 (diving for an assist): The previous owners chose to leave! That was their decision!

WOMAN #1 (lamely, but still beaming): Yeah, we’re not those people! (changes tack) You should come in! We have (names several items on menu)!!! You should check it out!

ME (not sincerely at all, and without any friendly tone whatsoever, and entirely as a means of closure, that I may escape this nauseating situation…plus flatly): I wish you well.

I attempt to turn, and once again find my hand seized, and held.

WOMAN #1: It’s so nice to meet you! You’ve got to come in and see us sometime!

(Woman #1 holds my hand for a few hours. I hate it.)

WOMAN #2: Yeah, really good to meet you!

(Woman #2, perhaps due to having a husband, holds my hand for only slightly more than a reasonable amount of time.)

ME (flatly): Yeah, see ya in yoga, you fucking fakes.

(Okay, I didn’t actually say that, but it would have been a lot of fun to say that.)

Woman #1 and Woman #2 turn to go back to their cafe. As they turn, I hear — obviously for my “benefit” — the following:

ONE OF THE WOMEN: He’s so SWEET!

Then they’re gone. This is one of those moments in which the absence of female company feels much, much better than female company does. (If you think that’s harsh, be glad I haven’t described these women.)

And then I turned and walked back to my charming little non-existence in order to type this. I truly hate holidays, but I especially hate stupid holidays (”Hooray! We collectively escaped culture and civility, and countless people died in the process! To commemorate the corpses of the countless dead, let’s roast slaughtered animals and eat them! WHEE!”), and all of the above is made much worse when experienced in a part of the world that goes out of its way to SUH-SUH-SUH-SUH-SUH-SUCK!

Somebody’s gotta say something.

What catalyzed this awkward encounter? I was shooting video, of course. Not very much video — a few seconds, whilst walking — and nothing particularly good, but more as a symbolic point of reference:

On 27 December of last year, the aforementioned cafe closed without warning — not even to its own dedicated employees, who very abruptly found themselves unemployed and out on their asses for the holidays. (Having experienced this manipulation firsthand from the evil shits who now run “Village Voice Media” — who have damaged many lives, including my own, with their careless and selfish and deeply shitty ways — I do not take kindly to it, at all.)

Years ago, I performed (albeit, alongside an idiotic wannabe) in said cafe. More recently, while the place has still attracted its share of idiotic wannabes, I have taken nourishment and occasionally even solace there. Unlike the other businesses around here, it was still mildly funky, and real. The food was good. And the employees were, without fail, good company. A good company! And then, instantaneously and very, very, very rudely: No Company At All.

Gone.

I have seen too much of this.

(Incidentally, it should be noted that the previous owners know and respect the current owners, who took possession of the business with the understanding that the employees’ asses would abruptly hit the pavement.)

Would you like to know the real root of this problem? The root of this problem is Baby Boomers — greedy, shitty, unconscionable Baby Boomers. In my experience, I have met about half a dozen Baby Boomers, total, whom I respect and appreciate. The rest can burn eternally in Hell. Check your stocks, run some more smart, struggling Gen-Xers into the ground (then, once you’ve exhausted them, fire them!), check your stocks again, ignore your kids, buy up all the good properties and communte among them in your motherfucking SUVs, have another fucking toke on the ol’ peace-pipe, and then — C’mon, people now! — drown yourselves in acid, you slime.

I hope I’m making myself clear.

(*Note, not “Clear”-clear; merely “comprehensible.”)

I shot some video of sci-fi robots last night, and the vid-cam was still in my bag today. Walking back from lunch, noting that the Evil Cafe had reopened its unholy maw, I decided, on the fly, to shoot a bit of video as I walked past. Nothing particularly thrilling, nor at all invasive. Just noting the presence of the new guard, and remembering the people who got sacked for doing good work in there before. For good measure, I managed to get a shot of their new sign with my own hand flipping the finger in the foreground.

Good riddance to bad rubbish.

As one of the very few pop music enterprises we used to be able to trust — The Who — put it (in the title, at least):

(We) “Won’t Get Fooled Again” (!)

As I reached the first intersection of several (the women, in tandem, followed me quite a distance), I noticed Woman #1 standing beside me, grinning insanely, but when the light changed, I crossed and she did not. That must have been when she ran back to get Woman #2. At that sun-blasted moment on the corner, I figured that Woman #1 was merely a prostitute, albeit one with no concept of the general aesthetics and temporal logistics of that particular career-path. Of course, I had no way of knowing that she’d be representing an even uglier social malady.

ADDENDUM:

“I apologize to all of you who are the same age as my grandchildren. And many of you reading this are probably the same age as my grandchildren. They, like you, are being royally shafted and lied to by our Baby Boomer corporations and government.”

-Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country

Mr. Vonnegut also told Life magazine (ironically, probably owned and operated by Boomers) that Boomers are “the most conceited generation in history,” also saying that they’re “bright, but I’m not sure they’re competent.”

(Speaking from the other side of the generational wasteland, I suggest that “bright” — even delivered via the left hand — is far too generous.)

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05.25.06

The Devil’s Fishbowl

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:11 pm by Gregory

Television, say you love me

Television, say you care

Loneliness is my profession

Show me those who are not there…

-Robyn Hitchcock, “Television”

Yes, approximately twenty-four hours ago, I was watching television. This really is quite rare for me. Much like junk food or god-damned terrible radio, I overdosed on television when I was an impressionable little human, and now that I am an impressionable big human I partake of these things very, very rarely. Motion Pictures On The Big Screen — frequently. Television — almost never.

(Incidentally, this is why some wannabe movie critics still on the payroll suck, and why I do not; I usually know what I’m talking about.)

Last night I could have been doing beautiful things. I could have been doing a beautiful someone. I could have been, at least, scrubbing things in the bathroom. Or finishing my review of the latest big-budget sequel. But I was watching television. Why? This is kind of funny…

I was watching television because, whilst eating junk-food (actually, it was a chocolate bar and some adzuki bean cakes) and driving around semi-pointlessly so as to further pollute the atmosphere of this rapidly declining planet, I mistakenly switched on the god-damned radio, et voilà! — advertisements for television things.

Grand slam!

I noted that the “season finales” of both Lost and American Idol (synonymous, if you ask me) would be running concurrently, and I thought to myself: “Splendid! Now — apart from 24 — I shall have my opportunity to see what the hell people are doing with themselves in the evening when they could be doing something useful!”

As David Byrne sang (back when movies and their soundtracks had anything to do with one another): “I was born in a house with the television always on…” Me too. I have since grown to hate the god-damned thing, 99% of the time. My next-door neighbour leaves his TV on — WITH THUDDING BASS — around the clock (and he’s the least bothersome of my neighbors); apart from hosting guests briefly in March, I haven’t slept in my bedroom since October. It’s just too ghastly, being forced to tune in to somebody else’s television, inches from one’s head.

It’s for reasons like this that I absolutely never worry about “going to Hell” — I am quite certain that we are already there.

Anyway, I guess I owe my present condition to my past, given that I began working in television comedy when I was a teenager.

Karma: It may not be instant, but it is going to get you.

Stupid people love American Idol, and seemingly smart people love Lost, so I figured that somewhere in there would be something for me. While I would always prefer to catch the very beginning of a Motion Picture On The Big Screen, I do not wet my pants in misery about walking in near enough to the beginning, and this general attitude may be transcribed to my television viewing experience. Thus, with very little enthusiasm, I tuned in a few minutes late, and switched back and forth between American Idol and Lost. This is what I perceived:

First of all, American network television is motherfucking unbearably terrible and should be banned or at least slapped with a Surgeon General’s warning, flashing up every ten seconds, reading: WARNING: YOUR TIME, ENERGY AND INSPIRATION ARE BEING ROBBED FROM YOU THIS VERY SECOND BY INSANE ASSHOLES BENT ON THE DEMOLITION OF YOUR BRAIN! THROW A BRICK AT THE SCREEN IMMEDIATELY OR RISK PERMANENT, IRREVERSIBLE DAMAGE!

Proceeding from that, I can tell you that I didn’t like Lost. I know, I know, it’s “brilliant” and “you’ve got to give it time and really get into it” and whatever. No, no and no. From the first second I glimpsed the shooting “style” I define as Crap-Cam, I lost interest. Handheld? Fine. Steadicam? Better. Professional fluidity? Best of all! But “professional” shakiness? Absolute shit, total headache, and you’ve “Lost” me indeed!

“But that style is intended to convey the internal tension of the–”

Shut up.

It sucks.

As for the characters, they just looked like TV-actors overacting. One of the worst things an actor can do, in my opinion, is to go for “freaking out” as their default setting. Young directors (several I know personally) tend to aim for this…um…”quality.” I didn’t watch enough of Lost to judge fairly whether or not some of these actors have skills, however what I did see was a lot of mediocre television types “freaking out.” You know: “Man! We gotta get outta here, man!” Boring.

As for the hooks, I can see, in theory, why people like the show. Oogy mysteries and strange goings-on and whatnot. However, my gut-reaction was that the writers-creators are sorta making up things as they go. Fair enough, but that doesn’t sate me personally. I liked the big four-toed foot, though. That was nice.

Meanwhile, over on American Idol, I felt essentially as though I were observing an excessively overproduced episode of Star Search…which, in fact, I was. Show me real musicians playing a real show, and I am thrilled. Show me wannabes attempting to make the world love them over saccharine overproducedness, and a little tickle of the ol’ gag reflex starts to make itself known.

I must say, however, to be fair, that both finalists are talented and charismatic. I tuned in a couple of months ago, specifically because Queen+Paul Rodgers were touring and stopped in (to Anaheim) to partake of that wonderful A.I. feeling, thus, briefly, I cared a little. I was at a friend’s apartment and while he was very kindly editing a demo reel for me for a newscasting job I don’t actually want (more television; more fakery!), I beheld the current contestants having a bash at classic Queen tunes — which I happen to love more than ever, thank you very much. I expected to be a bit sickened, and partly I was — it’s like watching white men dancing to funk, it’s embarrassing for me. Likewise, watching card-carrying members of The Great Unwashed attempting to fill in for Freddie? That’s very, very awkward.

In the midst of some of the foulness, however, I noticed that McPhee girl. She’s good! Of course, when the contestants were later asked who at home was deserving of their love, and she said her dog, I remembered how most young women are, in fact, intolerably stupid. Purely as a singer, however, I was genuinely impressed — even moved — by her soulful take on “Who Wants To Live Forever.”

Last night, I figured for sure that she’d win — females always win in entertainment enterprises (it’s a profitable move, and the producers know that) — but then the prematurely grey guy, Hicks, grabbed the prize. Well, fine. He seems like a nice person, and he clearly loves performing.

I couldn’t stand watching the rest of it, and kept flipping back to Lost. The dipshit judges? The thousand-year-old Michael Jackson mockery? Burt MF’n Bacharach? The Entertainer Known Again As Prince Who Formerly Was Not A Stupid Cheeseball Caricature Of Himself? I couldn’t bear to look!

Of course, the real reason I was watching — the real reason everybody was watching — was to see and absorb the commercials, the adverts, the bullshit-o-rama. I’m pretty sure I had nightmares involving the words “Memorial,” “Day” and “Sale!” I gawped in horror at commercials for stupid, obvious items which somehow merited more special effects than one used to find in entire sci-fi films. And I laughed deeply and heartily at the commercials which firmly suggested that if we simply buy the product on offer — most often that ultimate symbol of Truth, Justice and The American Way, the motherfucking car – then all races will get along swimmingly forevermore, Amen.

Gimme that brick. Gimme ten bricks.

Did I see anything I actually liked?

Yes, a couple of things.

One of them was surprising: I started out being sickened, then transformed to going “Ohh…” in a very, very vaguely hopeful manner. It was, of course, yet another commercial promising that Buying A New Car Will Make Your Pathetic Life Seem To Be Worth Living, and — horrors? — it featured that hit from Dire Straits with Gordon Sumner, all about making “money for nothing.” At first I was shocked: Did no-one note the terrible dearth (and death!) of irony in using this song for a motherfucking car commercial? And then I sort of (sort of) got it: The commercial was promoting a Japanese manufacturer’s line of sorta fuel-efficient electric-combustion hybrid vehicles. Not a huge step forward, but definitely not a step backward. Mark Knopfler and Gordon Sumner wowed me a whole lot more twenty-one years ago when they performed this song in London in hopes of feeding starving people, but at least they’re probably not losing sleep while collecting the cheques for this deal.

The other thing I liked was another white, wealthy person who strives to help poor, often non-white people. On the evening news immediately following the other crap, first we learned that a seventeen year-old girl’s kidnapped baby had been discovered in the possession of two much older women a long way away, and then we saw flashes of the American Idol celebrations going on a few miles away in overwrought shopping plazas in Hollywood and Universal City, and then we were teased with “secrets” of next season’s Lost (presented by a couple of very wealthy producers who appeared to know very little about where their own show was headed — they didn’t seem coy; they seemed oblivious), and then…

We got Daryl Hannah.

I like Daryl Hannah.

I didn’t realize I liked Daryl Hannah until 2004, when I was invited to attend the press junket for that second instalment of that slightly revisionist chop-socky movie made by that overrated guy who became extremely rich and famous in the 1990s. Daryl Hannah sat down with us and began to speak — about her life, her worldly concerns, her bio-diesel vehicles, and many other things. I didn’t realize she’s smart and compassionate! She’s blonde! I’ll tell ya, I went away from those moments with a whole new level of respect for Pris, Your Basic Pleasure Model. A brief blur of time later, Daryl attended the afterparty for the premiere of Mayor of the Sunset Strip — the documentary about Pop Music Genius Rodney Bingenheimer, who, notably, represents one very, very good reason to like listening to the radio — and I really wish I had said hello to her, and possibly carried her away over my shoulder. She was sitting with friends in the corner of the penthouse level of “The Riot House” on the Sunset Strip, and intervening seemed rude, so I didn’t. However, I would like to say that I’m glad she’s around. A recent interview in a “healthy living” magazine I picked up at a “healthy market” re-confirmed my suspicions that she’s a cool lady.

Adding further credibility, Daryl appeared on the news — along with Joan Baez — to lend her voice and image (and knowledge of the facts) to protecting an urban community farm located somewhere in the concrete jungle of south L.A. The aerial image of the scene looked pretty hopeless — all grey but for a small square of green — however the case is worthy of consideration: The owner of the property — who has allowed locals to farm their own crops upon it (presumably in the layers of automotive soot; does L.A. have topsoil?) — has decided to sell the property in order for a warehouse to be built. Daryl pointed out that there are three local warehouses currently sitting vacant. But of course the real issue is money: The owner wants $16 mil; the locals have somehow come up with $6 mil. I’m pretty sure that together Joan and Daryl could buy the property, write it off, and give it to the locals (or invite them to farm on their property in Colorado, or whatever), however at least they showed up to say something useful.

After a long night of viewing useless crap, I certainly appreciated that.

Anyway, there’s my perception of television. Don’t expect a lot of entries like this one.

Your Caption Here:

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05.24.06

The Academy Awards

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 4:51 am by Gregory

I’m already beginning to notice that these “blogs” can function as a sort of security blanket for people who either don’t get enough attention, or for people who used to get more attention than they do now, thus they feel that by pouring out endless mediocre verbiage via this medium they’re perhaps somehow striking a fair balance with the world. (Hey, beats begging for attention via a Namibian birth surrounded by lions.) I could be accused of all this (apart from the birth, Namibia and the lions — I am thus far responsible for none of the above), however the reason I’m typing this now, in the middle of the night, when I’d rather be working on something good and/or just generally wanking as is the fashion among my non-existant demographic in no-longer-trendy SoCal these days, is that it has been almost exactly three weeks since I dropped off two lovely guests after an evening at The Academy of Science Fiction, Fantasy & Horror Films’ annual Saturn Awards ceremony, and I like symmetry. It was on a Tuesday, and this is sort of a Tuesday (albeit technically very early on a Wednesday — except just a bit to the left of the Dateline, where it’s already late on a Wednesday), and thus I can feel it right now. So I’ll stay up and tell you a little bit about the experience (although the pictures will have to wait until later to be added). Also, on a related note, I intend to review X-Men: The “Last” Stand on Wednesday proper, and with my life in Chaos and many projects simmering, there’s only so much utterly unpaid tapping that fits into a day.

I haven’t gotten (nor sought) approval to use the Actual Names of my two luscious dates for the ceremony, but if I do, I’ll insert them. In the meantime, I shall call them Lola and Sarah.

Lola and Sarah are a whole story unto themselves. For simplicity here, only note that they’re goregous, creative, good company, and make a fellow feel like a billion pounds. Not meaning heavy, but rather the two are British, and they come from a region I happen to like a lot. Life usually sucks around here so much that I almost cease being relentlessly witty, thus when these two suddenly appeared — and they’re quite unique individuals, too, Lola being a fine writer and Sarah being dedicated to makeup and special effects — I suddenly found myself smiling for real.

Kindred spirits! Pretty ones!

Lola made it clear that although the two had many goals around L.A. during their stay — it was her first time in America at all! — her primary hope was to attend the Saturn Awards.

This put me on an immediate track to Paulino — and I hope he doesn’t mind that I name-check him — who was my production partner in film school, and a fine one at that. Paulino stays in touch. Paulino is a fine writer and director. I like Paulino.

Via some miracle — for the Saturn Awards is a very popular event which usually books up solid, months in advance — Paulino was able to put me in touch with the Academy’s president, Robert Holguin. Robert, who has been involved with the Academy for many years, took over the reins when its beloved founder, Dr. Donald Reed, beamed into another dimension in 2001 (not the movie, the year — according to some calendars, anyway). The challenge still lay before us, though: I was told that there were two cancellations, not three. One of us would have to miss the event.

I was prepared to be that one, however Magic intervened again, and Robert was not only able to get Lola, Sarah and me into the event, he was able to seat us together at a table with a prime view. For the event — much like L.A. Press Club awards ceremonies I used to attend back before the whole thing became a sad reminder of a dead young friend — was set up like a high-tech wedding reception, in the banquet room of the Universal Hilton. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The main point here is: Thank you, Robert! And thank you, Paulino!

We arrived at the hotel and marched through the very long lobby, and although I was feeling personally downtrodden, I felt pleased to be with such fine company and quite happy that we could all enjoy a ceremony dedicated (almost) exclusively to what is called (even by the Academy itself) “genre entertainment.” I find that term quite weird and limiting, for what we’re really enjoying is Storytelling, in the oldest and richest sense. Anything goes! It doesn’t have to be DeNiro running around kvetching anymore, to be considered valuable! (Although, notably, even he has gotten onboard — literally — as “Captain Shakespeare” in Paramount’s bid to join the fantasy-film money parade, with Stardust. I’m not feeling totally confident about that enterprise, but the thing is based on a faux-Victorian fantasy novel by the very talented Neil Gaiman, and the British locations are quite sweet. Ladies, why aren’t you simply trying to work on that? But I digress. I spent an entire week making a demo-reel to play “Lord Primus” in the project, and Neil Gaiman himself even emailed me about it — within an hour, on a Monday morning, not knowing me from Adam! Why give the role to Alfred Molina? — whose birthday happens, by coincidence, to be today — give it to me! But I digress again.) Yes, if they’re calling it “genre entertainment,” then I love “genre entertainment” — however I also think it is so very much more.

There were a lot of photographers and some autograph hounds lurking at the front entrance, and the ladies didn’t seem interested in that scene (I would be!), thus we made for the large and somewhat crowded waiting lounge, where we learned that the event was sponsored by the DVD of Hollow Man 2 (don’t get me started), and we queued up for glowing green drinks which supposedly make one invisible. They didn’t. However, since the ladies are British, having a drink in hand is akin to my saying, “My alveoli would enjoy a spot of oxygen, dearie.” We all had reasonable comforts. And nobody was allowed to smoke. Ha-ha!

Withinn the room, Sarah immediately noted the presence of Jennifer Carpenter, who wore a pretty dress and apparently did unpretty things in The Exorcism of Emily Rose. I think that came out last summer, which was typically depressing for me. I almost saw it, but didn’t. That bus down Wilshire was just too much that evening. However, Sarah saw it, and liked it a lot. She expressed a pining for a photo with Jennifer. I was happy to oblige, and encouraged asking her now, knowing that nobody is ever around when you want to see them later (and, indeed, she wasn’t). Alas, they missed their opportunity. However they did get a nice photo with Ernie Hudson, he of Ghostbusters fame (”I LO-O-O-OVE THIS TOWN!”) and The Crow fame (”Looks like he zigged when he shoulda zagged.”) It’s a good photo.

Speaking of which, I did a bit of a spin in the lounge and noticed that producer Rick McCallum was but a few heads behind us in the drinks-queue. I admit to mixed feelings about McCallum, because a friend and I have had dinner and meetings with Gary Kurtz a couple of times (years ago, sigh) and I like Gary and what he brought to Star Wars — which seems, via hindsight, to have been narrative discipline. Unlike many of my sorta-peers, I enjoy The Prequels (even despite my significant snark), however I really didn’t know anything about McCallum and for a while I wondered if he was simply Lucas’ excessively enabling lover. When I saw him in person, though, I immediately liked him and felt pleased that he was there. Partly because it probably meant that his movie, Sith, would win Best Science Fiction Film — which it did. (Is it even sci-fi, really? This is, once again, an entire topic unto itself. But bravo.)

All this while — and throughout the evening — I was worrying a bit: Where was Paulino? An enthusiastic supporter of the Academy and a confirmed guest, how could he not be there? Egad!

Likewise, director Bryan Singer. It still cracks me up to type that: “Director Bryan Singer.” Not because he’s not a director, but simply because, to me, he’s the guy who always sat at our table at meals at USC, whom I didn’t know that well but whose energy always topped the very significant peaks of emotion achievable by a bunch of movie geeks sitting around a table eating greasy pizza procured off plastic cards with meal-points along the magnietic strip. How we roared! And then I moved on. I hated the decade of the 1990’s very, very much, and somehow, during it, Bryan went from being “Bryan” to being “Director Bryan Singer” — or, actually, the title is fairly unnecessary in most circles. I saw his name on some “quiz” on a monitor at Circuit City recently, along with Peter Jackson and some other well-known industry name. Good work, Bryan. Actually, I mean that literally.

However…Director Bryan Singer, though promised to us, did not attend the event, nor did his Superman, Brandon Routh, who was due to receive an Up-And-Comer award from his director. Darn. But we did get to partake of the “world-premiere” of a trailer for Superman Returns. I have a lot of feelings about this (including about Christopher Reeve, whom my friend-who-knows-Gary-Kurtz and I encountered — surprise! — at a studio in Vancouver, years ago, just as the 1990’s were beginning to suck in earnest), however I shall save these for the review, as I’m seeing the film and attending the junket in early June.

The ladies and I found our way to Table 19, which, notably, was the only mostly-empty table in the large room, save for one man. He looked pleasant, so I asked him if the seats beside him were taken, and if not, if we could join him, so we could all face the stage. The man was happy to oblige (although, by happenstance, I, rather than a pretty lady, sat beside him).

“Hello,” he said, turning to me and extending his hand. “I’m David Naughton.”

My head spun, very, very briefly. I have met many, many celebrities and they don’t raise my blood pressure (anymore, and few ever did). However surprise is surprise. Here beside me was sitting an actor I had watched — on Beta tape! — let us say “quite a few” times in the absolutely terrific film, An American Werewolf In London. It’s a great movie, and he’s great in it.

Then came the second stunning realization: To my immediate right, the American Werewolf In London. To my direct left, Sarah, from near-London, specializing in creature-makeup and prosthetic effects.

Sarah did not really know the movie (it was made slightly before she was born!), however once I had whispered to her upwards of twenty times how Significant was the presence of Mr. Naughton in the great scheme of her career, I think she heard me.

As for David himself, he proved to be a very enjoyable conversationalist. We got to chat about films, modern communications technology, his career, the remains of my career, and even a scene from the television show Makin’ It which — really, this is true — occurred to me only a couple of days prior, as I was walking along, minding my own business. That I remembered Makin’ It at all seemed to surprise him, and that I could cite an actual scene seemed to push the limits of freaking him out, thus I left it at that. I simply wanted for him to feel comfortable and encouraged, since he was due to take the stage and present the award for Best Makeup.

Alas, he never returned to us after that. Perhaps he noticed me taking pictures of him onstage. If he ever happens to read this, he is welcome to them. I can promise you with confidence that I am not a Crazed David Naughton Fan. I simply liked the fellow.

Let us consider the food for a moment: Not so good. The most basic glob of chicken-flesh flopped onto some white rice, with what appeared to be Bird’s Eye frozen vegetables on the side. The sickly green salad dressing (another Hollow Man 2 nod?) was mildly amusing (even to the servers), however the dinner was drab; fast-food Chinese is much better. And for the “vegetarian option”? — they took away my plate and removed the chicken, then returned it. Ladies and gentlemen, I officially hate that.

If the dinner was mediocre, the event’s “host” was far, far worse. Picture if you will, the lousiest comedian in a strip-mall comedy club in a Detroit suburb. On a Sunday night. Got it? Okay, now remove all traces of personal grooming. Then give the bastard the foulest mouth this side of a Hollywood talent agency. I won’t name the guy, but he sucked, and was utterly wrong for such an occasion (even a relative neophyte like myself could see that).
Cases-in-point: The creep said such sickening things to porn-star-businesswoman Jenna Jameson — who was there for some reason — that she fled the room and never returned. His patter included a lot of rotten jokes, maybe one funny one, and a reference to Jameson performing oral sex on Dakota Fanning (who, like Naomi Watts, received her award via taped acceptance speech — and hey, with Watts, at least the sex-joke would’ve made sense — rather than merely being mean at an actual child’s expense).

I felt bad for Ray Harryhausen, who was present, front and center (with his handler-friend) to receive the George Pal Lifetime Achievement Award. At eighty-six, Mr. Harryhausen does not need to be subjected to a barrage of filth.

Gold Old Ray’s acceptance speech came late in the programme, and proved puzzlingly brief (he essentially plugged his latest book — something he’s been doing a lot lately, and lucky us! — and fled the stage). I don’t know how Lola felt about it. I don’t know how Sarah felt about it. However I was truly spellbound: The Ray Harryhausen stood before us, receiving an award named for George Pal — who was his pal! It’s a big and messy world, and if we are afforded a few moments to share with our childhood heroes, why not, why not?

As for the rest of the presentation — oh, I didn’t say this yet: I liked the Superman Returns trailer, and did a double-take when I heard Gene Hackman’s voice coming out of Kevin Fowler…er…Spacey — things went reasonably well. Having attended many comic and sci-fi conventions (though not nearly as many as some), I know the territory and the crowd. I felt genuinely enthused, overall — even when I had no idea who “that new Battlestar Galactica guy” was, among several others who took the stage to accept awards on behalf of other people who were not there. Seed of Chucky? Didn’t see it. Batman Begins as “Best Fantasy Film” — but wasn’t the whole point of that movie to “keep it real,” as they say? Hm. I’m no Shane Black fan, however he did make me chuckle when he accepted an award, “from the Academy of Science Fiction, Fantasy & Horror Films…for my crime film.” I’d also like to note that it was a treat to see Jon Favreau up there, for Zathura. I didn’t really notice until recently what a fine — and fun — director he is.

Overall, it was a well-produced and fluid presentation, and I was happy to be there. I’m sure many other reflections are possible, plus of course the reflections of the ladies, who were — in addition to “genre entertainment” — my raison d’etre for the evening. However once the show closed we headed for the Goodie Bag Distribution Counter (normally goodie bags confuse me with their mixture of pseudo-pricey swag, cutesy junk, useless coupons and Media From People You’ve Never Heard Of Before — however it must be said: The Academy of Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror Films packs an excellent Goodie Bag!) To name but three DVDs, I got Corpse Bride, Sarah got Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and Lola got that bitchin’ special edition of The Wizard of Oz. There was plenty more in there, too. Plus we call got Star Wars figures.

Speaking of which, en route to the car to drive up the hill, we ended up sharing a lift (a.k.a. “elevator”) with Rick McCallum (and his associate), with whom, on the spur of a moment, I asked to pose, in a fanboy photo. We were instructed by the ladies to say “Cheese!” and Mr. McCallum clearly did. It was a jolly time.

What followed was The Afterparty. Some brewery-bar thingy at Universal CityWalk (which we all likened to a giant pinball machine — that’s what it resemebles as one walks through the place). We mixed and mingled a bit. A guy with terrible halitosis who crashed the party went out of his way to hit on my dates, protractedly, and I was patient with him, as were they. There were lots of magazines lying about, and we snagged many of the sci-fi ones on the way out (plus I think Sarah took a Scream Queens). There were a couple of inside-track young directors there, too — one whom I find amusing and one whom I find annoying: They are clearly friends; that’s how it’s done. Oh, and Shane Black was there, too, and he refused to speak with Lola, and he has a very long hair growing out of the end of his nose, which very much demands tweezing.

Opting to take pride in my alma mater as well as in an unoffical Guest of Honour, I wore two pin-badges on my lapel: USC Cinema and Count Dooku from Star Wars. (For where would we be, without Christopher Lee?) An older gentleman approached me and inquired about the Lee badge, pointing at it. A lot of younger people would have taken that opportunity to flick my nose, but this man carried himself with dignity.

“Hello,” he said to me, “I’m Victor Lundin. ‘Lundin’ with a ‘U’ and an ‘I’.” He shook my hand and told me that I was in direct connection with centuries of European royalty, or somesuch. He was very nice. (He reminded me a lot of Irvin Kershner, whom I encountered earlier this year at some French films — in fact, if anybody ever makes The Irvin Kershner Story, I’d nominate Victor Lundin to play him!) Anyway, Mr. Lundin gave me a copy of his new movie, The Theory of Everything (which was also in the Goodie Bag, although I didn’t realize it until later) which I have yet to view, but I’m looking forward to it!

Victor said this (among probably many other people) to me:

“I was the first Klingon to be seen on Star Trek.”

And hey, it’s true! I just watched that episode the other night, and there he is!

I like it when things connect, and again I thank Paulino (who was simply feeling only-partly-beamed-up that evening), Robert Holguin and of course my two ravishing dates for making the evening such a beaut.

I drove the ladies to where they were staying, and soon after that they left the country.

Meanwhile, I wonder where I belong…and the concept of being Lost In Space feels quite relatable. I suppose that’s why there are “blogs.”

If you’d like a list of the winners of the Saturn Awards, by all means, have at it!

http://www.saturnawards.org/

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05.23.06

“I know how you think inside your mind!”

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 2:32 pm by Gregory

Prior to my most recent professional upset, I worked in a second-tier talent agency on the border of Beverly Hills. This lasted for over three years. Those years totally sucked. I dearly wish I had them back to do over again. However, as with many other aspects of my life, that time and those experiences are now fuel. “Inspired” by this article I just read

http://www.forbes.com/work/2006/05/03/business-basics-stupid-firing-cx_sr_0504sacked.html

here’s a little memory-flash:

Over time, I sat at every assistant-level desk in that agency, a position which essentially means that one is a slave, with the whips replaced by telephones. Sometimes in Southern California bars people engage in radio-station sponsored “games” called “Bladder Busters.” The object is to drink as much beer as you can while it’s cheap (or, less likely, free) and then hold one’s water as long as possible — risking permanent damage or who knows what. I don’t particularly like beer or not being allowed to do what’s natural, so I’ve never tried that, however I have worked as an assistant in many capacities in a very, very, very highly stressful talent agency. What this means is that if you hydrate yourself at all, you run the risk of being caught — non-stop — with literally half a dozen simultaneous, very obnoxious telephone calls, and no way — short of a catheter or the carpet — to relieve yourself until possibly hours later, when the telephones (mostly exploding with desperate wannabe actors and/or their sickening parents lost in impossible traffic on their way to almost certainly hopeless auditions) slow down a little. If they do.

The turnover of assistants in that place was astounding. They dropped like flies.

I recall one agent, named Cheryl, essentially whipping everyone with her deals until we were all totally exhausted, then dashing around for a few seconds with a box of (probably donated by a desperate actor) cookies, “generously” shouting, “Cookies? Cookies? Anybody want cookies?”

Fuck your cookies, Cheryl.

Yeah, it was was a tough job, and rarely a happy one (try being the receptionist and repeating the name of the company thousands of times until you lose the gift of comprehensible speech), however, eventually I moved over into the slightly less hellish financial cubicle (it wasn’t really a division — it was two pleasant financial guys and me). My job there was to receive hundreds of actors’ paychecks every day, skim off the agency’s percentage, then cut new checks minus the difference. My job was also to receive about a bazillion voice-mails every day, from struggling actors desperate for cash — notably trying not to sound struggling, nor desperate. (I tended to think of many of them as little baby birds, cheeping for the disproportionately large worms I was to divide and distribute.) Most were pretty nice to me. I know why, but their faux-cheer nonetheless helped with my otherwise grim day, as I was already being strangled by a tie and the hateful attitude of most of the agents, who shouted or rudely ignored me unless it was my “duty” to bring them their lunch for the company meeting once a week (and then they’d rudely tell me I had gotten their order wrong — Perhaps you’d like to go to Koo Koo Roo and correct the errors yourselves? Perhaps you’d like for me to chew your lunch for you, too?).

Damned agents.

There was one agent who greeted me almost every morning with: “I’ll fucking kill you” (snarled theatrically). Amusingly, he was actually hundreds of miles ahead of the other agents in terms of “friendly.”

It sucked there. Like many, I kept trying to find the dignity and professionalism in the situation (being browbeaten by one’s family to KEEP WORKING!!! at any cost doesn’t help) — but I certainly tried for too long. Somebody should have told me much earlier that there’s nothing to be gained from keeping one’s chin up on a peasant’s wages — especially among people who are stupider and ruder than oneself.

(Reflecting: Due to whatever business requirements, I had health care back then. The doctor I chose turned out to be a jerk. I don’t think I’ve had a checkup since: What was that, eight years ago now? Thank goodness I eat my vegetables.)

Anyway, the article above (the tone of which I do not like; Up Yours, Big Brother!) suddenly reminded me of how I wasted a few of the prime years of my life. Rats.

And the point was this: The place actually played a lot like a modern videogame, in which you scale increasingly difficult levels (keeping an eye on the “Bladder” readout) en route to “The Big Boss” at the end.

The funny thing was, “The Big Boss” at this place was an outrageously neurotic old man whose skin matched that of an overripe pumpkin. (Tanning addict?) The only friend I managed to salvage from that place — a fine fellow who wasn’t a typical L.A. flake and proved sophisticated and kind — has shared my joy in referring to that guy as “Dr. Zaius.” He looked like a god-damned ape! Were the man gentle and kind, none of this would have mattered. But he was arrogant and false and manipulative and unpleasant. I asked him for a raise once — a reasonable living wage was what I sought — and he told me, face to face, that we (the assistants) should be paying him, for all that terrific experience we were gaining by slaving for him.

Thus, although I respected him in terms of what vaguely resembled humanity, I did not like him as a person, and certainly not as an employer. I even wrote him a helpful letter, telling him that if he put even a fraction of the energy and money into keeping his assistants happy on the job that he put into constantly modifying his computer systems, he wouldn’t have the terrible turnover rates, and thus that time wasted on training wouldn’t be lost, and skills would sharpen, efficiency would increase, etc. He ignored the letter and invited me back to work for them again.

Then I became a professional film critic. As Neil Pye once said on The Young Ones: “Out of the frying pan…into another frying pan.”

Why is the world run by shitty, horrid people?

Oh yeah, the point: I always tried to maintain a comfortable distance from Dr. Zaius, to get on with my stupid work, and to withstand the outrageous buffets of profanity and obscenity launched by the agents and assistants. Have you seen director George Huang’s Swimming With Sharks? Apart from the ending — generally — that is what it’s really like in there. Still want to follow that dream to Hollywood? (Personal fave moment: An insane male assistant, perched on a stool in the supply room, shouted at a female assistant: “I’ll fucking piss on you if you don’t get the fuck out of my fucking way right the fuck now!” He then proceeded to unzip his fly, and she fled. He was not fired. I’ll bet he makes at least $300K per year now, and may be responsible for a few suicides.) I avoided as much of all that as I possibly could. One day I turned, however, and apparently on one of his frequent reconnaissance prowls to target and collect lint off the carpet (he once airlifted a dirty tissue and handed it to an assistant), there before me stood Dr. Zaius himself. “The Big Boss.” Inches away!

“I know how you think inside your mind!” he hissed at me.

This really happened.

That was it, and I probably only responded with a semi-stunned, “Well, okay” in a flat tone — but could the moment have been freakier? Creepy!

The thing is, then as now, I found my bliss in writing. Email was not technically new, however most civvies were still on dialup in the U.S., whereas company email was fast and sleek. I used it. I said what I felt. I have no regrets. However, upon reflection, I figure that what Dr. Zaius meant when he said that was that he had been reading the personal things I had been writing.

Well, Zaius, here’s my online journal. Now everybody may know how I think inside my mind!

Oh, and a parting shot for this entry: Although the dubious article cited above states that alcohol and one’s work (possibly even basic humanity and one’s work) may not make a good mix, it should be noted — and I have observed this many times — that Alcoholism and Lousy Journalism are quite complementary.

(P.S. Links don’t seem to work with this system; maybe that’s just as well.)

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05.22.06

NOODLE SANDWICH!

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 3:13 pm by Gregory

Drool, you silly carb-obsessives and wheat-phobics:

Goodness, it can be so easy to love the Japanese.

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05.21.06

Score!

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 5:30 pm by Gregory

Today the plan was to go get fossil fuel and put it into the automobile. Then, suddenly, it occurred to me:

Why do that?

I saw the fossil-fuel robbery-station quite clearly, but decided to keep walking. The day has been grey and pleasant (the sort of day that makes young women shout that they’re “cold” — and today they did, and I heard them, and I cordially wish them a nice long winter in Minneapolis).

It has been the sort of day in which one can feel adventurous and not stuck. The sort of day in which the horrid people stay indoors, and you can’t even hear them CAWING in the distance (what is it with the CAWING? Aren’t the crows enough?), and their honking horns are, for the moment, honking a lot less frequently. The sort of day in which the foliage can be appreciated, and the fragrance of the flowers. It has been the sort of day that gives me the illusion that I am happy.

I’ll take it!

In order to celebrate this mirage of joy, I decided that lunch was in order. I chose a place with excellent soup. I noted from the menu that corporate management has upped the price of one of the soup options, so I chose another. Silly corporate management! Did you think we wouldn’t notice?

The salad was also very good.

In the restaurant, while most people seemed concerned either with the blaring sportscast on the television or with their hair, I perused a copy of CFQ magazine. No, this is not Connecticut Fried Quail (or is it Quayle?) — that’s a different publication. Cinefantastique is a fun magazine — I really enjoy it. This particular issue gave good splash to Corpse Bride, which I like a lot. A fun and enthusiastic review followed the feature. I particularly enjoyed the deeply appreciative tone given to stop-motion legend Ray Harryhausen’s visit to the set in East London (which PseudoGoth marketing giant Tim Burton likens to “a penal colony” — I’ve been there, and no, it isn’t — but then again, I’m not filthy rich and delusional yet). Anyway, I have had the good fortune to encounter Mr. Harryhausen a few times, and in addition to being a genius of his craft, he’s one of very, very few elder men in the world I appreciate as “surrogate grandfathers” (for I never knew my own, nor they me). Good Old Ray doesn’t need to know this; it’s adequate that I do.

Not that all seniors are groovy, though…

Following the addition of Actual Nutrition to my system, I decided to pursue what is for me quite often an even bigger appetite. I headed over to the library’s fund-raising book sale. Words cannot express how much I love this. Women? Whatever. Books? Awesome!

As usual, a couple of elderly volunteers greeted me at the book sale. Little did I know, however, that my reputation with them was growing as was my armload of used books. When I finally approached the table to pay, the old man and the old woman fondled my selections, commented excessively upon them, seemed almost envious of me for having this radical and astonishing flash of inspiration: To Purchase Books At A Book Sale!

I have seen truly gluttonous types cart away boxes of books from these folks. By comparison, my load was rather light (I carried it in two bags, which proved ideal for arm-curls whilst walking). But by the way Mr. & Mrs. Old stared and spoke and prodded and poked, you’d think I was the one guy in the supplies queue in Communist Russia walking away with two rolls of toilet tissue.

(Already noting a theme emerging within this journal. Suits the “word” blog, IMHO.)

The long and short of it is that I emerged from an ostensibly happy afternoon with a lot of books that I like (plus the bonus of nobody actively making me feel like shit). Oh, and it gets better…

Baby, I scored.

For $1 — one dollar! — one of my favourite authors, living or dead (in this case, the latter, alas), hath bestowed upon me his Third Sequel, First Edition, and his signature.

Behold!

And the Blessed Bookplate:

Truly, ’tis a Sign.

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05.19.06

Talkin’ ‘Mer’kan

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 9:21 pm by Gregory

Big hubbub today over everybody in America having to learn English.  Why not Apache, too?  Isn’t that also “The National Language”?

Moreover, were I an immigrant (which I consider myself anyway) standing before this hideous excuse for a “president,” being told that I had to learn English, I’d reply:

“You first, pendejo.”

Personally, I don’t mind what you speak; just quit YELLING it. Knock the volume down about 80%, particularly where other people have to hear you. Please stop being retarded in at least this manner.

“I aim to be a competitive nation.” — George W. Bush, San Jose, Calif., 21 April, 2006

“I know what I believe. I will continue to articulate what I believe and what I believe — I believe what I believe is right.” — George W. Bush, in Rome, 22 July, 2001 (from The Pendejo Code, coming soon!)

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The Hand of God?

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 4:51 pm by Gregory

I rose today in Stupidland to note that my site and email were down. This, almost immediately after I posted my review of the movie of The Da Vinci Code. Getting to the movie Wednesday night was a chore in itself (I forgot to go to Cannes, so I went to the Cineramadome in Hollywood, which seems nearly as difficult to reach), and then I wrote about the thing. Last night — as a revelation of my current state of Spiritual Humility — I had two candy bars for dinner. Then I posted the review. Then, sometime after that, my monthly payment didn’t go through, so service was cut, and my review remained behnd the curtain.

Frankly, I’m exhausted from living in a world in which everybody constantly jabbers at the top of their lungs, but nobody ever really says anything. Thus, I always attempt to do my small part to Say Something. This particular movie, however, presents several thematic challenges. When you’re dealing with extremely charged religious notions and the people behind them, whose lives — in Rome, in D.C., in Hollywood — depend upon the ideologies they have chosen to sustain until rivers of blood course through the land, you’re automatically dealing with volatile material, regardless of how silly the movie can be.

Thus I wondered: Am I merely begging for hate-mail?

You see, I frequently encounter extremely hateful people. Rabid people. Not sure why. But it is really wearying. Some of these hateful people went out of their way to destroy the career I had been building, spiritedly, with them, for several years (thus the candy bars for dinner and the suspended account). I know for sure that I have met my quota of shitty, hateful people (Hello, Cleveland! Hello, Denver! Hello, Phoenix! Here’s a special code just for you — which your “editors” may be able to decipher within a few years if they get started now: !S-R-E-S-O-L Y-L-D-R-A-W-O-C U-O-Y ,T-I-H-S T-A-E), and yet…

When there’s Something to say, there’s Something to say.

Maybe I’ll publish any resulting Da Vinci Code hate-mail here. Or love-mail, as that happens too.

Anyway, the funny thing is that I called the representatives for my server today, and two of them — male, “urban,” surly, useless — went out of their way to sound stupid, to do nothing helpful, and to be utterly rude in the process. It was as if some Biblical prophesy were jinxing me, for their names were:

John! And Mark!

Blasted apostles and evangelists! Never trust ‘em.

In keeping with the cheap-but-present Feminist theme of The Da Vinci Code, I kept calling back until I got to speak to WOMEN. These women were efficient, helpful, polite and generally friendly of tone (obviously they don’t live around here). The damned “apostles” were gloating over me having to wait “24-72 hours” for service to be reconnected (what are you, Southern California Edison? Pac-Bell? Assholes?), whereas these two women were utterly Saintly about their work. They did what they promised they would do, they put me on hold in the nicest possible fashion, and when they returned, the Prophesy came to pass: I had my service back. In merest minutes.

The women even allowed me to use a friendly tone with them — one of life’s greatest gifts.

I am going to go out on a limb here and presume that these women do not spend their off-hours driving around with “Gangsta” blasting out of their cars. John and Mark, meanwhile, could scarcely form a sentence (let alone a gospel) between them.

The lesson: Sometimes “God” may obstruct you (and your work) with “His” hand, but at that point, it’s up to you: Do you accept this? Or do you move that hand out of the way?

As long as conscience and morality and kindness and compassion are considered, I say move that hand out of the way.

Et tu, John. Et tu, Mark.

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