05.31.06
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
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
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
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