08.31.06

Thor’s Day Filler

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:52 pm by Gregory

Hi.

Some strange but pleasant itinerant smoke-detector inspectors just entered my dwelling two hours before their scheduled time — and they got what this merits.

INSPECTORS

Central Services!

(…Central Services!…)

(*No, not really, but this would have amused me.)

ME

(feigning boredom)

Oh, yeah, y’know, I just emptied my storage space (*lie) and I’m, y’know, sorting through everything here (*lie)…well…everywhere (*not lie)…heh…what’s that? Broken? (*Fuck.) Wasn’t me. (*no, it really wasn’t me) Next week? (*Fuck!) Um, sure. Great. (*FUCK!) At least then you’ll be able to walk through here, ha-ha, BYE! (*Fuck.)

They were fine. It’s hot and I’m cluttered, though, and piles of books and musical things and rivulets of sweat do not beg unsolicited company, thus this is hardly the time to hassle me about smoke-detectors.

I don’t even burn incense very often.

Speaking of hippies, last night I viewed yet another music movie, Isn’t This Time!, subtitled A Concert Tribute to Harold Leventhal — because that is what it is.

Although twangy-funny Arlo Guthrie organised and co-headlined the event (the late Leventhal was his dad’s promoter as well as his own), “hippies” isn’t exactly the right word. Definitely “folkies,” though, as in 2003 Peter, Paul (Noel) & Mary as well as the original Weavers (in their 80s!) played Carnegie Hall with him and a bunch of other people (who would have thought that Arlo Guthrie would spawn the hottest female folk singer daughter the Earth could possibly imagine? Married, of course.)

Anyway, I got a big dose of Pete Seeger, which I greatly enjoyed. He and his group, they’re just terrific. This was the movie I would have wanted that Altman-Prairie movie to be. I’m not Mr. Folkie by any means, but it moved me.

Speaking of looking back, emails have been circulating regarding my 20th high school reunion next year. I suppose I should conclude that sentence with an exclamation point or some Smiley making a stupid face, but honestly I feel neither old nor young — I feel alive and unaware of why; age doesn’t enter into it. I have felt this way since I was about four and became consciously aware of how I was feeling. 

The emails have been sparse so far for such a long list of recipients, but some amusing suggestions have arisen (mostly from me — I guess most people are too busy to amuse others). Plus, via that delightful “Re:” feature, the overtly gay guy has already publicly insulted his twice-divorced friend over alleged alcoholism.

America: Land of Tact. Not.

To me this is simply added inspiration to find someone female and not clinically insane and to get married very quickly, so I don’t have to go stag and wander around after the bad dinner leering at the slightly wilted wallflowers I passed over the first (and second!) time around, intoning:

“Hey, I see you’ve failed, too — wanna dance?”

with an added shot of: 

“Oh, these are your four kids? Oh…six? How great! Hang on a second, I’m going to go see if I can get a hose to connect onto my exhaust pipe.”

Whee.

The announcement of this event brings me neither worry nor woe, however it does rather predictably establish a chart for Achievement Thus Far.

I consider living in America to be a lot like being trapped in the house of cookies by the stereotypical wicked witch: It wants to fatten you up so it can eat you.

Am I fat? I mean, metaphorically. I wonder.

Definitely nobody eating me.

Speaking of America and witches and Shocking Sexuality (yawn), tomorrow I’ll review The Wicker Man Remake, which apparently Warner Bros. didn’t allow anybody to see before that ever-so-vital opening weekend.

Of course, although it takes place in “Maine” or something, it was filmed in British Columbia, Canada. By a totally idiotic Mormon who thrives on cheap sensationalism. Starring a bald guy who wears a rug and makes millions of dollars for bellowing like a total dork.

I really know nothing of this remake and its plot, apart from what the trailer reveals. I am, however, willing to predict the following:

-Feminine spirituality will be made to look very, very creepy.

-The little girl Rowan essentially will be possessed in a Ring-Grudge-etc. kind of way (why else the creepy non-eyes in the poster art?).

-As with the movies of a friend of mine (I think?) who frequently obsesses over how bad girls really are inside, this movie will be about how bad girls really are inside.

-Nepotism Coppola — oops! — I mean Nicolas Cage will sacrifice himself willingly to purge the Rowan character of her possession-thingy.

-Ellen Burstyn is in it, and it’s made by a paranoid-delusional director; how could it possibly avoid Exorcist overtones?

-The bees will be stupid.

Those are my hunches, anyway.

This movie never should have been made — I see that Anchor Bay are dropping some coin to cross-promote the thoroughly brilliant original, but still — and thus I’ll likely not pay full price at midnight. Hullo, matinee.

Lunch.

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08.30.06

Odin’s Day

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 1:48 am by Gregory

Well, okay. The ripoff rent is almost paid and the review of the Bob “Dylan” movie was indeed completed to coincide with the much-marketed release of his latest whatever. I feel good to have moved so quickly through such a dense amount of material, and to have said what I really mean. (Who does this anymore? Not many.) Most amusing: I lacked paper at the long screening, so I wrote my notes with a fine-point Sharpie on the wrapper of a packet of “Veggie Turkey,” plus a receipt. Once I win a few Pulitzers, I may auction off these fine items, the better to purchase a villa.

Back when I was on comedy television, I was asked to host a mockumentary segment on “Hippie Hunting.” The gist was your typical Right Vs. Left thing, but it was funny anyway (this was twenty years ago). The Right were represented by redneck hunters (your pickup-truck drivers, your ‘Nam vets, kinda thing); the Left were represented by the quarry: the Hippies.

I mention this because in the sketch — which was shot outdoors and was actually rather ambitious for our little unit — one of the hunters (my friend Donnie), standing with a rifle outside a patch of trees, gestures to a boombox and cackles, “I just pop in this here Bob Dylan tape, and stand here and bag ‘em as they come a-runnin’ out!”

Culture.

Here. Here’s a shot I nabbed off the screen whilst watching the “Dylan” movie. I love how British girls say exactly what they mean (and, for some reason, need to be subtitled):

Heh.

(This was followed up by her friend opining, “He’s a fake neurotic” — whatever that means!)

As for me, I’ll be spending Odin’s Day cleaning my apartment. It needs it like you really wouldn’t believe. Then, in the afternoon, the Mexican men with their ROARING and utterly useless “gardening” equipment will swarm the perimeter, trimming bushes not needing trimming, cutting grass not needing cutting, chopping branches not needing chopping, and then, best of all, LOUDLY POWER-BLOWING ALL THE DUST AROUND FOR UPWARDS OF AN HOUR, TO THE BENEFIT OF NOBODY BUT OTOLOGISTS.

It really is strange: In Southern California, in the summer, when it is often unpleasantly hot, teams of men go around chopping all the shade out of the perilously rare shade trees. This used to make me very angry. Now it makes me want to stop looking. Like a lot of things.

I promise, though, in celebration of finally rising from my pit of despair here (BOYCOTT VILLAGE VOICE MEDIA), the next photo I post will be one of Beauty.

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08.29.06

This Space Is My Space…

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 1:38 am by Gregory

Monday was ugly as predicted (”You should manifest a better reality,” says the New Ager; “You should taste my shoe,” say I)…but it was survived. Typical hot madness. Insane place, insane people. I am tempted to live somewhere cold for a few years, but I’m afraid of turning into one of those people who then desperately attempt to re-enter the mainstream, with hideously embarrassing results. (Some people, indeed, can have it all, but this is because: A. They have a Support System; and B. They have A Lot Of Money. Presently, I’m as One-Man Band as it gets, and haven’t the luxury of winging off to Namibia or Bosnia for a Televised Celebrity Philanthropy Weekend Retreat & Adoptionpalooza.)

Hm.

Vaguely related (speaking of mainstream culture), the good people at Warner Bros. Publicity seem to have jettisoned me from their invite list. Darn. I like a lot of Warner Bros. movies — usually better than those of the other studios. They have the coolest lot, too (if you subtract the smog…and the Ocean’s sets).

Why do I suppose this jettisonedness? Well, last year those Doubleyabee-ers made danged sure to invite me to that vital Hazzard movie, and, in abject misery, I stayed up all night writing about it. Flash forward one beautifully spent twelve months and they did not invite me to “that beer movie” August-filler-garbage made by the same people — you know, the one allegedly taking place in “Europe” but actually shot in New Mexico.

A Sign!

Not that I wanted to go. I promise you, I did not, and do not. It just would have been nice to have had the option. As with Manoj Shamalamadingdong’s latest (also WB), I greeted the movie’s approach with a sense of dread and sadness.

Speaking of which, this week they’re releasing The Wicker Man Remake (this is how I intend to refer to it; otherwise, the heresy of its existence is simply too painful to bear), and frankly I’d rather not give its director or lead bozo any of my rather sparse money. But no invite for that, either.

Hm again.

Could it be that my non-money-spinning honesty regarding Superman Returns actually met with some displeasure? Enough for a few brief whispers (I promise, I do not overestimate my significance in this field) to get me pulled from the list? I have been on that list for a long time, after all.

Alas. I just found out that Spielberg owns CAA, too. I wonder if he owned it back when they very unceremoniously fired me (the only other time I’ve been thusly kicked out of the clique — also for working very hard and being honest, notably).

Hm hm hm.

Mailbag:

From a Pisces in St. Petersburg, Florida, USA,

Hi Gregory,

I have enjoyed your reviews online for a few years now (the first one I read was Ghost Dog), but now I see that you have your own site. Is this the only place you’re being published currently? I hope you do plenty more because you frequently make me laugh and you’re one of the only male critics who doesn’t seem like a total asshole! More!

-Tanya

Well, that feels good. Thank you. Tanya, are you single and smart enough to make me feel like it’s worth getting up to see you in the morning? (No offense; I’m presuming you are, the latter.) But to answer: Somewhere between two hours and two years ago (it’s hard to tell, really; it doesn’t even matter), some very shitty people went behind my back to get rid of me because I told them the truth about their utterly lousy “editing” skills — not to mention their utterly lousy social skills. Creeps. Tip For Journalistic-Minded Teens: You will have to lick control-freak anus if you’d like to stay in the game. I did not, thus I was shot down by the illiterate cowards.

Meanwhile, yes, there is Plenty More being cultivated, and kindly note that I am fertilising it with material such as this! (Note the robust smell.) These days, I don’t actually have a life, and the flakes have flaked, so things are moving along much more efficiently in the creative realm. Keep checking the site — holiday surprises await – thank you again, and blessings.

(By the way, a woman I should have married, or at least kissed, eighteen years ago, she and I sort of remained friends — haven’t heard from her in ages, of course — and whenever I close my correspondences to her with “Blessings,” she gets upset and tells me she doesn’t want “Blessings” and please do not do that anymore. I’m suspecting that she has an allergy to religion or something, but to me “Blessings” has and blessings have nothing to do with religion. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to do the right thing at the right time with the right person ever.)

(Hey, at least I’m not an inverted-penis “editor.”)

Moving on…

This is not a correspondence but an unsigned comment, thus its origins are unknown:

I was going through your archives, scant though they be. Do you like anything? Oh and Heath Ledger rocks!

Guessing moderately eloquent girl or gay man here. Um…

Without resorting to Steve Martin’s “What I Believe” or that Bull Durham speech (damn, that’s mouldy!), how to respond? Well, first things first:

I liked Heath a lot in A Knight’s Tale. I am sad that the marketing machine has cast him as The Joker. I wish him and his family well in Brooklyn and sincerely request permanent ownership of his house in Sydney.

As for “liking anything,” this is tricky. I like Billy Bragg a whole lot. Even though he’s an alleged Socialist on a Warner Bros. label (Elektra), I trust him (and shall bring him up, in reference to Woody Guthrie, in the Bob “Dylan” review I’ll finish tomorrow). Mr. Bragg has a line: “I can’t sleep with something I can’t fight” (from “Life With the Lions,” which I used as the theme for a stop-motion romance I directed back at USC).

I’m kind of like that. Not entirely like that — and I resolutely believe that fighting is a terrible idea when many of us are blessed with this thing called talking — but since I deeply feel that I do not belong anywhere, I feel a strong need to exist in a matrix (I’m stealing back that word!) of conflicting emotions and polar opposites. Listen to Sting poor and Sting rich. I prefer Sting poor. He wasn’t whistling Dixie out his arse at Oprah’s mountaintop retreat back then, segregated from the realities of living on Earth amongst the mortals. Likewise, although most of the humans around here are bugfuck and drive me bugfuck (there is such a thing as too much), as I am admittedly lonely and lost, they keep my mind busy enough that I avoid destroying myself from day to day. And then I write about it here and elsewhere. I don’t drink or do drugs, though, so a movie about me will be unlikely.

What do I actually like? I like dairy-free, dark-chocolate-covered almonds. And standing barefoot in cool water. And boobies. 

From somewhere in Alberta, this question from a kindly anonymous Taurus:

ur site needs work but mainly I’m wondering if u want to blog why not go on myspace where people will read it? no offense, just numbers.

I’m really glad somebody asked this. I’ve been trying to form a sensible opinion of MySpace but it has eluded me until now.

As a startup, I admired MySpace for the funky thing it was, courtesy of “Tom,” who is everybody’s friend.

Now that it’s owned by Rupert Who Is Most Decidedly Not Everybody’s Friend and whatever other dark forces, I find the whole concept a bit off — like, they’re using all the crazy kids as marionettes in their ugly business dance. (Plus I have a hard time reading “I Like David Bowie and Jack Black” over and over and over again.) This is a gut reaction without any facts to back it up, however my gut is almost always correct in steering me away from crappy movies, so I trust it.

Mainly it’s the MySpace interface: I find it ugly and jarring. I hate having some distorted guitar chord hit me every time I click on anything. More than that, I don’t like all the “LOOK AT ME, SEE HOW COOL I AM!” photos. There’s something sad about it, in my perception of it — as if high school lockers, which should be minor and mostly private and really no big deal — have been made Big Money and Public.

Aesthetically, I simply don’t find the setup pleasing.

However, of course I acknowledge that the site makes a lot of people happy (or at least “happy”), and maybe even affords them a few legitimate opportunities. I’m never against that. It just seems like something I would have gotten more excited about when I was either: A. Twelve; or B. Living somewhere terribly boring (it’s often hideous here, but it would be a trick to define this place as boring).

I’m not ruling out MySpace forever, but ”ur” right, this site needs more attention first (since as I said I don’t smoke pot, I find the design-process very tedious, whereas I can write to semi-planet Pluto and back before noon every day, and I get up late). Maybe eventually.

Meanwhile, I must say that I hate the way the word “friend” gets abused nowadays. Here’s a prime example both of that and of why I don’t feel particularly drawn to MySpace:

Um, “Add Crank as your ‘friend’“???? Exsqueeze you?

Enough. I feel like makin’ sleep. 

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08.28.06

There Is A Place In Hell For Me And My Friends

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 2:40 am by Gregory

What a week ahead. Fighting a big internal tug-of-war between Relocating Locally and Moving Very Far Away (an old conflict, but now with a quickly ticking clock), plus still overcoming the wretchedness of former employers (BOYCOTT VILLAGE VOICE MEDIA), plus being forced to give up hope and admit that people in L.A. simply become utterly self-absorbed creeps, plus attempting “Feng Shui” (not really — I’m not that much of a trendoid — however I have been living in “Wrong Shui” for too long), plus, well…

And looking back

We will forgive

(We had no choice

We always did)

-Morrissey,

“There’s A Place In Hell For Me And My Friends”

from Kill Uncle

Yeah, I am in the very uncomfortable position of having to forgive (or ultimately forget) a variety of people — mostly female — who have been nothing but terrible trouble really and remain insulting to this very day. I was even prepared to give a good review to an actress friend of mine — but then, on Saturday, incapable of receiving the news that some critics did not smooch her bottom over her newly-opened movie (Boo. Hoo.), she sent around a sickeningly self-absorbed email demanding praise and nastily slamming all critics for doing their job (which, I can assure you from hearty experience on both fronts, is a lot more difficult than fucking acting), and now I’m torn: Be friendly and generous…or…be honest?

(This is a lot like eventually not reviewing the terribly mediocre A History of Violence, which a former friend of mine adapted from a comic book and over which he kept loudly fellating himself. I was supportive, generally, but he, too, is a bitch, really. People in this place use you up, and then they move on. When movies and money and prestige get involved, it all ceases to be about the real things friendship is about. Ugh.)

Anyway, this is but one example. So if you’re considering moving to Southern California…DON’T. If you’re considering moving to America…DON’T DO THAT EITHER. People are too damned insane here.

I mean, look who’s “in charge.” Says it all. And badly.

I realise fully that spewing these feelings rather than pretending everything is grand will not make me or this journal-thing any more popular. However, it does feel incredibly good to be honest. I recommend it.

This week I’ll also be praising a few things and ripping the shit out of stupid old Bob “Dylan”: He’s overdue for it! 

In this spirit of honesty, on Sunday I reached an understanding regarding the soul of one of my sisters. As society has it, brothers are generally supposed to say wonderful things about their sisters, and to go around being all nice about them and whatever. But the truth is, my sisters have been useless and utterly unsupportive for me — always, but especially during times of suicide-baiting stress — despite a huge amount of energy on my part, expended over the years both for them and for their children.

So anyway, today I finally figured out who one of my sisters really is, deep down inside. Here, courtesy of those generous folks at Universal Pictures, is the spiritual illumination:

 (Wait for it…)

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08.27.06

Woodstock

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 10:41 am by Gregory

Thomas Dolby is active again. He’s outrageously self-absorbed (as usual), but there’s no denying the talent. I have enjoyed his exploits this year, especially since: A. He was one of the primary creative inspirations of my youth; and B. I figured he was gone (into ring-tone$) forever.

I mention this Tom Robertson because a good friend and I used to revel in his live tracks, and before one of them he shouted/pouted: “This is a song made famous by Joni Mitchell…AND IT’S NOT CALLED WOODSTOCK.”

We loved the syn-drums. We really didn’t care about Woodstock, or about Joni Mitchell for that matter. (It took me years to realize she was gently mocking her rich-gay friend David Geffen — allegedly the penis that launched Keanu Reeves’ career.)

Over the years I have grown to appreciate Joni Mitchell. She has done some nice things. I sing her songs sometimes.

Until last night, however, I had never seen Woodstock (in which Joni Mitchell is not). As with the hippie movies of the past few days, the crowd was large and enthusiastic. One guy sitting behind me in my first position of the evening (up close, which I sometimes enjoy, but this time there were no other options) stink-stank-stunk of patchouli oil, which I totally loathe. Yuck! Stink! Yuck! The guy was scrawny, totally bald on top, with long stringy blond hair around the edges: A Riff-Raff clone! (If only.)

[At this moment, that idiot next door is allowing her adopt-a-trophy-brat to SCREECH prolongedly again. Has this bitch never heard of a pacifier? Has she never heard of Consideration For Others?)

Enough of these hells. I haven’t been comfortable in the slightest in over sixteen years.

Anyway…

I’d just like the stinky old hippies to know that I am okay with Woodstock. My favourite part about the whole festival is that some moron in a sleeping bag died there-and-then because some moron on a tractor ran him/her over with said tractor — but the movie is also acceptably enjoyable on its own merits (this Death By Tractor, alas, is not depicted – I do not enjoy viewing death, but rather I deeply enjoy Truth In Depiction).

Honestly, The Who are the only reason I wanted to see the movie, and their near-dawn set (a couple of songs, anyway) provided exactly what I wanted — early in the film; I could have cut it right there. Woe to Zep and Tull and Beatles for not showing up; they would have improved the show significantly.

The other people onstage were all better than I expected them to be. Baez’ voice, and her Voice, are gorgeous, for instance. Given the director’s cut’s insane length, though, I arrived late on purpose, walked out during the folkie-hippie bits in the middle that simply bore me, and left during Sly because I was hungry (though I liked what he was doing). Rather like a Real Concert Experience: You take away some memories, you wonder what else you missed.

I’m pleased that I missed the dead icons at the end. And the disaster-area trash. God-damned hippies.

Back when I lived in the Pacific Northwest, I met a lot of the children of the Woodstock generation; those were some fucked-up kids!

True Confession: I have never liked Martin Scorsese or his work. Well, I like King of Comedy a lot. But all his movies about thugs whacking each other and DeNiro being a pissy jerk — we were essentially commanded to worship this shit, back in film school, and I simply didn’t and simply don’t. Fuck Mean Streets. Fuck Taxi Driver. Fuck Raging Bull. Not brilliant. Not fun. Not enlightening. Poop.

I am impressed, however, by the editing work of Scorsese (and his associates, including Thelma Schoonmaker) on Woodstock. They made that huge mess watchable and fun. Even, in its muddy, naive way, enlightening.

There.

(Thank goodness I didn’t have to be at ‘94 or ‘99, though: Such an ugly decade, such lousy “musical” acts.)

(Sometime I’ll post my cartoon from ‘95, smooshing that little NINnie-putz who has way too much money and way too many stupid fans. It’s funny!)

Anyway, moving on to smart musicians saying smart things, let’s try this again:

http://technology.guardian.co.uk/news/story/0,,1856726,00.html

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08.26.06

Gimme Pop?

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 9:13 am by Gregory

It’s morning in America

And you can be your best

If you have a valid credit card

And can pass a urine test…

-Billy Bragg,

“Days Like These (DC Remix)”

I can be a creature of habit just like most people, especially as most popular music is outrageously stupid; this makes me retreat (or, rather, advance) to artists who are, explicitly, Not Stupid.

But that opening was just off the cuff because I like Bragg a whole lot, and even though President Cokehead is still in office (or, more likely, gone fishin’), Bragg is going to brave the border (carrying a brain full of illicit social paradigms!) and do some shows in the U.S. this Autumn. Yeah!

http://www.billybragg.co.uk

Billy Bragg is a vital ingredient of the world.

More specifically, it is morning (in America?), and as sleep was considered criminal in my household when I was a youth and I desperately, psychologically and physiologically (studies prove it), needed to sleep when I wanted and for as long as I wanted, I shall conduct this entry as an indulgent experiment: Get up, demolish bag of cinnamon-flavoured baked pita crisps, type shit, leer at hideously noisy beasts invisibly but maddeningly circling perimeter, go back to sleep (with earplugs; welcome to The Big City, sigh, zzz).

My First Rock Concert, as such, was Van Halen. I was in the sixth grade. They came to my town (much like The Monkees would, sans Mike, a few years later). The next morning at school I wanted to be happy and excited, and of course this met with scorn from even my closest friends. (This is still pretty much the way of my life; this is not true with everyone I know, however most people really seem to set a ceiling on happiness, and you are only — and firmly — allowed to be as happy as they happen to be in any given moment, and if not: They will take you down. Sad. But true.)

So anyway, in my younger years, my fave pop-concert documentary was Stop Making Sense, conceived by Talking Heads, directed by Jonathan Demme, at the Pantages theatre in stupid old Hollywood (I actually have an editor- that’s movie-editor and therefore much less toxic than journo-control-freak-asshole friend who was there.) This project set the tone for much of my pop-cultural appreciation for years to come, including now. It was smart, and clean, and well-conceived, and perhaps best of all: You could dance to it. People who missed it or who came of age in the hideous 1990s really should check it out and upgrade their sad pop-culture acumen.

The reason I mention (in movie-dork parlance) TH: SMS, is because it spoiled me for other pop-docs. Byrne, Weymouth, Frantz and Harrison & Friends really focused the experience of The Cinematic Concert (notably, the best such things since have come, again, from Demme, for Robyn Hitchcock or Neil Young or even the late Spalding Gray).

A few years later I attended a screening of Pennebaker’s Bowie-Ziggy movie, and was astounded at how poorly-hewn it was, and is (especially with TH: SMS in mind). A real mess. Great energy — and in fact my latter-day rave for Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars accompanied ads in San Francisco during its recent re-release (dig that: Bowie ‘n’ Me sharing a space) — but did these people have any clue at all how to work their cameras and sound equipment? (I still chuckle at their zoom-MISS-search…um, “technique.”)

Well, last night I decided to take a closer look at what these fatted and useless Baby Boomers were doing back around the “time” when “I” began to “exist.” I went to a double-feature of Monterey Pop and Gimme Shelter. The brief report:

First of all, hippies gross me out. They leave me with the same nauseated feeling I’ve had when out on an unfortunate date with a woman who does not know how to brush her teeth. Yick.

But beyond the hygiene problems, it is disturbing how blank and confused most of the hippie-ass audience members appear onscreen. Certainly, when Ravi Shankar does that way-prolonged diddle-diddle-dee at the end of the temporally-restructured Pop, Pennebaker and his people managed to capture a lot of excited eyes and smiles (presumably, these shots were concurrent). But really, most people attending this event look like they’ve been lobotomised and handed some yarn or a strange little mammal. Monterey Pop is the unofficial prequel and/or sequel to The Planet of the Apes.

The ultra-ultra-close-ups of the musicians represent a case of stylistic overkill, as does the flashing white light in our faces every time Otis Redding moves a few inches to the side (I’m pretty sure this was what officially commenced my headache), but I’m not going to be too abusive toward the musical tastes of what are now, finally (Ha-ha!) The Decaying Generation. I like Simon & Garfunkel and The Who (presently touring as “The Two”) as well.

This will be fun, as I’ll now risk a bit of hate-mail: I DO NOT LIKE JANIS JOPLIN. JANIS JOPLIN SUCKS. SHE IS TOTALLY IRRITATING AND I’M DELIGHTED THAT SHE DOES NOT RECORD ANYMORE.

(As with the elder Cassavetes, Joplin is one of those…”artists”?…for whom people dance around and wet their pants in bliss just by mentioning her name. I scoff at you and mock you. Janis Joplin is an irritant.)

To a lesser extent, I feel similarly about Jimi Hendrix: a novelty act, basically. Not bad, not bad, but really just Disneyland on guitar. I have no problem listening to his work if someone puts it on (unlike screechy-monkey Joplin, which I will remove, or leave), however he’s simply not to my taste: He seems very unconsciously cartoonish to me.

These were only crazy kids, remember. And most of ‘em dropped dead at twenty-seven. Let ‘em go already.

The rest of the hippy shit was okay as such, but to be honest, I’m thrilled that I didn’t have to be there.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Summer of Slop:

Gimme Shelter.

This movie is infamous. I have a friend (or, I did) who was actually at the infamed Altamont Speedway for this event. (See? Just say “Altamont,” and people get all wheezy.)

As a documentary, it’s got a bit more style than Pop. The various framing devices (especially the prolonged shots of Jagger and Watts watching themselves later, on a flatbed editing console; one presumes Keef was off having his blood replaced) give the project a sense of conscious design, rather than merely do-as-thou-wilt slop. As a viewer, I prefer the former.

However, Gimme Shelter very nearly made me vomit. Literally. I have never given the heave-ho in a cinema before, but last night I was close. A bit sleep-deprived and I didn’t eat well yesterday, but I am quite certain that I suffered an acute allergic reaction to the movie!

In part it was the combination of two full features of Stoner Shaky-Cam, but more than that the Stones movie really does emit bad vibes.

But not, I suggest, because of the Stones.

The people who show up for the Stones event in the movie are rather ugly, and the vibe they bring with them is even uglier. Never mind the Hell’s Angels — that’s a culture I do not comprehend in the slightest, and therefore I have no comments nor feelings about it — the actual audience in Gimme Shelter is ugly. They look ratty and unclean and pig-ignorant.

Looking at them made me sick.

This has very little to do with the Stones themselves, who come across mainly as spoilt brats on holiday. Especially now, from an adult perspective, it’s quite easy to see that all they’re really doing is the schtick that Paul “Bono” Hewson and all the others later grabbed: Come to America, steal Black music, strut around acting like it’s yours and/or (far worse) that you’re bringing “salvation” with it (barf), then take all your (or, rather, all our) money and go buy up Malta.

In fact, although much has been made of the Stones being really “intense” or whatever in this movie, I simply find them charming here: Still slightly dewy and clearly rather ignorant of their environs, determined to transform their own pasty white arses and zitty faces into those of grizzled “bluesmen.” It’s almost funny.

And Jagger: From this angle, he actually strikes me as rather cool (certainly not always the case). His thick cynicism when he explains that the concert is merely an excuse for people to take drugs and sleep with each other, I appreciate that cynicism, especially when he’s honest and frank enough to spout it on-camera.  He gives us the show — and he also knows it’s sort of bullshit.

(It certainly sounds like bullshit: Did the Stones really sound so lousy back then?)

Somehow, with a migraine, a very sour stomach heading upward fast, and tears of nausea streaming from my eyes, I made it through Gimme Shelter. But it really did almost make me puke.

The best thing in it, in my opinion, is Tina Turner, making extremely unsubtle gestures with that microphone and stand. Wow. And beyond that, she really is a talent for the ages. Such a voice. I think what impresses me the most is that, coming from her (unlike some wannabes), the voice is obviously, undeniably, legitimate.

Anyway, you stinky old Boomers with all your filthy money, I finally perused your Cultural Documents. Happy? It’s hardly surprising that most of you are such horrid, hypocritical shits.

A couple of nice songs, though. I’ll give you that. And nothing more. (You’ve taken too much already; the Earth groans beneath you.)

*** Oh, and yet another fun encounter: I was standing in the queue for the movies (popular; lotta Boomers out there desperate to relive that shit), and a younger guy and an older guy behind me were wondering whether or not we’d get in. I told them not to worry, we would. Talk turned to Nilsson, and lo: The older guy informs me that HE WAS NILSSON’S LAWYER.

Even I can be surprised: In Common Year 2006, I did not expect to run into Nilsson’s lawyer.

Since our conversation was a private one, and especially since — duh — he’s a lawyer, I am not going to relate here the bits he told me about Harry Nilsson: But the tale was certainly illuminating for me.

Thanks, Lawyer Dude!

Oh, and here: Since most Boomers are probably struggling to catch up with a pop-culture (and its revised marketing machines) hastily leaving their rotting behinds behind, here’s another reference to the smart fellow I mentioned at the top of this entry. Billy Bragg has gone online to manoeuver various internet “friend” sites into making VERY CLEAR their policies regarding WHO OWNS THE SONGS users post to such sites, i.e.: Not the sites nor their repulsive corporate parents, but the artists.

I’d post the link, but this software sends a malfunction through the entire system when I do that (thanks?) — plus I’ve had to listen to the sickening old geezer upstairs coughing up his traditional hard-core morning phlegm plus the relentlessly screaming brat of the idiot next door (who adopted the perma-screamer so she could dispose of her vomiting old cat) for much, much longer than I’d hoped, given that futzing with retarded software was not my plan in these weary morning minutes, so just trust me, it’s a very nice article. You’d love it. 

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08.25.06

Not-Quite “Instant Karma,” and “Fast Car” forever defiled…

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 1:36 am by Gregory

I made it to the Lennon screening, which the PR message gruffly indicated would be FULL, and which of course wasn’t, and I sat there in the dark with other press-screening junkies, eating organic baby carrots out of the bag whilst John & Yoko & Friends peacefully battled J. Edgar Hoover and whatever other hells of that season of American history.

I loved it.  I almost wept.

(Once again, film critics on the company teat, start your engines.)

And I’ll hint at something very strange about the movie, at the tail of this entry, which I may or may not reveal in full later, since I know that people read this thing and the current administration is actually more corrupt and dangerous than the Nixon one.

But first let us turn to my delightful experience at Starbucks.

Starbucks, to me, has only one real purpose: They have good toilets. A bit after the documentary, I went into a Starbucks, with this need specifically in mind.

The door of this particular lavatory in this particular Starbucks happened to be unlocked, so I opened it.

Wide.

At this moment, I was treated to the sight of two large, round, naked, furry Latino buttocks of the male persuasion, poised directly at the sink.

You know how human beings have that “mental snapshot” capability? There are times I wish we did not. This was one of those times.

No man at a sink in a public restroom should have his trousers and underwear lowered to his knees and a very guilty look on his face when you see his eyes pop wide in the mirror and when he spins his face (and, semi-mercifully, nothing else) around to shout, “OOH, SORRY! SORRY!”

The door was closed again by me in a sub-sub-jiffy unit of time smaller than can be measured even by the finest scientific instruments.

If ever in the future I am seized by a hankering to slosh my face in a public basin, I’ll tell ya…I won’t.

What makes this moment especially powerful is that Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car” happened to be playing just as I received the Mexican Moon Shot (believe me, Easily Angered Ones, were those glutes pallid I’d gladly call the experience the Ofay Ass-O-Matic), and there is really something unforgettably hilarious about that image coupled precisely with the line:

“Me myself I got nothin’ to prove”

while some guy with his pants down is doing god-knows-what into the basin whilst admiring himself in the mirror.

(Actually, I’ll probably never think of that song in the same way again anyway, because it seemed to be one of many Terrible New Covers which are ninety-nine percent of the time never as good as the originals and which make me sad when I accidentally hear them.)

The Nilsson movie was full of Nilsson originals, though, and the Lennon movie was full of Lennon originals. Fab.

Speaking of both (which are made by the same guys, David Leaf and John Scheinfeld), last night (technically two nights ago now, but who’s counting?), after the Nilsson movie (which is full of Lennon references although strangely the Lennon movie, set in the same time-period, has no Nilsson references), this guy started talking with me, telling me about his life and what he does, and being very nice.

Turns out he was a friend of John & Yoko. He’s in the new Lennon movie!

I have dealt with some truly rotten people over the past few years. Call it Snakes in Editorial. Real shits. I shall tell you many more times to boycott them (while they exist). This conflict, however, makes it all the sweeter when some connection to much more exciting things than dealing with total asshole control-freak “editors” who cannot spell to name but one of their many lamenesses comes along.

I shall be standing long after their foul company collapses, and I won’t have to lift a finger for this to occur.

Watching the wheels go round and round eventually becomes enjoyable.

Small world sometimes. Sometimes I feel blessed.

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08.24.06

Yer Breakin’ My Heart, Yer Tearin’ It Apart…

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 6:11 pm by Gregory

Harry Nilsson fans will know the utterly brill line that follows in this utterly brill pop-song. If for some very strange reason you are not yet an Harry Nilsson fan (sic), please go to

http://www.harrynilsson.com

very hastily and become one.

Nilsson wrote and performed the song that covered the end credits of the television programme that launched my “career” (such that it is; no, I’m not “Eddie”), and his voice and melodies and sensational whimsy and utter loathing for handguns fill my heart with something sweet and aching and beyond words. I really miss the fellow a lot. In fact, as soon as I stop typing this entry I’m going to listen to his “I Like New York in June” from one of my fave movies ever-ever-ever, The Fisher King. Then I’ll have a shower, and sing it in there.

Why the excitement? Last night I sat with a beyond-capacity house to see Who Is Harry Nilsson (And Why Is Everybody Talkin’ About Him?), and I haven’t been so jazzed — or, rather, rocked — for/by (funny how musical genres alter the prepositions) a documentary since Mayor of the Sunset Strip. I’ll rave about this movie soon, but in the meantime, just know I loved it. A lot.

(Critics who still collect paychecks, start your engines.)

There’s a lot more to discuss, but since I haven’t even had breakfast yet and it’s dinnertime, and I’ll be off to see The U.S. Vs. John Lennon (by the same documentarymakers; busy-busy!) immediately after hyper-mastication, I’m just going to hit The Mailbag and let that be that:

This one from St. Louis, MO, USA:

regarding watts & the md masturbation scene. it is the only scene that she fought w/lynch about including. she was sick, throwing up the entire day. she said it was the worst experience she had in film. the scene that made her career–for anyone who knows about her career–was obviously the audition scene.

I was puzzled at first by this comment, as it came in under “Comments: Salif Keita,” and I was hoping I was about to learn something about Mali, albinism, wild vibrato stunts or at least gourd-shaped guitar-like things. Nay-nay. But this correspondent has a point: In the midst of my rant about how actresses totally suck rhino, I did neglect to mention Lady Watts’ kinda-legendary (actually, I saw and reviewed the film before it opened, and the buzz was already present, so let’s call it pre-legendary) “audition” scene in Mulholland Drive. I was impressed by her onscreen verve then as I am impressed now — however let’s not pretend that that scene does not also count as maturbation, in a sense. Call it, perhaps, “face-porn.” It was Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally, without the yuks.

Incidentally, by the intervention of strange phenomena, I happened to be at the location the day they were shooting the fingery bits. This was in Silver Lake, at what are called the “Snow White cottages,” up behind what I believe is now a Gelson’s market (which, once upon a time, was Walt Disney Studios). Whenever I pass a film-shoot — which is more frequent in Canada but still happens occasionally in L.A. — anyone with whom I happen to be walking is always terrified and wants to run away, but I always waltz right in and pretend I’m the director until either: A. Somebody notices and makes me leave; or B. I win an Oscar. In this case, there were a bunch of production trucks parked all around the Cottages, and I wandered in amongst them and asked. “New David Lynch TV-show,” a grip (or was it a gaffer?) told me. Et voila.

I’m everywhere, baby.

(And nowhere.)

Anyway, thank you for your honourable concern, and kindly note:I was crushing on Jet Girl before most readers ever played their first game of Crash Bandicoot.

Now here’s a great one, from Dallas, Texas, USA:

y do u h8 ‘merca & sweet sweet baby jesus?

Where do I begin?

How’s this: When I was a kid, my friends and family and I used to go to the county fair. This is sort of like culture, only with more cowshit-smell.

The Scary-Ass Evangelist People would always set up a tent there, and — really, I am not kidding — they would do everything in their power to warn us off the “Satanic” (pronounced “Say-TAHN-ic”) influences of “Rock” music. I asked. Billy Joel? Satanic. Men At Work? Satanic! Um…(getting brave here)…Rush?

(It’s fascinating how, in these cases and plenty more, “Say-TAHN-ic” was actually a veiled synonym for “Jewish.”)

I am not making this up: The guy behind the table full of Jesus pamphlets — who was a relatively young guy, pock-marked, looked as if he’d been through rehab at least twice already — he said, “Any music that does not glorify Our Lord Jesus Christ is Satanic.”

Well, Jimmy Crack Corn.

Here’s one from, apparently, Australia:

Hey mate. Was surfing and came upon your sight (sic). Loved the Snakes review, can’t wait to see it! What do you think of Australian cinema? I’m just starting out, and from over there, what are my chances?

Uh…well…it’s kind of tough to say, given the limited info here. (”Starting out” as what, for instance? Do you want to do something you enjoy, or would you rather make money?)

I’m not entirely sure, but it looks like you’re near Sydney. If so…STAY THERE! Have you explored the huge wealth of independent cinema being produced around you? (Recently I saw a low budget but really quite engaging emo-thriller: Puppy, by Kieran Galvin, produced near you. Call him. Ask if he needs a hand on his next one. What could it hurt?)

(I also took in Rowan Woods’ Little Fish, also made in Sydney, which really seemed to me to be a Hey-Look-How-Cosmopolitan-We-Are-And-Check-It-Out: Junkies!-That’s-Cool, Right?-type of movie, but, again, it got made. Near you.)

Me, I totally adore Antipodean Cinema. John Duigan is one of my favourites. Peter Weir. Early George Miller. Even Jane Campion when she isn’t constantly gushing about the vagina. The richness of your locale should provide you with experiences for a lifetime or more.

And if you want to work on Fancy American Movies, whenever they’re not making them in either Vancouver or Toronto, chances are they’re using the extremely fancy Fox studios in Sydney. Go there. Get a job. Have fun. I envy you.

Let’s see, here’s one from a fellow from (or, actually, via) Denver, CO, USA (mysterious, as he also claims to be from Wisconsin, USA), who is an Aquarius:

Would you be interested in reviewing my movie MONDO COLLECTO? Thank you for your time!

Sure. I swoon at such personalised interaction. I checked out the trailer, and it looks really funny. And painfully honest. And a bit dyslexic (TATSE MY BLOOD?). I’ll get in touch with you soon.

That’s enough for now. Nilsson, shower, din-din, Lennon.

(P.S. Computers totally and utterly suck. There seem to be some formatting problems. I’ll check back later when I can pretend I care.)

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08.23.06

“Never Date an Actress”

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 4:11 pm by Gregory

This extremely wise title “Never Date an Actress” comes courtesy of a short movie made by David Baer in 2001, of which I have a copy because I raved up the Silver Lake Film Festival that year. The movie stars Scott Coffey as The Caring Boyfriend and the Naomi Watts as The Shallow Girlfriend (this was made at about the same time Watts realized that masturbating real nice for David Lynch would put her over the top — ever notice how this general pattern of cinematic exhibitionism works? Heath, would you like some more bunghole?).

Why do I bring it up? No actual consternation. I have learned to have absolutely terrible expectations of people in L.A., and this stance tends to soothe and even tickle me now. People here really do suck. Not necessarily because they are inherently sucky people (though doubtless many of them are); but rather because the screwed-up place makes them suck. Count the happy couples who come to L.A. and get divorced. You’ll be up all night. For several years.

In 2004, to my surprise, I ended up liking the documentary, Bukowski: Born Into This (normally, pathetic alcoholic bums don’t exactly turn me on — see: former employers). I saw that movie with a friend who wants to be an actor, and his wife. Surprise! They are now divorced, and she has taken up with a fat, bald ”rocker” who hangs around with Scientologists. But my friend is still my friend. When he suggested seeing the new Bukowski-inspired movie, Factotum, on Sunday night, I agreed that this would be an acceptable plan. (A movie! Not alone! Wow!)

Factotum (almost rhymes with rat-scrotum — see: former employers) is pretty good, if you want to watch Matt Dillon pretending he’s ugly (he’s just not), Lili Taylor pretending she’s pretty (she’s just not), and lots of miserable squalor with sad giggles thrown in. I may review it if I can make it seem important enough to stand with my other priorities.

After the movie, in a restaurant, my friend starting chatting up a too-young girl obviously pretending to be smarter than she is by reading Henry Miller (they both had to ask me what “torpor” means — friends, LOOK AROUND!). I don’t know if he or she got any, but I sure wasn’t expecting any such thing. I was instead taking solace in a rare Coca-Cola (I like crushed ice very much; reminds me of my childhood; maybe I’ll make Crushed Ice my rap name), and eventually followed this up with tea.

A bit of caffeine in the middle of the night so I can enjoy the relative quiet and get some work done.

Enter Blonde.

(Heh.)

She ordered. She began flirting with me. (”What the hell?…”) She asked if the seat beside me was taken. I offered it. She ended up eating her take-away food beside me. For two hours. She told me a lot about her life, and asked me a lot about my own. I put forth only the effort required to keep the thing going. This conversation and flirtation were of her choosing.

She wanted me to walk her out. She wanted me to notice her breasts. She wanted me to call her. She wanted me to take her number. She wanted to see me again Wednesday for dinner.

Today is Wednesday, approaching dinnertime.

I called her.

Her response, paraphrased: “Oh…like…hi. Yeah, I told a guy at work I’d work for him tonight. What? Dinner first? At 5:30 like I myself suggested? [fat pause] You know, there’s a lot around my house* I want to get done first.”

(*apartment**)

(**flat)

For those of you who rarely meet straight males, allow me to let you in on one of our little secrets: We’re people. If we invest, we are at risk of being disappointed.

I am not disappointed.

The main safety factor is this: L.A.

Apart from that, even though this was a smart young woman, a svelte young woman, an apparently talented young woman, I make note of specific Warning Signs, which essentially reduce Risk. Here are this person’s top three Warning Signs, in order of Red Flag Significance:

3. At the end of our evening of me receiving loads of flirtation, she got all excited and told me about her kitties. Forget it. Nothing against cats, per se — let them torture and destroy sweeter creatures in the wild all they like. But when a woman is cat-crazy, it means, absolutely for certain, that she is Outrageously Self-Centered and Useless In Any Sort Of Real Relationship. (Lads, I promise, you can take this one to the bank, and it won’t bounce.)

2. This person happens to be from a couple of places in the Midwest whose very names depress me. Places I would never wish to go, let alone have in-laws. I was prepared to let this one slide a bit, due to this person’s overall sophistication in other areas…but let’s be honest.

1. She’s! An! Fatherfuckin’! Actress! (sic) After all of this time here in Shitheadland, I really should know better.

NEVER DATE AN ACTRESS.

Am I being too harsh? Perhaps, but only in service of the humour. There’s plenty of that.

After totally flaking on the plan with me that she herself made (so she can, what, scoop cat-turds?), this person — who is an actress — decided she wants to see me on Friday. Would I call her then? In the daytime?

Of course I said yes.

And it gives me great pleasure to know, in advance, that I have no intention of calling this person, and that my Friday will be wide open.

Really, this sort of thing would be so much easier if they simply started out being intolerable bitches, with stinky cigarette proudly held high. “Hello, I am an Intolerable Bitch,” this would indicate. “Please note my cigarette. This means I am retarded. DO NOT DATE ME. IN FACT, DO NOT EVEN ACKNOWLEDGE ME! MOVE ON!” I would love it if things were always this simple. They usually are, but even I can be tricked.

Tom Cruise is one of these Intolerable Bitches, incidentally — only with no cigarette but instead a penis (presumably). Viva Paramount!

Ironically, in a little while, I’ll write a piece about a much humbler cinema organisation run by some friends of mine, the female one of whom happens to be an actress. I’d never date her either, but she’s quite pleasant socially.

See? I’m no ogre.

(Oops; forgot; nowadays being an ogre is considered “fun.”)

In closing, here’s a gloriously astute actress-appraisal, offered up by one of my saltier comrades in the smoggy past:

“Dude, she’s an actress. If the whole world can’t give her enough attention to make her happy, how can you?”

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Dude, Are You INSANE?!?!

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:16 am by Gregory

Keep! Them! Both!

http://news.aol.com/strange/story/_a/man-with-two-penises-getting-one-removed/n20060821094009990009?cid=936

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