08.31.06
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.
Permalink
08.30.06
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.
Permalink
08.29.06
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.
Permalink
08.28.06
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…)
Permalink
08.27.06
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-ar
