09.30.06

Ghost-Girled

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:55 am by Gregory

This posting is primarily for All the Young Dudes.

(though females and homosexuals and geriatric religious leaders are encouraged to read it as well – especially if they match all of these categories at once)

First off, I would like to thank the American Cinematheque — which is quite simply the greatest cinematic (not-for-profit) organisation (sic) in the USA — and possibly the world.

Almost first-off, do you remember this irritable entry? —> http://ubercine.com/glogg/2006/05/27/washing-my-hand/

Well, I didn’t get back to this right away (because, apart from the Barely-Human Interest angle, it’s not particularly important), but when that cafe I used to like and frequent suddenly fired its goodly staff last December (which was, in popular parlance, a “shitty” thing to do), it made me angry. Not Incredible Hulk-angry, but simply: Those God-Damned Boomers (Again).

Thus, when those women chased me down the pavement last May (last May…holy cow…), and I “wished them well,” I really wasn’t wishing them well at all; I was hoping that their business would fail quickly and embarrassingly, and that they would be forced to close up shop and go away.

It did! And they were!

It only took a few weeks of absolutely nobody going in there for their damned Boomer-paninis for those scab-wannabe-entrepreneurs to get their asses kicked, wave the white flag, and retreat. I never went in, but I did notice how quickly that guilty little replacement cafe closed its doors.

Ha-ha.

For most of the summer, those doors stayed locked. Now they’re open again. New proprietors. Still not seeming particularly business-savvy (it’s a night spot, not a day-spot, and they’re currently closing before dinner) — but they have lovely people working there, they’re giving the place a new vibe, and — this time — I sincerely wish them well.

It’s just the rotten people I don’t like.

Whoever you are, if you run a business, you do NOT fire people in December; if you do, you are a rotten piece of shit.

I know a lot about this.

 

Right now I am supposed to be on a jet-aeroplane, flying all the way across the North American continent to observe and appreciate My Favourite Band In The Whole World, who happen to be performing in Maryland this weekend. They very rarely set foot (collectively, anyway) on American soil, and I adore them — one in particular (and another because she’s the awesome daughter and wife and mother of extremely groovy people who inspire me every day — MERCI!).

Things got screwed up, so I’m not on that aeroplane. I’m typing this. I’m typing this and feeling rather stupid and wishing that I had planned better — but I suppose there’s only so much swimming one can do when every day is a tidal wave.

On How Life Be: Funny. I have seen and reviewed Ghost World (careful; it won’t let you back-click –http://www.allmovieportal.com/m/2001_Ghost_World23.html — and obviously wasn’t deeply moved by it (in all honesty, although I think its director has his specific gifts, I already inhabit a world of total freaks, and am puzzled by why one would choose to view a movie about this milieu rather than just waking up in the morning, going outside and repeating the torture for free) — however, that one person in My Favourite Band whose voice went straight to my left ventricle a few years ago (and stayed there) happens to like Ghost World a lot. When I learned this, I was all, “Darn, this is going to be more challenging than I thought” — she also claims to be fond of Leonard Cohen and taxidermy (two subjects growing more intimate by the minute) — but I think one of the Ghastly Mistakes made by young people in “love” is that they desperately seek a partner who is essentially their clone, albeit with enjoyably different plumbing.

Guys, don’t do that! It’ll wreck ya!

This woman of whom I vaguely speak is definitely not Me, Female. She’s just…yes, there she is. Hm…

Anyway, she likes (or liked; you know how fickle the British are when it comes to asserting their hipness with up-to-the-millisecond pop culture) Ghost World. Some of it amuses me too, but I simply went over there to see a few friends and to watch Thora Birch talk about her acting career or whatever.

For the record, I care not one fig for Thora Birch. Little actress. I didn’t like American Beauty: superoverrated Oscar-sludge. I don’t even remember her nude scene, which she did at age sixteen with her parents’ consent. I’m no prude, but I really don’t think that’s a good way to launch your daughter into anything approaching sanity. To keep the producers supplying paychecks, sure, this is how it is done (see Helen Mirren, The Age of Consent, 1969 — a very enjoyable movie, actually — and, not surprisingly, one hard to find in the USA). But whatever that genius Keira Knightley tells the magazines, whoring oneself to the masses is not the same thing as cultivating freedom of expression (not even in this insane land of the Puritan-Hypocrite); whoring oneself to the masses is simply whoring oneself to the masses.

I can relate; I’m a serious writer, and look at this!

Actually, it’s funny: As a serious writer, you don’t know intellectual agony until you find yourself stuck beneath know-nothing “editors” (or, again to borrow Piers Anthony’s term, “preditors”) who talk a bunch of shit about their “light touch” and “assistance” and whatever — but really they’re just jealous, absolutist, hack-job asses who couldn’t write an original sentence even if you offered to double their dental. They’re “editors” because they do not know how to write — and they go to great lengths to conceal their anger and control-freakdom. There are a few little bitch-boys still associated with “Village Voice Media” (boycott them) who actively chose to wreck my career. The one in L.A. is quite the loser; his name is Joe. He is an alcoholic, with severe anger-management problems, who has no idea — at all — how to “write” about anything except donuts (how cute!) and surf-rats.

If you ever wonder why pop culture sucks, it’s because useless shits like Joe weasel their way into positions of semi-control.

Anyway…

I went over and watched Thora Birch talk about Ghost World and whatever this evening.

I went because someone I like and would like to get to know better happens to like the movie, and this was my way of being close, in some sad way.

We do what we can, even when rotten people do rotten things to us.

Hey: That scab-cafe failing? — That was but a symbol of more such collapses to come.

Cheaters never win.

Oh, and: The stars tonight were not particularly bright, but plenty of planes were out. I did find one star, and upon it wished.

(For something really pleasant and good, incidentally.)

(Karma knocks the asses on their asses without any need of assistance.)

As for you Young Dudes, as I was sitting there watching (sexy?) Thora Birch talk about Ghost World and whatever, I reflected upon a prolonged telephone conversation I had earlier in the evening, with a fine male friend bearing many thoughts.

(Even before this, during a bland conversation with my mother, my friend in Indianapolis left me a voice-mail message — he earlier instructed me not to pick up — of Bizet’s Carmen, being performed live, right there in the middle of the state most people on the coasts consider to be “Illinois”…or is it “Iowa”…”Arkansas”?…)

Anyway, this other fine male friend lives here, and wishes from time to time to discuss romance (and sexy). I can’t blame him: I am older and more aloof (I now officially take 0.0% crap, period, forevermore), and thus probably seem to the lads like I have some clue — but despite fashion-marketers commanding young women to start wearing 3/4-length skirts instead of falling-down jeans — yes, I’ve noticed, call me Sherlock (and at least it’s better than that current, retarded Audrey Hepburn campaign; people, she’s dead) — it is nonetheless true that the post-adolescent females of Southern California are…how to put this succinctly…

Batshit?

For this friend, then, and for any other Young Dudes who meander through here, I offer these

Ten Insights for Young Dudes:

10. If she has leopard-print anything — thong (particularly if consciously conspicuous in public), steering wheel, bedsheets, toilet-seat cover — forget it: She Is An Idiot.

9. If she constantly discusses her eating disorders, forget it: She Is A Chronic Headache.

8. If she cultivates chemical addictions and/or joins cults, forget it: She Is Agony Incarnate.

7. If she smokes, forget it: She Is A Smoker.

6. If she is an actress (or an “actress”), forget it: She Is An Actress (Or An “Actress”).

But…

5. If she seems to understand that there are even more books available than those written by Nicholas Sparks and Jennifer Weiner, then…Maybe There Is Hope.

4. If she not only uses you for her crying jags but also climbs into your bed afterward, then Maybe There Is Hope.

3. If, upon finding videos of Sex and the City, she whips down her lower garments and defecates all over them whilst chortling robustly, then Maybe There Is Hope.

2. If she is not constantly attended and advised by her obligatory gay male friends (to the point that you don’t even get a say in things), then Maybe There Is Hope.

1. If you semi-accidentally find yourself in a big, crappy supermarket, buying some antioxidant-whatever-drink and a Snickers bar because you very passionately wish you were someplace else (your emotional default setting), and the cashier asks if you have one of those motherfucking stupid “club” cards, and you proudly declare, “No.”, and she (the “she,” not the cashier) reaches over and starts wildly tapping numbers into the ATM-card panel, even though it’s still your transaction and not hers yet, and you’re not quite sure what’s going on, but she’s definitely that cute one in pink long-sleeves wearing the small vest and laceless sneakers you noticed — twice — in the produce section, and she really does not appear to be an actress or an actual prostitute, and you see that she does not have a carton of Camels and a clammy pile of no-longer-animated muscle-tissue and the complete DVD set of Sex and the City, but rather a vegetarian pot-pie and a two-liter bottle of orange soda (!) and some fresh tomatoes and avocados and not even a whole lot of artery-clogging cheese (the absence of which is possibly to be reported to the Guinness Book), and she and the female cashier are knowingly discussing what she’s just done with the keypad, which seems intrusive to you the left-in-the-dark one until you realise: Hey, she just attempted to tap in her motherfucking stupid “club”-card number on my behalf, to save me a few cents off my already-paltry purchase, and obviously she did it mainly to be nice (if also, perhaps, because she’s: A. Into sticking it to The Man; and/or B. Sexually ravenous; and/or C. Both — shudder), and you look over and she is indeed pretty and not currently frothing, and SHE’S NOT EVEN TALKING ON THE TELEPHONE!!!!!!!!!!, and the motherfucking stupid ”club” card number did not work, and she says so almost apologetically (which is quite unnecessary), and she coyly gazes at her avocados, and you thank her gently anyway, because it really is the thought that counts, and you start eating the Snickers bar before you’re even out the door, and there aren’t any morons out there in the dark petitioning for relaxed Mary Jane laws anymore (thank goodness), and then the moment is gone, and so is she, and so are you, but who knows, maybe she appeared on Earth in the same moment as you to remind you that – despite the philosophy of Jeff Lynne – perhaps not every Woman is Evil, and you find yourself wishing that you had asked her name, but you’re still okay knowing that you didn’t, because something so tiny but actually friendly and nice happened (and Life never really gets any better than that), then…

Maybe There Is Hope.

G’night. 

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09.27.06

NEW HARRY POTTER PHOTOS — PICTURES FROM HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX!!!!!

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 10:59 pm by Gregory

Hi. I’m not actually that excited — but since websites with enormous money behind them feel compelled to market themselves thusly, I figure, hey, their executives don’t give Shit #1 about Harry Potter beyond the dollar (and the pound, and the yen, and the centavo…), but I actually like this series a lot, so with some actual sincerity I’ll beg for attention in their likeness.

Oh, incidentally, I viewed Marie Antoinette with a sold-out crowd this evening, and Sofia Coppola was supposed to show up, and didn’t on account of being pregnant with (surprise!) the baby of a rock-star, and my review of the movie is already almost finished, but it can wait a day or two as the best things can, and mainly it’s really not that big a deal, I assure you.

Here, though, is me (courtesy of Warner Bros. Pictures) Showing You The Money:

 

Rupert Grint: The Most Handsome Boy Who Ever Lived (not a personal opinion, just a fact, apparently).

 

Hey, Danny Elfman got to say it. (But I won’t.)

 

“Please, Mr. Geffen, I don’t want to be on your record label!”

 

That abortion movie won this woman the coveted role of Dolores Umbridge. Who?

 

Robert Plant & Jimmy Page.

 

“I’m all, ‘This is, all, like, my favorite, like, Harry Potter movie out of, like, all of them, because it’s all, like, darker!’”

 

“Come shop with us,

at the United Colours of Hogwartton!”

 

The first of the Harry Potter films to explore self-reflexivity, Order of the Phoenix features this kid hugging the book upon about forty percent of which the movie is based.

 

Robert Plant & Jimmy Page again

(just because it’s so damned funny).

 

Lumos!

~Gregory

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09.26.06

Stupidland Ultimatum

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

Last night I wandered over to The New Place and stood around listening to its overall atmosphere and “walla,” and whilst being there reached a Conclusion which is also a Decision. (Ladies, check it out: Decision-making in action; now all I have to do is apologise constantly and all is sexy, right?)

Three primary sub-factors influenced the Decision. These were they:

1. Great big powerlines running right past the bedroom. These emit what are called “EMFs,” or Electro-Magnetic Fields. EMFs are bad for humans and other living things.

2. Very nearby, what has for a long time been a large concrete foundation is only now playing host to the beginning of what is sure to be many months of excruciatingly NOISY!!!! construction. In Southern California alone, I have exceeded my quota of listening to POWER-SAWS!!!!!!!!!! and nail-guns and Mexican men shouting at each other over blasting mariachi tapes. Hell. No way.

3. Whilst standing in front of what almost became my New Front Door, I overheard the sole neighbo(u)r — a young female human with a loud cackle. She and her boyfriend were cackling together. That’s not abnormal. But then I accidentally overheard the only clear line of dialogue between them. In between cackles, the girl loudly asked this:

“HAVE YOU EVER FARTED AND THEN LIT IT AND WATCHED IT EXPLODE?”

(No, I did not hear his response. Alas.)

In a sane world (which this most definitely is not), these three sub-factor reasons would prove more than adequate to give even a terrific dwelling a pass; this particular dwelling is clean and well-located, but apart from that, it brings no delight. Pass.

Even overriding these reasons is This Primary Reason: I am going to do all I can to get off The Rent Treadmill, once and for all. To hell with those people. They take all your money so you can pay off their properties — leaving you Older and With Nothing. Especially around here, the apartment-rental scam is a sick racket, using gimmick after gimmick to suck cash from pockets. It’s stupid, and I have floundered in this milieu long enough.

Thus this entry: I am not imminently moving, as previously supposed. As soon as possible, definitely – despite all the sporadic cool people in L.A., this is nonetheless a real shithole overall. But (to mangle a hipster word) the insta-schlepping of boxes and bags presently happening is not.

This leaves me free to tell you that most current movies are of no interest to me. Flyboys? Why the hell would anybody want to see that? I wouldn’t review it if you paid me. The Grudge 2? Pshaw.

Instead, I’ll probably get to the movies my wealthy and well-networked peers are making, such as Science of Sleep and Marie Antoinette. Both look rather iffy (the type of movie to keep annoying hipsters jabbering pointlessly for hours), but at least one of them has Shirley Henderson in it — and a man cannot live on butternut squash soup alone (though I try; Goddess knows I try).

Incidentally, the gorgeous and seemingly very groovy woman who works nearby wore her utterly flabbergastingly astounding red dress again this evening.

Ouch!

(Femininity is currently at such a premium — around here, most women look and behave like diarrhea — that this luminous one is as an oasis in a wasteland.) 

In other news, October should be noteworthy.

Meanwhile, like a complete slave to the synth-rhythm, I have procured a couple of bargain-bin Human League CDs. At the moment, romantic? is my fave album (of course, it was released just in the nick of time, in 1990).

How come it took you so long?

GO AHEAD!

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09.25.06

A Little Tribute

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:43 pm by Gregory

I didn’t write this (it’s lifted wholesale from Amazon), but it makes me smile enough to stick it up here as a post-script:

Better than Today’s Music; its 5 years older than me., November 17, 2005

Reviewer:

Joshua Smith “DJ SF: New Wave DJ” (Philadelphia, PA USA) – See all my reviews

I was born after all the songs on this album were released (1987), But I can definitly appreciate each and everyone of them. I first was introduced to The Human League via Vh1’s I Love the Eighties. From there I downloaded “Don’t You Want Me” and “The Lebanon.” Simply put this has become one of my favorite records. I’m only 18, but this has solidified in my mind my love for New Wave music. All the tracks are different and crisp sounding from the original Dare! record. Each has a different mood and all are extremely enjoyable. The Second half of the CD is comprised of remixes from the Love and Dancing album. This second half was just as enjoyable as the first for different reasons. Of course since the songs are only remixes they can’t be new. Wrong. Yes, they comprise the central elements from the original recordings, but they are each journies into a soundscape original to each song. Being a dance and techno enthusiast they would be very easy and fun to dance to along with rivialing many of today’s “top” remixes. Buy this if you have even heard and liked just one Human League song; buy it even if you haven’t.

 

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09.24.06

The Human League

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 10:31 am by Gregory

I just saw the weirdest thing. Well, not the weirdest thing, which would be this (then back-click):

http://www.khaaan.com/

…but rather, I was passing a cinema letting out after two older and well-appraised French films, and noted two gorgeous young women strolling out together.

Give almost any (straight) man truth serum and he’ll hasten to tell you that there are far worse fantasies than seeing a tall, modelesque blonde with a tall, modelesque brunette. I was impressed. However the weirder-than-most thing was this:

These two young, outrageously “hot” women were emerging from a moviehouse showing two reasonably intelligent films requiring at least a modicum of thought.

Everyone else looked normal: muffin-tops, bad hair, old, whatever.

What was up with the hot chicks? Indeed, my appraisal thereof is quite rude, but around here such women never — absolutely never — do anything except shop for shoes whilst talking on their cell-phones.

Must have been a dare.

And speaking of Dare! — yep, this entry is about The Human League.

I am quite pleased to have up a “blog”-entry to complement Thomas Dolby Robertson’s almost-current one (then back-click, no, resist the tempation even though he’s wicked-cool, back-click):

http://blog.thomasdolby.com/?p=271

In brief: I am currently in a terrible state of domestic turmoil — owing (for once) not to some inner strife but to terrible outer frictions, i.e.: sickeningly extortionate rent (yes, unless you live in Manhattan or Tokyo, mine is bigger than yours) matched with a delightful sense of everybody around here being a total psycho.

What’s a boy to do on a Saturday night?

I had options. One was to stay in and tidy. Ick. The other two primary options (in lieu of Kate Bush’s telephone number) acted as a sort of 80s-nostalgia see-saw: On one side, a relatively easy commute to see Ferris Bueller’s Day Off on a double-bill with The Breakfast Club (which I still love a lot) featuring a Q&A in between with the deceptively “young” Alan Ruck (”ROONEY! Call me Sir, god da-ham-mit!”) as well as Rooney himself, Jeffrey Jones (who likes ‘em young).

Not bad (if a bit creepy). But when ABC*, The Psychedelic Furs and The Human League are playing the Hollywood Bowl, celluloid just doesn’t stand a chance of competing in terms of pure 80s fervour.

The thing was, I was already hot and tired, and the potential John Hughes movies kinda threw me off, so I was already late getting going. With a girlfriend I actually liked, I’d have been there already, with a bottle of Trader Joe’s best whatever, making with the revelling.

It’s a long and frustrating way across town, though. Especially alone. I have a pronounced phobia about this.

There were incoming telephone calls. There was a question of where I put a great early ABC* single I wanted Martin Fry to sign (not that I need it, but it simply seems naked unsigned, an historical document left to wither without the touch of its author). There was the gorgeous woman who works nearby who is this general region’s Most Choice as far as I have seen — who of course has a boyfriend but was nonetheless interested in “The Furs.”

I’ll spare you the rest, but it involves getting change for a five, standing around for too long at a busy intersection, finally getting a really fast (thank you) bus, then actually getting a cab for the remainder (with a very unorthodox young longhair Eastern Bloc driver), and then, to my horror, discovering…

No…

scalpers.

Not a one. People would lead me astray with promises of scalpers hither and thither, but, in fact, not a sausage.

Outside, I heard The Furs playing. Hits. I heard “Pretty In Pink” live. It sounded, well…awesome.

I wondered whether I had missed The Human League, or whether I had missed ABC*, or if, indeed, the lovely Jane Wiedlin of Go-Go’s and “Cool Places”-With-Sparks fame had been leading an hour-long 80s karaoke blast off with which to kick things.

Finally, tape-recorder in one sock, full-sized audio cassettes in the other, DV-cam at bottom of bag beneath hastily acquired trail mix and whatever, I asked the security people if they knew where I might, perchance, buy a ticket.

They gestured to the Will Call ladies — one of whom sported New Wave two-tone sunglasses of an abstract shape.

She sold me a used $20 ticket for $10 (extra-strange in that $20 wasn’t even a price-option), and I immediately waltzed past security into the terrace section, in search of my friends L & E — L having emailed me about ninety minutes before the actual concert to ask whether or not I’d be going (he’s a huge ABC* fan, and boasts of having seen them on their first tour, in Spain). L & E have money, so they valet-park and they sit up close.

Alas, I never saw them, nor their fine children, which would have made for a nice annual tradition since we ran into each other there by happenstance last October for Mercury-free Queen.

Oh well.

I did see some guy dressed exactly like Kissing to Be Clever-era Boy George, walking with a sort of glitzy ska-guy. They needed to be seen. Likewise the gaggle of stay-at-home moms who apparently co-decided that wearing feather-boas was somehow “80s.”

Jane Wiedlin took the stage in “Vacation” style, and made a point of singling out that no-longer-a-girl from Bow-Wow-Wow (whose name I don’t feel like spell-checking) sitting up close. “I Want Candy,” natch. Perhaps without choosing too terribly well, I took this opportunity to plop myself down and was quickly joined by (presumably) a genuine ticket-holder in the form of a large and outrageously gay man whom I’ll call “Rick.”

Rick makes “Big Gay Al” look and sound like the current “President.”

Rick and his buddies proceeded to get very stoned, and he told me that he lived for a time in Addis Ababa (which is something one doesn’t typically hear from strangers — at least, I don’t), and when I began using my camera, Rick said to me, with no Yoda-inflection whatsoever, “Severe your photography is.”

The Human League took the stage. They were introduced by Wiedlin as being from Sheffield, just like a previous band, and I then briefly lamented missing ABC* — my fave of the bunch based on their first two albums — entirely.

Oh well. Saw Martin F-R-Y and his friends last year. We’ve spoken. He’s not interested in being in a potentially brilliant movie I’m co-writing (”It’s the Rock’n'Roll life for me,” he told me, perhaps still stinging a bit from reviews of Mantrap — which I happen to like a lot), but he is an incredibly pleasant person and a real gentleman.

Okay, this will teach me to get a girlfriend I actually like: Due to sluggishness, missed ABC* entirely, heard The Psychedelic Furs from outside, and now, alone in the crowd with Big Gay Rick & Friends, finally seeing The Human League.

But you know, I loved the show.

I have loads of really great shots, but here are a few to give a general impression:

[Note: Photos will be added later. The process is simply too annoying given current dongly things. Check back.]

Contrary to Mr. Dolby’s slightly sour-grapes I’m-stuck-playing-small-venues-because-I-went-off-and-got-rich-in-another-field-rather-than-constantly-touring notion that the covetable Bowl’s sound is “nasty” (frankly, it would be amazing to see and hear him play there), the League sounded wonderful and clearly had no problems hearing one another onstage. (This is one of the beauties of the Bowl: The sound is neither too loud nor too soft; it is crystal-clear and Just Right.)

And now for some largely irrelevant but nonetheless sincere Honesty: A quarter-century ago, I never cared too deeply about The Human League. Always liked them — oh, definitely! — and as I said to Susanne (a.k.a. Susan Ann) Sulley later, after the show, the video for “(Keep Feeling) Fascination” changed my life (among other things, but one must be succinct at parties).

I’ll get to that.

Yet here they were!

The Human League!

http://www.league-online.com/

With fifteen thousand people grooving along to them!

This was exactly the sort of show that lowbrow music critics would assail as being wipe-worthy. And I’d laugh hard at them; it was really cool!

But yeah, unlike Mr. Dolby, I don’t have a long history of association with The Human League (he saw them in ‘79, apparently, before they added the chicks…and the huge royalty cheques). Thus I cannot name much of their catalogue apart from the hits.

I’m not sure why I never even bought Dare! Maybe it was all the stodgy prog-rock and roots-esque-rock friends around whom I hung, who very much would not have approved.

But anyway, about a third of the show was unknown to me.

(Side-note: Ah, the value of Time and its passage. Back in ‘81, when Thomas Dolby was releasing his very first vinyl single and benefitting from the help of some bloke from Swindon called Andy Partridge, I was but a kid — and an American kid at that, and we are notoriously late starters…owing to many of us being browbeaten into actually finishing school before going off in search of fame and fortune. But now, years later, I can claim, in full honesty, to be a musician and synth-player from the 1980s, with only a small margin between the origin of Dolby and the League and my own humble beginnings: Pretty cool. Not my main thing, and they are hella better at it…but pretty cool.)

The League, as you may see, look great. They are fit. They are sexy. Moreover, they are alive.

Let us take a moment to appraise the depth of that comment. Michael Hutchence, dead. Stuart Adamson, dead. Mike Peters, not doing so great. Stuart “Adam Ant” Goddard, went psycho. Paul “Bono” Hewson, went even more psycho (but keeps getting away with it). Joe Strummer, dropped dead.

I sincerely believe that evil Music Programmers decided to kill off 80s music with the first hideous chords of the 90s, and this action met with its share of casualties. This, among many other things, bothers me. That was a rotten decade.

All the more impressive, then, that — give or take a little eyeliner, an obscenely bouncing bosom (the crowd roared!) or the ravages of semi-covert, semi-social smoking upon the complexion – The Human League have Stayed The Course.

“Mirror Man,” “The Lebanon,” “Love Action (I Believe In Love),” “(Keep Feeling) Fascination” (my top fave) and of course “Don’t You Want Me” — for which I’ll probably never get Alexi Sayle out of my head, thanks — the League played all these, plus a cold and pretty gem from their first (pre-chicks) album, plus more I did not recognise. They concluded with the Oakey-Moroder movie tie-in composition “Together In Electric Dreams,” a sweet and moving number made exultant and even anthemic by the size of the crowd, the energy and synergy of the connection and the real sense of love in the big, skyclad house:

We’ll always be together

However far it seems

(love never ends)

We’ll always be together

Together in electric dreams

Amen. 

And then the non-house lights rose, and we were instructed to be quiet as we were leaving, and “Rick” made a “joke” about being told how to behave and being reminded not to take a shit in people’s faces on the way out — you know how “gay” is often only a small step away from “very, very angry” — and I thanked “Rick” for telling me to go to Burning Man (I won’t), and, unsuccessfully scanning the crowd for L & E, I strode, mega-dork-like, toward the Artists Entrance, where I joined mostly a lot of Asian people snapping hundreds of photos of Phil Oakey and, shortly thereafter, Jane Wiedlin.

Feeling the mega-dork-dom rising, I figured that I’d wander a little and perhaps give up on encountering Martin F-R-Y — let alone The Psychedelic Furs’ ever-worshipped Richard Butler.

I asked one person — one — one kind woman exiting the Bowl via backstage, if she knew if the artists were still about, perhaps at an afterparty or something.

This very pleasant and intelligent woman, whom I’ll call “K,” surveyed me up and down for a few seconds to ascertain that I was not any sort of New Wave terrorist, and then promptly nabbed a wristband for me and led me directly into the afterparty.

A few words about this: Were I suddenly to find myself surrounded by the greatest players in all of baseball, it wouldn’t matter to me at all. Fame itself means nothing to me. I would shrug and start grazing, maybe even just leave.

But put me in a small patio setting with about a hundred people, including some of the founding members of some of the greatest bands (New Wave or otherwise) ever, and I’m a pretty happy boy.

It was a good time because I was in my element.

Further words, about the converse of this: I think Bent Reznerd (sic) is a total moron. His influence in the ’90s, however, nonetheless screwed up my romantic life, as I fell for an idiotic tragic-romantic “artist” in British Columbia, who took and took and took and in turn gave her love (or, “love”) to “bad boys” like Reznerd (in spirit) and wannabe loser-rockers (in flesh). I still bemoan passing on the advances of a truly terrific local lady who really liked me — because of my crush on this idiot. Thus I made a pact: Were I ever to encounter Reznerd (which I deemed to be unlikely bordering on impossible, thus), I would punch him out cold.

Never underestimate the impact of pop-zeitgeist; the Opinion Leaders sure don’t.

I did actually see Reznerd and a few of his goth-wannabe minions crossing the former Toys R Us parking lot of the former Toys R Us in Santa Monica. Since I was working for very ugly people at the time, I strongly considered punching him out, in accordance with my pact and fueled by the contact-rage of the shits in whose employ I was — however I don’t do violence, plus I’d probably lose against a pack of nihilism-buzzed losers, so I shrugged and merely giggled at how short and stupid-looking Reznerd is.

History repeats. A couple of years ago, I fell for another completely self-absorbed idiot-bitch who called me constantly and clearly wanted my attention. A lot. She also wanted to see Air at the Hollywood Bowl (Air, for the record, are The Human League without the fun). I took her. I got us great seats. She desperately wanted to play fangirl to Air and one of their cronies-wannabes afterward. I guided her to the best place to do this.

Suddenly, directly beside me, there’s Bent Reznerd. Fanboy! He was lurking outside the party because nobody invited him in! Ha!

So there: To my right, a pretty young woman absorbing all of my time and energy and is-it-worth-it?-I-don’t-know-yet. (It wasn’t.)

And to my left, Bent Reznerd. He had some disposable blonde with him (they always do), easily two heads taller than he is. But there was my chance, renewed.

For years I had wanted to punch out Bent Reznerd for his petty melodramatic bullshit and its toxic effect on millions of people (including one I “loved”), and there he was, nine stupid inches away.

I tilted my head and glanced down at Reznerd, and realised how embarrassingly pathetic he looked, lingering out there in his “meaningful” black duds, hoping to get into a party to which he was not invited.

I decided — decided! — not to punch him.

Instead, I asked: “Hey, where’s your crown of shit?”

When he did not reply, I offered, “Bow down.”

I let him go at that.

I had the prettier date, after all, with guaranteed more depth — even though she was also a painfully selfish bitch.

So yeah, I do have some memories associated with the Hollywood Bowl. Many, actually. I even took my mother to see Yanni there (we had even better seats; haw-haw) — and I’m not the least bit ashamed of it.

Getting back to last night, though — about twenty-four hours ago I suddenly and effortlessly found myself mingling with New Wave Giants. I had a quick hello with Joanne Catherall, who wears glitter in her hair and has evolved from that cold-pretty girl in the videos (when she was but a teen!) to a mildly matronly woman in her early forties who exudes “sexy” even when she and her co-chick pause for an ever-so-not-sexy cigarette (Americans probably make them nervous).

(Don’t you want me? Why…yes, actually, I do, luv; right this very second, please and fank you.)

I decided not to bug her. British women, I have discovered over the rather painful years, exist in an antiquated social matrix light-years behind most of the civilised world, and thus rare is the occasion that they do not seek “empowerment” by being total bitches at the expense of anything within a hundred miles with a penis. I know the sideways glare, I know the cold discomfort, I know the constant drinkie-poo, I know the signs. The champagne flowed (and the bottle was even dropped by one of the American girlfriends — to the loud dismay of all partygoers), but the Circle of Empowered Women was not going to be broken.

Heck, she’s a mum in Sheffield, too. I only wish she had been more cordial.

The wonderful K turned my attention to the fast-departing Martin F-R-Y — who miraculously dodged dying from a terrible illness and now probably knows better than to smoke — and he recognised me from previous meetings (though he also “recognised” me The Very First Time we ever met, at HoB in Hollywood), and he said so, and he very kindly signed that single I had brought along — using the silver Sharpie of a guy wearing a flashing DEVO hat – and promised to tour the U.K. with Howard Jones this winter (he didn’t mention Toyah Willcox — whoever she is), and, after a few more moments, he was off.

http://www.abcmartinfry.com

This left me, for a while, to witness Jane Wiedlin painfully (for her) spanking some large man spread over her lap, wearing army fatigues over his large butt, whose birthday it (allegedly) was. Jane wore a green and white jersey with “I [HEART] DARTH VADER” stiched onto the front.

Quite close to a swoon there.

http://www.janewiedlin.com

I took some pics at the afterparty, but at this particular moment in time it seems uncouth and even tacky to make them public.

Next up — speaking of being tacky — I mostly unintentionally semi-eavesdropped on the manager of the Bowl loudly and passionately spilling out his adoration for the Furs’ Richard Butler — especially over the “Love My Way” single and video, and how it changed him forever while he was attempting to grow up in what I consider to be the ugliest of all fifty United States (What’s round on both ends and HI in the middle?), and how even the Stones played the bowl last year but that was nothing compared to embracing Butler himself in person.

This went on for a significant while, so I busied myself trying to snap a shot of Phil Oakey and Martin F-R-Y in the same frame, before F-R-Y departed the party (and, thankfully, not life itself). I got a dark but otherwise pretty good image of F-R-Y’s coiffure and Oakey’s cueball. It was puzzling to me that none of these musicians showed the slightest interest in one another.

Perhaps the peers wax competitive when the stakes grow larger than some little club on a nostalgia tour.

It may be a useful experiment to lock the Flock of Seagulls guy and the Right Said Fred guy in a cage with one crust of stale bread, and then to video what happens.

Anyway, eventually the Bowl Manager guy relented, and Butler and I spoke rather jovially for a while. If you are familiar with the Furs, his aloof, hyper-sexualised and even wrenchingly sardonic demeanour may seem off-putting in person. Au contraire. Mr. Butler actually looks kind of dorky — in that big teeth-Brit, Upper-Class Twit, endearing kind of way. He’s nice. He wore a velvet blazer and trendy rectangular glasses (the clock on these becoming dated has about a year left on it). We spoke with amusement of Robyn Hitchcock semi-worshipping him, of Peter Buck blaming the Furs for a ruckus he (Buck) caused on a plane (weird), of “Love My Way” (he was very funny about this!) and Love Spit Love and touring. Mr. Butler actually moved me by explaining that he gets four days a week with his nine-year-old daughter, and that she’s the greatest achievement of his life. I didn’t doubt him; his smile said it all.

Congratulations.

http://www.burneddowndays.com/faq/

(or go Googling; the band don’t seem to have an official site, and my life is too busy to link to MyMurdoch all day)

On the way out, K and I stopped to speak with Susanne “I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar” Sulley — who briefly but cheerfully allowed the Circle to be breached (probably because I was accompanied by a Female Agent). Sulley answered my questions about the “(Keep Feeling) Fascination” video, and smoked vigourously, and apologised for it, and grinned at the notion of the League’s traditional December tour landing them this year in Amsterdam on Christmas Eve. She’s cute too.

Naw, don’t push me; although her marriage didn’t work, she has a boyfriend — and I simply do not date smokers. For starters, I’d have to give Kate Bush a great reason to quit.

Hm.

Thanks for joining me for this little New Wave free-association romp. Although the evening started out lonely and potentially irritating (as may this entry be to you), it grew happier by the minute, and although I could never say I was a huge Human League fan (Thomas Dolby’s tonally similar “The Flat Earth” really is a sweeter and richer song than the pleasant but brutally overmarketed “(I’m Only) Human”), I emerged from the evening — and into a partway-ride-”home” in K’s SUV with great conversation, thank you — feeling that I was quite privileged to be so near to such charming — and durable! — Pop Spirits.

Incidentally, Mr. Bill Shatner, de rien for letting you upstage me in my own “blog” entry, at least once, before you croak and leave the world bereft of its rightful and only Captain Kirk.

This posting is most likely the last one for at least a week, as I am extremely overtaxed by moving house completely solo (I don’t even bother to ask Hollywood “friends” about anything not directly benefitting them anymore), in addition to rebuilding a Life from half-remembered vestiges thereof (perhaps I will finally buy that copy of Dare!).

May you have an enjoyable several days.

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09.23.06

And the Winner Is…

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:24 am by Gregory

“Me!…No…Neil…”

(Doesn’t matter if the reference works.)

Actually, this post is one of those “filler” posts. As my mother rhetorically pointed out during her stay, “How did we ever do anything without computers?” Hear-hear. The Cyberdyne creeps may position me slightly higher on their list for saying this, but I really don’t give a toss about computers. Terry Gilliam’s animations are much better than anything Trey Parker has accomplished (and Gilliam only had his hands, his photocopier and, I think, at most three assistants, ever). Cervantes writed better than Grisham, and I know almost for certain that Cervantes had no computer. Address-books were cool and did not require batteries. Telephones were better when they were forced to stay put. And then there’s this silly thing: Definitely a computerised version of a spitoon. Got something in your mouth? Patooey.

Which makes me chuckle. I used to write letters — real letters, on stationery, on “school paper,” on airline barf-bags — and found the process of correspondence, thus, with loved ones, to be some of the most satisfying communication of my life. Nobody constantly shouting each other down or texting or spamming or flaming or whatever. Here’s what you have to say…then…a few days later…here’s what I have to say…and so on.

I miss it.

Not that I am averse to this newfangled crapola into which the kids are. It’s okay. It’s even sort of fun.

Pretty cold, though, really.

So anyway, this is an official Filler Message. I could post photos and answer mail and talk about the cool people I’ve been encountering, but I’m still human (ostensibly), and just navigated a very challenging week. Not in the mood.

“Blogging” accurately is like when people write and especially record songs about being paralysed with heartbreak. Have you ever actually been paralysed with heartbreak? There is absolutely no way one could record a song about it while one is actually in it. It would be like running to tell people that you’ve just broken your leg.

Likewise, “blog”-posts. I think they’re mostly bullshit, really. True, true, much can be gleaned by studying someone’s bullshit. [Incidentally, when I say "Impeach Bush before he kills us all," or "Village Voice Media are no longer merely artsy leftists but a vile scheme to monopolise so-called 'alternative' journalism and all the associated trappings (essentally all youth-culture products, services and especially advertising), and these shitty people really should be stopped before they profit further from their lies and overall wretched approach to 'doing business,'" I am most certainly not intending such comments as bullshit.]

But what do I think about some movie? What did I eat? How do I feel about some new product?

Bullshit.

Just so you know.

It’s merely a way of jerking around with available technology.

To this end, this particular entry involves three Big Boys and which of them seems, at present, to me, to be most meritorious.

Big Boy #1 is multi-billionaire stuntman Richard Branson, whom I met last year, and who is actually very pleasant in person (his parents cared a lot about him). A freak in some ways, mos’ def’ (two words: “Virgin” “Galactic”), however this week in New York he pledged to donate at least THREE BILLION dollars to help save the fast-declining environment of this gorgeous planet upon which we keep shitting our very, very hardest. Quoth Branson, “Our generation has inherited an incredibly beautiful world from our parents and they from their parents. It is in our hands whether our children and their children inherit the same world. We must not be the generation responsible for irreversibly damaging the environment.”

Big Boy #2 is multi-multi-millionaire Madonna Ciccone, a performer, trendy-Brit-marrier and wanton religion-hopper hailing from near Detroit, who has been running around the world lately, “crucifying” herself in a disco kind of way. Quoth Ciccone, “It is my plea to the audience to help one another and to see the world as a unified whole. I believe in my heart that if Jesus were alive today, he would be doing the same thing.”

Big Boy #3 is multi-billionaire entertainment-empire-maker George Lucas, who has finally learned to embrace being a celebrity (and wears it well), and whose neck looks more or less normal nowadays. The director-turned-mogul-turned-director-again(-but-still-a-mogul-too) this week came out…er, was exposed…um…well, anyway, L.A.’s only real remaining newspaper disclosed that Mr. Lucas is indeed the lucky tax-write-off jockey…er…benefactor behind the largest single gift donated to his (and my) alma mater, the University of Southern California. $175-mil! Quoth Lucas, “I discovered my passion for film and making movies when (he means “while”) I was a student at USC in the 1960s, and my experiences there shaped the rest of my career. I’m also an ardent advocate for education at all levels and encouraging young people to pursue their ambitions by learning. I’m very fortunate to be in a position to combine my two passions and to be able to help USC continue molding the futures of the moviemakers of tomorrow.”

These are our Contestants. For great fun, contemplate your reactions to them, and then scroll down to see how they fare in the appraisal of smartypants me:

 

 

 

 

 

 

In THIRD place — and it is a very, very, very distant THIRD place — comes Madonna Ciccone. Why? Because with this old-hat crucifixion schtick and especially her astounding personal definition thereof, Ciccone has finally delivered indisputable evidence that she is a total fucking idiot.

In SECOND place — and I like the guy — comes George Lucas. Just this evening I sat in the front row and marvelled at what a truly wonderful and brilliantly directed movie American Grafitti is (I have never liked it so much as I did this time, not just for its terrific characterisations but also because, now, it represents nostalgia for nostalgia!) However, let us also be frank: The world doesn’t need hundreds of thousands more wannabe movie directors. The world needs help in innumerable ways more than this. And Mr. Lucas has the money to offer that help. I am proud of my relationship with USC and its School Formerly Known As Cinema-Television (although I am also repulsed by the notion of it “molding” anybody). And I am also saddened that the building housing the School – which is a cool building, really, and certainly never seemed to me to be “cramped” — is about to be razed just like all of the other schools and buildings I have loved. Points to Mr. Lucas for caring, and for trumpeting about education, and for being, easily arguably, the coolest moviemaker ever (people who slam Lucas are usually lazy, cinema-illiterate bitches) — however the ratio of potential energy to philanthropic ambition therewith seems to me, honestly, a bit lacking.

Thus we have our Winner:

The Winner is Sir Richard Branson — obviously. All those Ayn Rand nuts go around declaiming the value of the environment and especially of environmentalists, and you know what? you know what? — they are stupid. To love one’s environment and its inhabitants is to love oneself. That the Earth is being severely, severely damaged by humans (and, notably, no other species — apart from perhaps our pets, who contribute mightily toward cruel slaughter and pollution) is beyond argument.

And here is Mr. Branson. High school dropout. Really not a particularly vocal proponent of the education Mr. Lucas (with his LucasLearning thingy) often plugs. Nor does Mr. Branson seem to be a particularly deep individual.

However, somewhere between the supernatural charm and the even-more-supernatural business skills (Gandhi’s “need/greed” quote leaps to mind), our man Son of Bran represents something potentially very, very good:

Bucking the system, running right past the hideous jerkoffs, and saying, loudly and proudly, “I like this place; let’s save it. Now.”

That Branson has the wherewithal is indeed impressive, but what’s truly impressive is that this man — this Baby Boomer for crying out loud — is willing to put his mouth where his money is.

Now all he has to do is admit that Boy George paid for his airline, and the world may slide back into its natural harmony.

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09.22.06

Fall On Me

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 2:16 am by Gregory

Autumn doesn’t really come to SoCal; it just starts getting darker earlier (and then the numskulls who make the rules fling the clocks back another hour, thereby ruining any chance of dusk falling at a reasonable hour).

We had Seasons In The Sun today, and some joy, and some fun (our feet got wet). Ate in two great restaurants. I found a book I’d been seeking. She found some rocks she hadn’t originally been seeking. Women were generally pleasant to us, and men seemed mostly to ignore us.

Fine.

We watched a lot of cinema and Cinema together in such a short time: Phantom of the Paradise, Monty Python & the Holy Grail, Monty Python’s Life of Brian, Monty Python & the Meaning of Life, And Now for Something Completely Different, sequences from Happy Feet, Rebel Without a Cause (repeating our screening from last year, but I enjoyed it more this year; and it came out the year she graduated from high school!)…

And this evening, The Chocolate War — Keith Gordon & Co.’s very impressive, truly haunting and really criminally overlooked film from 1988. I was lucky enough to be offered the hosting job for the Q&A. It went beautifully. There were seven of us up there. As Keith said, we probably outnumbered the audience (not really). I’ll tell you about it, soon.

There were other things we had hoped to do this week, including seeing a Brand New Movie and going to visit Jay Leno — but hey, a week still only contains seven days.

Now they’re Autumn days.

This is my season.

This is My Season.

Whew.

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09.20.06

A Great Big Laugh:

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 3:21 pm by Gregory

excerpt from the “Company Overview”

Though many of the country’s alternative weeklies continue to be known for the agenda-driven approach to the news, VVM remains true to a different vision. Although New Times was founded by students at Arizona State University irate over the Vietnam-era shootings at Kent State University, and the Village Voice has long been considered a bastion of progressive thought, VVM papers emphasize strong writing and solid reporting and are averse to protecting sacred cows. That commitment to journalistic fundamentals has only deepened over the years. As a result, while an increasing number of daily papers shorten stories and hire consultants to tell them what to print, VVM papers thrive by cultivating news networks, generating truly original story ideas, and digging into stories rather than skating across their surface.

 

Honestly, a more hateful, greedy, exploitative, monopoly-driven, unethical and ironically thin-skinned gaggle of assholes I have never experienced (and friends, I have worked for years in Hollywood!), and today I happened to glance at the site for these scum who used my efforts (along with those of many other talented, dedicated and equally naive individuals) and then shot me down when — Ooh! Their own secret “sacred cows” were questioned, and properly mocked.

I laugh at these people and their hilariously inaccurate self-image. You’ll hear plenty more about it. The shits.

No matter what, DO NOT TRUST ANYTHING ABOUT ”VILLAGE VOICE MEDIA” OR ITS OFFSHOOTS. This is not merely personal bitterness speaking. These people are filth disguised as freedom, and I firmly recommend that you boycott them and drive them out of business.

Sincerely,

Gregory.

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09.18.06

International Talk Like A Pirate Day!

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 9:29 pm by Gregory

Tuesday, which it already is in most of the world, is International Talk Like A Pirate Day.

My nephew alerted me to this. Good nephew!

Even though this theme is somewhat in keeping with yesterday’s semi-cryptic message (for the four people on Earth who don’t know, ”Listen Like Thieves” is both an INXS song and album — no, not this ‘NXS thing lately touring, but the real band with the real lead singer, who is real dead but it’s okay because I’m here now), I also happen to be a Cunning Linguist and simply must ask:

Is it not acceptable for me to celebrate this ersatz holiday by exploring a variation on the theme, that I may instead Talk Like A DVD Pirate?…to wit:

“Yeah, hello, hello…can you hear me now? We’re at the airport. Baggage-claim. Fifteen-hundred keep-cased faux-Disneys from Singapore, right? The liners better look legit, I’m tellin’ ya. Yeah, I’ve got the damned money. Yeah, cash. Just tell your man I’m…what? A woman? Fine. Smart plan. Hello? Hello? Look, just tell your woman I’m wearing a nondescript-yet-severely-overpriced Banana Republic blazer — most likely sewn together by her children — and I’ll be the one who keeps patting the five Jacksons I’m holding for her in my lapel pocket if she does this right and we all walk away casually. Starbucks, yes, lower level. Huh? No, I don’t want any goddamned Pirates I. Again, for clarity: No. No Black Pearl! That’s worthless to me. Every putz-hole with a Target within a hundred miles of ‘em already has it. This is strictly — I repeat — STRICTLY a Dead Man’s Chest drop, right? What? Hello? No! Keep your fucking Full-Screens. Listen, you asshole, if I find even one fucking Full-Screen in there, I’m personally flying over to whatever little mud hut it is you call home and I’m personally going to shove EVERY. SINGLE. DVD. UP. YOUR…oh, excuse me? (I’ll call you back.)

Why, hello, officer! No, no problem, just going over to Starbucks to meet my grandmother. There she is now, the one with the large crate inconspicuously marked “DEPP (Shhh…).” Yes, funny you should ask, I am indeed half-Singaporeananian. Yes, she looks young, but she had my mother when she was nine, heh-heh, bless her heart. Thank you, Officer…um…Bruckheimer. Really? Well, that sure is a ka-winky-dink, isn’t it? Ha! What do I mean by that? Oh, nothing, dear sir! Ha! Well, I mustn’t keep Grandmother waiting! Good day to you and to all of the busy professionals who risk everything 24-7 to protect our vulnerable borders from I.P.-terrorism and the cultural poison of illegitimate media. For crying out loud, my beautiful friend – in Hollywood, you’re keeping the hors d’oeuvres on the platters! Keep up the good work! Ha! Pardon? Oh! You’d like a copy, too?…”

http://www.talklikeapirate.com

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09.17.06

Everybody’s down on their knees;

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:46 pm by Gregory

 

Listen like thieves.

 

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