09.30.06
Ghost-Girled
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.
Better than Today’s Music; its 5 years older than me., November 17, 2005