10.31.06

The Not-Particularly-Great Pumpkin

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 5:13 pm by Gregory

It’s that time: Dusk on a Halloween. A melancholy looms. Always a not-quite holiday. Always in the wrong company, or no company. Such a great celebration, I’m not sure why mine always ends up feeling a waste.

May you find some enjoyment in it.

I think I’ll go eat some potatoes. 

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10.30.06

Trick-Or-Treat Bag

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:44 pm by Gregory

Hey, here’s a notion: I’ll post the Day of the Dead photos on the actual Day of the Dead.

Saves me hurrying, anyway.

Meanwhile, a couple of correspondences:

From Kimberly, Winnipeg, a Gemini:

Hey Gregory,

You write a lot about old music. No offence, but don’t you like any new music? If not, I could make you a mix. Lemme know.

Why, thank you, Kimberly, for simultaneously insulting my ability to survive longer and learn more than you (presumably) have, whilst also offering me a gift.

In total honesty, I really don’t care about a lot of new music, perhaps because I don’t care enough about life these days, or something. But more accurately, I rarely hear any pop music that interests me. Lots of screechy little divas and lots of really lousy carbon-copy rock bands, then whatever “World” music is on the marketing list that week. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s that I don’t know about what exactly I should be caring.

All the same, some of the “new” people I have enjoyed lately include a very cool band out of New York City called Girls Don’t Cry, and Jesca Hoop (she’s fairly unique, “female Tom Waits” to an extent, but at least she’s doing it her own way), and Goldfrapp (not exactly “new,” I realise, but I don’t have a clue what’s Officially Cool anymore, so give me a point here), and anything Rodney Bingenheimer puts up for our consideration, plus the records by all these fresh, new acts such as The Who (a.k.a. “The Two”), Kate Bush (also gone so long it’s like she’s a new act) and a wonderful singer called Christopher Lee.

Also, you may be delighted to know that I have been told that I should like Arctic Monkeys and The Decemberists. That is a great measure of how cool I am — that people are telling me this, I mean.

Send me your mix anytime.

Now here’s Tram, a Leo born in the Year of the Ox, from Seattle, WA, USA:

“Aching Male Fantasy Wish Fulfilment, i.e.: A woman doing things no woman would ever, ever, ever do. She’s sexy, fun, smart, pretend-American-but-actually-British, looks about as goony as Molly Ringwald yet still enjoys bearing her breasts, dances and drinks like a champ, deeply desires to be supernaturally fun all the time, plus, pivotally, actually lets an interested male help her in a time of desperate need.”

I can’t speak for all women.

But for me (a female), at least, Titanic was a female fantasy. Jack was everything that a woman can hope for – he stopped her from a suicidal attempt and gave her confidence when she needed it most.

Rose was the heroine – it was completely her show. She confronted her mom, her assholish fiance, and yes, danger and death (she was swinging the hammer and breaking down doors). Jack gave her the self-esteem to do those things. Jack finally died when his job (to make her realize that life was worth livin’) was done.

btw, the nude scene was presented in an “artistic” way. Of course, you can call it objectification (everything about film is in the eye of the beholder), but Cameron showed Jack focusing intently upon his drawing.

And you can argue that her alcoholic binging (as well as her spitting is her way of rebelling against the patriarchy (Cal is presented as the villain who keeps Rose under a leash; her widowed mom insistent on playing along with the rules for privilege sake).

“The production design and costumes and dual sense of history and mystery are significant, but the core of the project’s success is that we desperately want to believe in Winslet’s character because in the real world she does not exist.”

Once again, a female fantasy. She is the ideal of what a woman (at least a lot that I know of) would want to be: vulnerable but headstrong.

“This desperate longing for a character who does not really exist also explains the enormous success of movies such as Little Nemo (a father who actually cares), the Indiana Jones movies (a professor with balls), the James Bond movies (an alcoholic who can get it up) and the Santa Clause movies (a “fun” drug-fiend).”

Well, not only those films. But movies in general. Part of the appeal of the movies is fantasy – the desire to transcend reality. Sometimes reality is too mundane and hardhitting for (most of) us to swallow.

“I felt really terrible that James Cameron and the bigwigs at Fox and Paramount felt it necessary to depict the passengers’ suffering with such apparent glee and sadism.”

Isn’t that another one of the appeal of the movies? To watch disasters and other catastrophes from a safe spot (i.e. our movie theatre seats). Yes, it’s kinda twisted, but also romantic IMHO.

“Why is the old lady so callous and selfish that she discards (symbolically or otherwise) a jewel capable of bringing financial assistance to untold numbers of needy people?”

Because maybe she didn’t want Brock to get it – it’s too sentimental and precious a memento? And maybe she thinks it belongs to the ocean floor, where the rest of the Titanic relic lies.

And why have the subplot on needy people? Titantic isn’t a realistic Ken Loach film. It’s a melodrama. Besides the “needy people” aspect has already been addressed throughout the entire film – the inequalities that exist between the first and third class passengers.

Well, first of all, thank you, Tram — obviously you have given all this a lot more time and attention than I have. Now let me see if I can respond reasonably well to your points:

I find it interesting — I mean not “interesting” because I can’t think of a better word, but genuinely interesting — that you consider the character of Jack to be “everything that a woman can hope for.” Really? Is the shitty little bad-boy thief jerk archetype really as magnetic as it was when I still believed in romantic love? Because I loathe that guy. I think he sucks.

That said — and really, I am not offering a rebuttal at your expense, Tram, but merely continuing what has become a dialogue — one of the things I hated about Titanic was that Jack pussies out completely at the end. What a dipshit! All that effort poured forth — survival, survival, survival! — and then when it comes time for this little makeshift physicist to find a frickin’ table or sofa so he too can have a flo(a)tation device, he fails. On purpose. He doesn’t even try to save his own life. This, to me, makes Rose (”I’ll never let go” — Wha?) look like nothing more than some black widow, who takes and takes and takes from Jack…until he is no more. Is this love? Shit, I hope not!

Indeed, Tram, I appreciate your general philosophies (film is indeed in the eye — and don’t forget the ear! — of the beholder, though hardly, as you suggest, can “everything” about this business be said to be dependent upon the consumer) — however, given Jack’s general character, I was very surprised that he didn’t jump Rose’s bones during that iffy, insta-nude sketch-job. A totally posh suite at their disposal, and they choose the backseat of a car? What idiots!

As for Rose’s drinking and spitting, please believe me, although I have lived in parts of the world in which women feel a natural sense of empowerment and thus are quite pleasant socially, presently I inhabit an emotional wasteland in which being a terrible (and very manly) bitch is standard for most adult females (but don’t take my word for it; have a look sometime). Cal should be short for Callow, I agree, and yet Rose’s Wimp-To-Womyn empowerment story is rather tedious for me, since I’ve already seen Cameron’s thematically-identical Terminator movies, plus I pretty much slog through this scenario every day.

Bear in mind that Rose could also represent my (or Cameron’s) feminine side, and not only your particular gender. Hey…interpretation!

And thank you for telling me what women want to be. No sarcasm about that. However, to me, “vulnerable” and “headstrong” are major-league antonyms. Maybe I’ll tell you about how I want to be both “cold” and “hot,” just to make the point clear. (And besides, if she’s so strong, how come she needs all those photos and the little dog?)

Sideline: It bothered me that bearded passengers boarding the Titanic were checked for lice, while meanwhile nobody bothered to check all those dogs (and rats) for fleas.

Of course, Tram, I agree with you that escapism is a major component of going to the movies. However, I take umbrage when a movie presents itself as “reality” — then does everything in its power to bend reality in ways that reality simply does not bend. Fantasy I love. Realism I love. But something passing itself off as Realism that then jerks us around whenever it feels like it (especially without at least winking at us first) — that I don’t dig. That is when I consider a movie to be more of a drug. Most people don’t even think about this, as far as I know.

Reality being “mundane and hardhitting” — you seem quite young. Don’t worry, it all gets easier as you gradually lose your sensitivity.

As for brutality onscreen, it only bothers me when the filmmakers seem to be showing off, trying to get away with what in some cases I consider “tantrums” (David Fincher, Clive Barker, that ilk) and in other cases simply ugly lapses in good taste (the bodies in Titanic, Private Ryan, etc.). Yecchy self-indulgence without considering the impact upon the audience (a friend of mine literally puked at Private Ryan). Tram, I wouldn’t dream of robbing you of any cinematic experience you seek — particularly inoculation against fear via watching horrible things from the comfort of a safe little seat — and yet is it “romantic” to watch anybody suffer? If so, then indeed, the “Jacks” of the world are welcome to preside as the focal point of that “romance.”

As for The Heart of the Ocean, again, I thank you for your views. I actually watched the movie with someone (a female, notably, who had seen it several times before) who believed that Old Rose dropped the rock specifically so Brock would find it. I disagreed. Especially since the crew had been sweeping that floor for a long time, it seemed unlikely to me that they would return to it, or that she would think they would (why not just hand it to him?). Thus we are left with your notion that it’s precious to her and it belongs on the bottom of the ocean with her dead shitheel tryst-boy. Um…

Do we like this person? — she who could probably use that rock to feed Somalia, but instead chooses to chuck it off the back of a boat, where nobody will ever find it?

I don’t like that person. It’s not as if it’s The One Ring or anything. The stone is basically enormous potential energy, and she’s throwing it away rather than sharing it.

That’s how I perceived it, anyway. (And the movie was, of course, made by a Boomer. Typical.)

But you’re right — indeed, no (additional) subplot about “needy people” is desired nor needed. You’re right that Titanic is, first and foremost, melodrama. And yet when I see a document like that, which is obviously so influential that nine years after its release you feel compelled to write to me about it, then I feel a need to question its motives, as well as the worldview of its creators.

And thank you again, Tram, for bringing your varying perspectives to my attention. May dozens of little Celine Dions serenade you as you slumber.

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10.29.06

Disneyland for the Insane

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:13 pm by Gregory

At the moment I am contemplating whether to bless or curse the supergeniuses who decided that it would be a terrific idea to adjust human clocks in order to force upon us the illusion that our sun — which already drops earlier in this hemisphere during this season — is dropping even earlier.

Curse, I think. Morons.

Then again, I like night – but I sincerely believe that whoever invented the clock in the first place was pretty much an overly ambitious moron. Whoever invented the traffic light, too.

Seeking to control that which cannot be controlled.

Mankind.

Ridiculous.

Anyway, today I ate soup. It was excellent.

The soup required much preparatory contemplation, and during this I very nearly dined at Panera Bread by mistake. Except that…I hate that place. Somewhere between the BLASTING jazz (most of which I simply can’t stand; I don’t mind if you want to like it, but I sure don’t) and all the Latter Day Yups suckling the Wi-Fi to conduct their utterly vital laptop wankery, I feel sickened.

Nay, instead I ate soup (lentils! carrots! MMM!) in a humble little place, near a bulletin board that kinda cracked me up, really: all those silly “Healing Touch” massage people and “Learn The True Power Of Love” seminar people and “I Will Teach You How To Play Guitar Because, Frankly, I Am Broke” people — I giggle openly.

Having thus giggled, I ate my soup whilst listening to C.’s generous bootleg of Shane MacGowan & The Popes’ second excellent album, The Crock of Gold (”The USA never fails to make me blue”). This is what is known as A Satisfying Experience.

And I didn’t even need to buy a new car to find this happiness!

After that I spoke with my nephew. He is amazing. We haven’t spoken in ages, owing mainly to no particular reason. He’s not only great fun and one hell of an artist, he also reminds me how far I have come, and how much further I have to go. And did I mention that he’s fun? Viva him! He bought a women’s fur coat in a secondhand store to transform himself into a barbarian for Halloween. Once the animals are brutally slain and turned into an allegedly fashionable garment, I cannot think of anything better to do with a women’s fur coat.

Speaking of which, it has become — *ahem* — “cold” here again. I am deeply amused by all the women with their yoga mats and Aspen boots, shivering, shivering! What is it, 60F out? You people are hilarious.

On the subject of mild sexism, I also note today that a toothpaste exclusively and explicitly for women has appeared on the shelves. There is no punchline to this comment, except for the fact itself.

Oh yeah, the point: Yesterday I attended the Dia de los Muertos…festivities?…at the Hollywood Forever cemetery.

This was the idea of my splendid friend, K. She’s totally into it. Me — I won’t say “not so much” because I’m very weary of that terribly overused phrase — thus, not at all, really. It’s not my thing.

Without intending any insult to the practitioners of these traditions (life is hard enough without being dogged by witch-doctors and/or forced to drink tequila), for me this was one of those Learning Experiences that are all about the Learning (however modest), and not — apart from pleasant company – particularly about enjoyment.

Thus the title of this entry. I do not for one moment mean to suggest that Disneyland is some sort of repository of sanity — however it is clean, well-ordered and generally comprehensible. The Hollywood Forever park, by contrast – and this was the first time I ever bothered to visit it (I hate hype) — smelled way funky (thick clouds of not-nice incense — to complement the smog?), looked a fright (literally), sounded generally crazy, and featured loads of people partying — on top of loads of dead people. No Circus of the Damned was it, per se, nor am I some meek Pollyanna, however there was an air (or lack thereof) of insanity about the scene.

Entertaining photos w/commentary forthcoming; not presently in mood to deal with dongly things. Check back constantly.

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10.27.06

The Man With the Lightbulb Head

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:59 pm by Gregory

Well, tonight I achieved The Unthinkable:

I knew that Robyn Hitchcock was to play in town…and I didn’t go.

Allow me to put this into perspective.

You know, for instance, eating — and how much you enjoy that? Or breathing? Or shopping? Or at least watching television?

All those things put together do not add up to the concentrated joy I feel at observing a performance by Robyn Hitchcock.

Here. Here is part of a sketch I made of Robyn Hitchcock, back in 1995:

 (detail, enlarged)

It is not a bad likeness, actually, if indeed the style and attitude of the subject are a better match for 1989 — around the time that the subject was, perhaps, at his peak both in terms of overall popularity and creative abandon. Naturally, this meant that he was on a major record label, and, naturally, this meant that they were screwing him.

I first became aware of Mr. Hitchcock sometime around 1987 — a long time, in human terms, after his impressive debut with The Soft Boys. My lovely Floyd-head roommate Mike suddenly conjured this CD called Globe of Frogs — prescribed by some other friend because “it sounds like Syd.” I immediately took a shine to it, and generally think that Robyn — as with anyone he emulates (and I’ve seen and heard him pretty much emulate them all) — is generally better than any artist he is aping.

Even John Lennon.

Even Bob “Dylan”.

Yes, even Syd.

(And even Carl Douglas — though this is a different story altogether!)

Time whooshed forward, and suddenly I was back from England, and there was a new Robyn Hitchcock ‘n’ The Egyptians CD: Queen Elvis.

This, this is One Of The Greatest Albums Ever.

(Although I recall Mike telling me that his brother could not abide its aggressively off-kilter closing track, “Superman.”)

But rather than writing reviews of Robyn’s impressive catalogue, here’s what happened for me:

One weird night in about 1994, I found myself in Seattle (in some grotty little natural foods store, I seem to recall), and noticed somehow that Robyn Hitchcock would be playing in some semi-nearby club called The Crocodile.

I went.

I expected — perhaps in keeping with my own abilities of the time — a guy strumming rough chords and making with the funny lyrics.

I certainly did not expect an acoustic genius bursting with passion and soul and Very Weird Shirts, who also occasionally plugged in, to knock us senseless with his own amplified material (”Freeze”) and that of esteemed others (”Cold Turkey”).

I was very, very, very wowed.

Of course, I went to the show alone, because I go to 90% of shows alone, because the idea of attending an enjoyable concert with me terrifies most people I know.

Then I got sick of the Pac NW (I truly loathe “Seattle” rock), and drove an exploding vintage Mustang through Oregon or whatever and ended up back in L.A. — where — Lo! — suddenly I noticed that Robyn Hitchcock would be playing another show.

Mind, this was well before the internet (I simply refuse to capitalise it) was widespread. I don’t even remember how I found out about the show. It was just One Of Those Things.

By this point, I had quite a lot of Robyn material — collected in the ’80s, taped off Mtv when he was a minor star there, and acquired at Penny Lane in Westwood (when it used to exist; previous location) and at the rather unpleasant but educational Cellophane Square up in Washington. Like, in the mid-’90s, Robyn and Rhino re-released Invisible Hitchcock and also gave us You and Oblivion — both of which are, frankly, Awesome. (And you guessed it: These were among the few chunks of salvation in an otherwise horrifying and wretchedly emotionally misspent decade.)

Anyway, suddenly I’m going to another Robyn show alone, and it is my second one, and it is at…

The Alligator Lounge.

First Crocodile.

Then Alligator.

(This from the man who wrote “He’s a Reptile.”)

Of course, The Alligator doesn’t exist anymore. Typical. Razed and rebuilt as something else.

I was really happy to see Robyn there, though. I recall him asking some employee please not to steal his watch. I recall him launching into a funky song about a trilobite. I recall him whirling round to thank the guys in the band — who were not there (it was a solo performance).

What I did not know at the time was that Robyn essentially became An Honourary Older Brother.

In a pop culture aimed at children and Americans, Robyn Hitchcock helps me to feel that things may turn out okay (however illusory this feeling may be).

There are several others of course — it makes me smile to think how Mike really didn’t like Billy Bragg (an amazing man) — and yet, after much consideration, my compass generally points Hitchcockward.

(Mike even joined me several years ago when Robyn happened to be playing in town on my birthday. That night he gave me the script of Withnail & I. I almost never see the guy anymore, but that paperback still graces my fave shelf.)

At this point, I really can’t count how many times I have attended shows by Robyn. I even called that “college” radio station, KCRW (which, way back when, I didn’t even realise was a mere prawn’s throw down Pico from The Late Alligator Lounge) and asked if I could sit in on a broadcast with Robyn. No dice. That’s okay. I hardly expected open arms.

And — although I doubt you’ll believe me — I’m really not a rabid fan. Many shows — many of them at Largo (about which I intended to write a large feature story, until pretentious little Culture Vultures shot me down — watch your backs, pop journos!), including a run of four consecutive nights a year or two ago (the fourth if you count jamming with Jon Brion on Friday). But simply to appreciate. Some people can watch more than one Nascar race.

I’d like to thank Flanagan, the manager of Largo. He not only hosts much fine entertainment, he also made it possible for me to interview Robyn for that aborted story.

When I sat down with Robyn in the tiny, funky greenroom, he asked me, “Gregory, would you like water…or wine?”

I told him I’d enjoy it if he’d turn one into the other.

You know what I think it is? I think it’s a Time Warp. It’s late 2006, and here’s Robyn with yet another glistening pop-rock album (Ole Tarantula), and it sounds essentially like 1989 again, and as I look around, not only are many Things ’80s coming back (see: Devo, Flock of Seagulls, Bow Wow Wow; Greek Theatre; Halloween Night), but it seems that really (from my limited perspective) almost nothing has changed. Almost nothing!

We’ve just gotten older, and our bodies aren’t quite as good as they were before.

Whoah.

I guess maybe that’s why I didn’t go tonight. I can rationalise the omission with: I need to save money; or, Getting across town totally sucks; or, I listened to samples of all the new tracks via Amazon and did not feel that the material wowed me as much as, say, Moss Elixir or Spooked — but the real reason had much more to do with this:

Not going allowed me to reflect. To reconsider the current (mostly hellishly mediocre) paradigm.

Also — it was as if going would have been too obvious!

Cult leaders and/or former employers will probably eat this up — but I totally hate doing the obvious.

So I watched Robyn and Peter Buck and whoever else play “Eight Miles High” during their recent antipodean leg instead (those luckies!), via YouTube.

I’m not quite sure if that’s sad or not, but the conservative little choice definitely made the evening far less stressful.

And the evening? Owen “Silly Putty-Nose” Wilson was shooting a scene nearby, for some movie called Drillbit Taylor. Yawn. (How does that Johnny One-Note keep getting paid?) Kids were dashing about and screaming and playing carnival. Vampire movies. I just stayed in. A bit weird since one of those movies was The Lost Boys — for my younger self, a not-insignificant pull toward California — but it’s okay. I remember the maggots and the Coreys just fine.

And Robyn? He’ll be back.

Sorry to miss him not once but twice this year at Key Club, where at least I did manage a springtime Thomas Dolby show (a little “Keith” parallelism would have been nice, but one can’t have everything).

And he’ll be back.

http://www.robynhitchcock.com

Let’s see — just so this obtuse entry has some substance, uh, here:

Help the environment! Educate children! Live in peace! Make, like, love! Oh, and a very speedy recovery to Terry Jones! 

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10.26.06

Dog Star

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

Kelsey

~1990-2006

 

(detail)

(oh, and he had both ears;

he just retracted his right one)

 Since I have human friends who are gone and deserve more respect paid, and since this creature immediately garnered more kindness, attention and support from my family than I ever did, I simply thank him for his generally amusing presence and send him off to become something else via the following lyric, from a song (and video) recorded two years before this painting was painted, entitled

“Kelsey and the Waning Moon”:

 What is it, Kelsey?

Are we not alone?

Could this be a dream?

Can we go back home?

 

P.S. The author of this Web Journal requests privacy from the press at this sensitive time, and suggests that you go out and donate a bunch of money to stop injustice and/or prevent kangaroo-burgers from becoming commonplace, rather than commenting on this post 

– particularly if you are from Louisville, KY, USA.

 

(”Kelsey…do you want to go for a wwww…” ARRROO?)

Ciao, canine.

 

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10.24.06

Ghost Dog

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 7:58 pm by Gregory

My mother just notified me that my dog is dead.

It’s funny, how simple a statement like that seems to be, when in fact it is not:

The truth is, my mother didn’t “notify” me at all; I had to call. And she didn’t even mention the canine-euthanasia detail until I asked (the dog grew old, and illin’). Then it had nothing, really, to do with making sure I knew, but rather with describing her feelings for the dog, and its passing.

That’s fine. I am human. I can listen.

The other thing about that statement is that it wasn’t my dog. Not really.

Brief Backstory: I acquired Kelsey entirely because of Geena Davis. In shorthand: The Accidental Tourist. I love that movie. I think Davis is astonishing in it. I very rarely care about actresses, so this is saying something.

When I couldn’t deal with Stupidland anymore back in 1992 (it was the only other time I had been fired, also for no good reason), I moved up to the Pac NW and started working in a Humane Society. No, I did not kill animals (the Humane Society gets a bad rap; unlike alleged “No Kill” shelters, they accept every animal brought to them; when numbers exceed capacity, some have to go). I applied because there was an ad in the local paper — the paper that would twice call me back for double interviews but never actually hire me. The Humane Society hired me. So I cleaned up lots of poop and pee. This was not all that different from reading scripts in Hollywood.

Kelsey was mainly Corgi, which is the breed in The Accidental Tourist. I always wanted a girlfriend like Davis in that movie, so I started with the dog. (I was younger, and far less logical, then.)

Kelsey seemed to like me quite a bit. He was mainly Corgi, as I said, but had a face somewhat like a German Shepherd, and a curly tail like a Norwegian Elkhound. All this in a small, semi-economical package. I found him nifty.

Basically, I had a dog for a year. I taught him how to sit, and stay, and even not jump on people (sometimes). He taught me how to care for a dog, with all that entails.

In the briefest sketch, Kelsey: Was abandoned by his former owners along the side of a road, with stitches still in where his two year old scrotum used to be; Came to me pre-named; Seemed to enjoy my company, but never really respected it; Flirted with female humans constantly (and they worshipped him, worshipped him!); Killed the chickens of my friend John; Sometimes ate poop, both domestic and wild; Called the shots, basically. And yes, we did have a lot of fun together — in a place where all the trees had not yet been killed and removed.

But I couldn’t keep him. It was all simply too complicated, trying to work all day and live in an apartment with a dog.

My friend D. very, very hesitantly agreed to fly back with Kelsey, to drop him off with my parents, who wanted to take him. D. has stated that this was a royal pain in the airports, as Kelsey was a big-time whiner.

After that, I rarely saw Kelsey. What I did note was that my mother and especially my “father” found within themselves reservoirs of care and consideration they never seemed to have for actual human children. We’re talking not just feeding and walking, but concern over the dog’s psychological wellbeing.

Apparently they have both cried a lot about having to kill Kelsey.

Well damn.

When I look around Southern California here, I see people living like dogs, and people with dogs treating the dogs like – not only humans, but human royalty.

This seems very, very weird to me.

Filthy humans sleeping in the streets and eating out of the garbage. Dogs getting their buttholes professionally licked en route to Doggie Yoga Class.

I love animals, but it does seem incredibly weird to me that we mercilessly slaughter and consume a great many of them, while others get to be high-ranking members of the family.

I shall miss Kelsey. He was a good dog (when he wasn’t being a bad dog). And I very strongly doubt that I shall ever have another dog as a pet.

Truth be told, I was much more comfortable with the rabbits.

I did cross paths with Davis once, though, at a self-defense class wherein women get to beat the living shit out of men wearing hella padding. Davis had already graduated multiple times, and was there to cheer on her friend, Rosie O’Donnell. I had no inherent interest in the class apart from learning about the intensity of female aggression, and was there simply to cheer on my then-girlfriend. I could just swear that Davis flirted with me that day.

I smile at this, and wish her much happiness with her family and career.

Meanwhile, the dog inspired by her inspiration is no more.

I shall post about him again soon, and with that let him go.

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10.23.06

Weird Sparks

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:47 pm by Gregory

I used to eat at a specific L.A. Indian restaurant semi-frequently, and would sometimes see Weird Al Yankovic there. This was back before his makeover, when he still looked like an actual retarded person. The stern-faced employees who always filled the water glasses way too often would hastily usher him and his date into a private room where the other nine oblivious diners would not accost him.

Anyway, you definitely do not need a link from me to find him and his latest video online.

That’s the thing. Yes, it’s funny and well-produced — and yet…

Isn’t the geek-rap thing about twenty years late?

Some of the references are new, but I thought that “genre” peaked and concluded about four years ago, when the brilliant Mael brothers of Sparks — who are virtually unknown in the U.S. (a crime!) — released the staggeringly original Lil’ Beethoven…featuring a “hit” “single” called “Suburban Homeboy.”

That album was in regular rotation in my jogging schedule for about two years. Then, very strangely, in early 2005, I attended a screening of Lawrence of Arabia…and, walking out, suddenly there are Ron & Russell, right there in the lobby.

This wowed me. I love Sparks.

Nonetheless, this geek-rap thing (Sparks don’t actually rap, but rather melodically explore the culture-clash at hand) causes me to wonder: Since Sparks are big stars in most civilised nations (they’re playing around in Japan right now), why are they so obscure in the U.S.? Is this because:

A. Their strange and unique brand of being winkingly funny without actually being a total joke (a la Weird Al) simply is not welcome in Bruce Springsteen’s U.S.A.?

-or-

B. The marketing people in charge of what you think about and when (and exactly how many units of it you buy) have decided that Sparks will make media money overseas, while Weird Al is positioned to make media money off approximately the same demographic in the U.S.?

No offense to Al — I like him and felt woe when he underwent a recent tragedy — however I have also always felt that it must be painful: Being a talented musician whose only mode of expression is playing mockingbird to much more “successful” musicians (and, especially, ”musicians”).

Anyway, here’s how you can check out Sparks (who continue to be awesome):

http://www.allsparks.com

And, well, okay, here: Since Sparks themselves allow for the usurping of their trademark harmonic style by Al (plus a visual reference), here’s this different video, which is even geekier than the other one, but really does speak to the hyper-culture in which we are currently staying at:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzRxkxu5ZKc

…and, since I have been listening to Lindsey Buckingham’s new songs on his website the whole time I’ve been online this evening, and I have liked him and his music since as far back as I can remember (almost literally), and because “Tusk” is one of my mother’s very favourite songs (about which I don’t think she’s thought too much, which is probably a good thing), and because WHO DOESN’T LIKE LINDSEY BUCKINGHAM? — I offer:

http://www.lindseybuckingham.com

And I conclude with a brief note about Alfred’s extremely popular new video: I certainly do not fit all of his prescribed parameters (Stephen Hawking, for instance, I find very, very boring) – but, indeed:

The Star Wars Holiday Special is one of my Top Ten Greatest Motion Pictures Of All Time.

Yes, really.

(And if Lucas keeps smashing it off eBay, you can always borrow one of my many copies.)

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10.22.06

Slightly Late Review of Titanic

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:55 pm by Gregory

Hi. No stories yet, nor more mailbag, however this evening I viewed Titanic for the first time all the way through on the big screen (via, I might add, an excellent 70mm print and a great friend) thus, time-warping back to 1997 (when everything for me was so ugly I simply could not spare three-plus hours for yet another James Cameron State of Humanity Address — and, frankly, I loathe being told which movie I absolutely have to see), here are a few reflections upon the project (in no particular order; I’m off duty):

First and foremost, although I tried very hard, I could not find a single character in the film to whom I could relate — until Ioan Gruffudd’s sudden ascent from mere cameo face to actual hero near the end. Everybody else — and we’re talking main characters — did very little to make me care about the boat sinking. (Smart job Gruffudd appearing in Wilde, incidentally. Great way to launch a career in Show Biz. Ask Orlando Bloom.)

On the other hand, the scenes depicting the catastrophe itself — and I’m feeling fairly confident that this is the best largely uncampy catastrophe movie I’ve ever seen — nearly had me in tears. This was due to a blend of two major factors: 1. I felt really terrible for the suffering of these people; and 2. I felt really terrible that James Cameron and the bigwigs at Fox and Paramount felt it necessary to depict the passengers’ suffering with such apparent glee and sadism. Overkill. Definitely overkill. Like, Private Ryan overkill. We have imaginations. You do not need to show us, over and over again, human beings bouncing off hard metal like rag-dolls.

While I did not care about the plight of the (rather lamely-drawn) main characters, I did find the economic stratification among the decks extremely provocative and well delivered.

One of the taglines — “Collide With Destiny” — cracks me right up.

I found it weird that David Warner — an old favourite — was reduced to a mere henchman caricature.

Here’s a surprise: I have never cared, at all, about Leonardo DiCaprio. He has been, to me, the Britney Spears of actors. Who cares? (Yes, even in Gilbert Grape.) However, since previously I never gave Titanic a chance, I also never noticed how much energy and passion he brought to his role in it. He totally deserved to be nominated – at least! — for Best Actor that year, and that he was not seems to me a glaring injustice. What, is it because he’s half-German?

(Sticklers, please note: Just because I couldn’t relate to the character does not mean that the actor playing him did not give his all.)

Bill Paxton in the very iffy framing scenes nearly ruined the movie for me. Paxton is generally The Dipshit (a role at which he excels), and being forced to receive him in a semi-serious context proved gag-worthy.

Similarly, why was Billy Zane chanelling Rocky Horror-style Tim Curry?

The woman playing Kate Winslet’s mother I found to be the most interesting, overall. And the iciest, which was nifty.

While most of the awards garnered by the movie seem fairly reasonable, I’d like to revoke the one for Best Sound. No way. Way too LOUD, for one thing. And, ironically, most problematic: Have you ever been on a boat on a large body of water? It does not suddenly get quiet on deck whenever people decide to have a conversation. This artificial mix really took me out of the movie.

To be fair, that early, swooping CG-composite shot from prow to stern was truly excellent.

The “I’m flying!” moment was fucking gay.

I dug the music. I play the bodhran myself, and that thump makes me happy. Likewise the string quartet on deck (minus the thump, of course).

Since characters froze very quickly in the ocean, how come they weren’t at least paralysed by sloshing around in the same (remarkably clear) water in the flooded corridors?

What if DiCaprio’s character was actually a petty little shit not worth a damn in the real world? — a holiday whore, if you will. Does that creepy death-dream at the end still…er…hold water?

Why is the old lady so callous and selfish that she discards (symbolically or otherwise) a jewel capable of bringing financial assistance to untold numbers of needy people?

Speaking of money, I really do not feel obliged to respect how much money Titanic made. There are people online, I now notice, who believe that because Titanic is the top-grossing film of all time (thus far; you haven’t seen mine yet), that somehow it is also the “best” film of all time. Bollocks. Kindly note that Hitch and Mrs. Doubtfire are also among the top 100 highest-grossing films ever.

Having said that, I believe that the ultimate secret behind Titanic’s success lies not so much, as advertised, “in a woman’s heart” — but rather in a woman’s utter implausibility. I didn’t buy the Kate Winslet character for one second — and yet, since the melodrama is forced so aggressively down our throats, I can see why people find her fascinating, to the tune of nearly a couple billion in returns. Mainly, what I saw was this:

Aching Male Fantasy Wish Fulfilment, i.e.: A woman doing things no woman would ever, ever, ever do. She’s sexy, fun, smart, pretend-American-but-actually-British, looks about as goony as Molly Ringwald yet still enjoys bearing her breasts, dances and drinks like a champ, deeply desires to be supernaturally fun all the time, plus, pivotally, actually lets an interested male help her in a time of desperate need. Already, this is science-fiction. But the clincher is all the self-sacrifice. No fucking way. I have met some very nice women, but I have never met a woman — let alone a teen girl as the character allegedly is –who would even dream of doing a tiny percentage of what Winslet does in Titanic. Maybe — maybe — if the person she needed to help and bond with emotionally was either: 1. A total asshole (a very popular type with the “ladies”); or 2. A kitty — but a guy who openly adores her? Never. This is why the movie made lots and lots and lots of money: It is a heavy-duty drug. The production design and costumes and dual sense of history and mystery are significant, but the core of the project’s success is that we desperately want to believe in Winslet’s character — because in the real world she does not exist. They may as well have had Leo fall in love with Bigfoot. This desperate longing for a character who does not really exist also explains the enormous success of movies such as Little Nemo (a father who actually cares), the Indiana Jones movies (a professor with balls), the James Bond movies (an alcoholic who can get it up) and the Santa Clause movies (a “fun” drug-fiend).

My bottom line with Titanic is that it wowed me but it didn’t touch me; I suppose, really, that this is James Cameron’s forte: to manipulate sans humility. Already with Terminator 2: Judgment Day, my sense was that I had outgrown Cameron — that his perspective was too adolescent (and, usually, too absolutist) for me. Despite rather liking the original, I refused to see the first Terminator sequel upon its 1991 release because — no surprise, really — I was being commanded to see it by everybody — so forget it (I saw it months later on video, and it was entertaining enough). Despite coming from humble crap roots (Cameron, of course, cut his teeth on Pirhana II: The Spawning), this director-control-freak — especially with Titanic — seems superior to his peers in the Hyper-Exalted B-Movie school, such as the Emmerichs and the Devlins and, with King Kong (2005), the Jacksons. But — how many times do Humanity and Technology have to clash to the tune of insanely overinflated budgets until we get to shout him down with, “OKAY, JIM! WE GET IT ALREADY!”

In my opinion, Titanic is an impressive drug of a movie, but in its seafaring themes of romance, sacrifice and catastrophe, it’s really little more than The Abyss: Special Extra-Pretty Edition.

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10.21.06

Sometimes It’s Worth It:

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:58 pm by Gregory

The review that Gregory made about the new film, ‘Tideland,’ was outstanding!!! I too, LOVED the film as much as Terry Gilliam enjoyed making it. Terry Gilliam is a brilliant genius that deserves, “Best movie of the year,” and not some naive critic such as Richard Roeper saying that “I almost walked out of the movie, and I usually don’t do that.” His review made me laugh and immediately write him a note questioning his competency in film reviews. Gregory’s review however, was perfect. I absolutely adored Jodelle Ferland in this movie. It was some of the best child acting I have seen in many many years. Possibly one of the best child acting jobs I’ve ever seen. This film was close to a masterpiece, and truly does deliver the fantasy world and the real world intertwined. I absolutely loved it.

Thanks to Stephen of Chicago, IL, USA.

(Been busy, got stories to tell soon…)

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10.19.06

XANADU

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:07 pm by Gregory

Quite a blur of activity at the moment. Some personal, some entertainment-oriented, some both. You know it’s an unusual time when you find yourself interviewing a TV chick the dudes find sexay, then the next night you’re listening to Alan Arkin, then having a moment with him (I love Philippe Mora’s The Return of Captain Invincible — and, frankly, Arkin’s whole career is genuinely awesome), and then — was that the T-1000 guy in the lobby? Yes, it was. Odd.

Good people.

Plus of course The Pogues are in town this week. This is a delight beyond words.

Meanwhile, I offer this suggestion: If you’d like to observe some of the happiest, most wonderful spectacle on stage and screen, and you also happen to be within slogging distance of Glendale, CA, USA this Friday evening, then GO, GO, GOOOOO to this:

http://www.xanadumovie.com/

(”Now we are here…”)

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