12.31.06

Oh, that magic feeling: nowhere to go

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:34 pm by Gregory

Of course that headline is far from original, but it does perfectly suit this day, this “last” day of “2006″ (whatever that means).

Everyone I know seems to be Doing Something Tonight.  This ranges from Renaissance fun in the so-called Heartland to dutiful SoCal face-time.  But me?

I have the day, and evening, totally off!

Mind, this could be grounds for Sadness.

But it isn’t.

It’s not that I don’t care (as most people say);

It’s that I don’t mind.

Looky here: Tonight at the Orange County Fairgrounds (here’s the link, although it will change: http://ocnye.com/), some of my ’80s faves will be clogging up the stage: Thomas Dolby (who is billed very low; that’s what one gets for vanishing from the scene for a decade and a half; but they’re in for a sweet surprise); Violent Femmes; etc. etc. In this case, “etc. etc.” are the reasons I don’t mind missing the thing: I like Debbie Harry but have well outgrown Blondie (as has she!); Romantics, Tubes, Tommy Tutone, Knack, that lot — have seen the last of that rather redundant bunch, and don’t feel the need for the novelty right now; English Beat; Berlin — good local L.A. acts indeed, but living here one gets them quite a bit anyway.  And then a bunch of things I really don’t know about or care about (WAY too many of these things).  Since I saw and met the Femmes last year at Amoeba, and Dolby twice this year, and the vastly entertaining Colin Hay is always around, I think my nervous system is adequately retuned to the music of my younger youth, thank you, good night.

Which leaves me to me: I may just hang around my stupid, noisy-ass-neighbor extortion-apartment and play “Auld Lang Syne” on a variety of instruments — as is my wont.

Besides, I have the authority to declare the “New Year” holiday entirely arbitrary, for the calendar most of the world uses is named after me.

You know what I may do: I may go see one last movie on the film-journo card I used to receive from a certain glorious cinema chain.  I never realised how much I valued that thing and those people until this year when it didn’t show up.

And I really wouldn’t mind being dead.  I don’t say this in some melodramatic or suicidal way — only in that life is so damned stupid (especially in this country), and I no longer have a taste for it.  Faking it, really.

Happy New Year.

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12.30.06

From the heart of Poison City out over Televisionland (with a gun)…

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 5:44 pm by Gregory

Okay, back in L.A. — and the SADNESS here is HUGE!!!!

One’s best efforts seem quite useless in conquering it; the place literally sucks.

(Note: I am not, by contrast, saying that other portions of “America” — whatever that is — are somehow “better” — but this place definitely SU-SU-SU-SU-SUCKSSSSSS!!!!)

Some of the local cinema community has dropped me, too — which I can only take as a sign to leave.

Outsider.

You know how, in the past — many, many, many times — I have complained about this place and declared that I’M LEAVING! – ?

Well — I’d like to thank Thomas “Dolby” Robertson for the subject line (the gun bit is his — and Hollywood’s — as well) — this place really is Poison City.  I know it very, very well — and am sick of any attempt at Humanity As Most Humans Know It being killed by it, by being here.

*Sigh.*

Now I no longer consider it a matter of wanting to leave — so much as really no longer being able to stay.

Not wanted nor needed here.

L.A. sucks too much.

This is not to disparage some of the fine people here (many of whom can’t stand it either, but still pretend, for whatever reason) — without whom “life” would have been altogether intolerable.  I thank them. 

And I disthank the people who SUCK.

And may the wind blow.  This place certainly does.

Think about this as you devour the products: For whose houses and lives are you, Media Consumer, personally paying?

In an attempt to keep this raft afloat, my special New Year’s Gift to the populace will be posting up on the site the Greatest Song, Greatest Movie, Greatest Book and Greatest Television Series of All Time.

(And — even though most people don’t know what an “album” is anymore — I also happen to know — really — what The Greatest Album Of All Time is.  And hell if I’m telling anybody.  You really would never ever guess.  Rolling Fucking Stone obviously does not know.  But I know.  If anybody ever guesses — on ONE guess — I’ll send ‘em $100 cash via FedEx.*  Ha.)

(*This is not technically a contest; this is an insult to a music industry that keeps spurting out shit.)

Otherwise out there, it’s just the usual redundant blather about the same annual miasma we’re all going to forget about in two weeks anyway.  (Gotten all hopped up over Gay Cowboy Movie or Ralph Fiennes Feels Emotionally Distraught And Runs In The Desert Again Movie lately?  Didn’t think so.)

Up yours, Hollywood; we’re doing things My Way Now.

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12.27.06

Absence

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:17 pm by Gregory

Am away on holiday.  Is manic.  But fluidly manic.  Somehow everything has fit together.  I am supposing that I am correct in supposing that this is due to my Highly Effective Person ability to roll with the changes.  Other people wet their pants.  I just go, “Oh, this now?” and grin at the multiple, increasingly terrible (relative to the potential at hand) discomforts, as I know it’s all a dream anyway.

Before I claim some well-earned sleep, a few verbal snapshots:

Amongst dear (and quite unexpecting) friends, got to show off on bodhran with some excellent musicians in an Irish pub.  This was fun at very near its purest.

I overheard a child, viewing Cheaper by the Dozen 2, say, “Mom, is this the same world as ours?”

Saw Happy Feet with Mom and little ones.  Fourth time for me.  We all enjoyed it very much, and tap-danced afterward.

Unlikely time for much cinematic else.

I discovered anew that while SoCal is definitely Stupidland, other parts of this (one particular) country (among many) should be called Boringland.

A young relation told me I look like Michael Caine.

Most people around here look like constipated Marines.

The heavy grey clouds are nice, though.

I have seen The Lego.

Something created and/or owned by George Lucas has popped up every couple of hours.

I read what “Snoop Dogg” said about James Brown, and now I know that “Snoop Dogg” is a total moron.

(One of my friends said, “I seriously thought that Rap would be merely a passing fad.”)

James Brown and I shook hands this year, but I guarantee you that shaking hands with me is not usually a promise of a hasty death.

I never cared about Gerald Ford while he was alive (and thus did not shake his hand ever, and am not about to start now).

I can hear geese honking.  No, not in my head.  In the world.

I feel love in my heart, and it’s surprising the hell out of me.

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12.25.06

God, Godfather, Godhead…

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 9:33 am by Gregory

Today, allegedly, is the day that a rather popular and mythic religious icon was born.

Well, happy birthday.

I had an utterly beautiful and completely unexpected Christmas Eve.  It was actually extremely happy.

Meanwhile, I note with some sadness that:

JAMES BROWN, THE GODFATHER OF SOUL

has shuffled off to The Great Groove In The Sky.

His iffy antics aside, I am sooo happy that I went out of my way to meet him, however briefly, this year.

You know why?

Because:

I FEEL GOOD. 

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12.24.06

A Christmas Miracle

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:05 am by Gregory

Could it be? 

Possibly.

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12.23.06

It’s Probably Not Actually Such a Wonderful Life

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 5:07 pm by Gregory

Heh. No Grinch nor Scrooge here, but on Solstice Night, under the auspices of some great cineastes, and in an almost completely packed house, I did view for the first time on the big screen (most of) It’s a Wonderful Life — leading to my not-terribly-charitable take on it:

A very enjoyable and cleverly scripted Inspirational movie that amicably passes the time but fails to acknowledge the terrible tragedy of a lifetime of crushing compromises adding up (Angelic Visitation or otherwise) to an essentially brainwashed commitment to eternal mediocrity and its inescapable (if mostly unacknowledged) bitterness.

I enjoyed the film more than ever, and yet could not help thinking: Maybe some towns are simply supposed to die.

Yeah, I know – how nasty of me.  But frankly, I wouldn’t want to live in Bedford Falls or Pottersville under any circumstances.

The reality is, if someone pulls a prank that sends Charleston-mad revelers splashing into a swimming pool beneath a dance floor, fun is not had; vicious lawsuits are filed.  I have never seen such impish fun allowed in America.

Good on George Bailey for standing up to the corporate slime (I can tell you plenty about corporate slime), however I think he and that soft-focus chick sorely missed their golden opportunity to get the hell outta Dodge — or, similarly, to dodge their way out of hell.

Anyway, an entertaining and very, very nice movie — and ultimately primarily another Hollywood fantasy to screw with earnest people’s heads en route to the bank.

Speaking of which, I haven’t seen most of this year’s Big Deal holiday movies yet, but have seen enough to provide some fresh reviews soon — providing that everything else fits into the schedule (which it won’t).

And Life? Don’t talk to me about Life. (Heh.) I realise that — John Corbett aside — people really, really hate it when single white guys opine spiritually — but the accumulated evidence suggests to me that Life is pretty much a bad joke: Hopes will be dashed; Dreams will be slain; Friends will be lost; Your money will be stolen from you very unfairly unless it is your only focus in life, in which case your soul will be torn from you (but probably fairly); Whomever you fancy will not fancy you back; Somebody you find loathsome and irritating will take great pains to illustrate that they want you (on their shelf); The people you love and need will ignore you entirely; and Everybody else will vanish up their own digestive tracts.

Meanwhile: The Rich Will Become Richer; The Poor Will Become Poorer; The Great Forests Will Be Destroyed; The Seas Will Be Poisoned; Horrid People Will Continue To Run Things; and [Your Miserable Punch-Line Here].

To some extent, this is the prolonged L.A. exposure talking, but I’ve been to much prettier places where people choose to be almost equally unpleasant (and there are uglier places in both regards), so really I think I have bottomed-out or topped-off or whatever you’d like to call it, geography notwithstanding.  It’s a sad sacrifice, but it seems to me now most practical to expect people to be stupid and horrible — then whatever niceness (if any) happens to come your way is essentially a bonus.  Humility and dedication are good, but they don’t enter into this particular equation.

I don’t buy that the world would be significantly different without George Bailey in it.  His false, forced humility is dysfunctional-bordering-on-sickening.  I have given this matter much thought.

And…it’s cool.  He can jump off that bridge if he likes, but I eventually opted against it without so much as a peep from any Clarence.  Years ago, when I lived in Silver Lake, I beheld there a bumper sticker (which I’ve probably quoted here before): LIFE BECAME MUCH EASIER WHEN I GAVE UP HOPE (paraphrased).

Honestly, yeah, that is pretty much it.

Incidentally or perhaps relatedly, check out the video currently up on the site’s main page.  It takes a minute or two to load, but anyone who likes holiday tunes with the phrases “old slut on junk” and “cheap lousy faggot” in them should be well pleased.

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12.19.06

Solstice Hiatus

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:22 pm by Gregory

The site and the Glögg will be luxuriating in forty-eight (well…presently fifty-two) hours of stasis until our only planet marks this seasonal transition.

Be sure to return for a Big Holiday Treat.

Blessings.  

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12.17.06

The Subjective Journalist

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

Over the past couple of nights, I took a bit of a break from watching films on the big screen (this may have been a record year for me in that regard; with gracious thanks to the providers of many glorious entertainments, new and just as happily not new), and viewed instead a VHS copy of The Man With the Golden Gun — which I deem to be thousands of times more enjoyable than the new Bond film, thus setting myself tidily apart from the rest of humanity. But really, it is strange to me, this “Keep it real!” attitude toward patently unreal entertainment. If I want “real,” I’ll go walk across a parking lot and have homeless people shout at me. Not everything for me need be escapist fare (unlike Happyness, for instance, I found Home of the Brave to be genuinely moving) — I just find the mentality very alien: that somehow what’s onscreen must correlate to the limitations of one’s own senses and value-system, in order to be considered (to use the all-time #1 adjective of non-critics) “good.”

Anyway, it’s that time of year again, and I thought I had gotten off easy — hell of a backlog, but at least I’ve seen strong work like The Queen and Little Children and etc.  And I stand by Tideland as the overall top film of the year (not in numbers, simply in je ne sais quoi)…and then…here comes Guillermo del Toro…with…a different movie about a troubled little girl and her fantasy world.

Damn.

Well, who knows if I’ll manage to juggle finances, friends, relatives, travel, holiday cheer and portable bone-density scanners (j/k!), but it is safe to say that the site’s 2006 awards will not be tabulated until January.

Amazing quote this evening from del Toro: “Who is the target audience for this film? The answer is: FUCK YOU! What is the budget? The answer is: FUCK YOU! How much will it fucking make on fucking opening weekend? The answer is: FUCK YOU!!!” (paraphrased, but very, very close; it was an awesome display).

With sincere apologies to any children who happen to be reading this thing and have never heard the fuck-word before — even though it is responsible for your very existence.

Anyway, let’s answer some mail before it becomes Monday, shall we?

From Matt, Zodiac unlisted, somewhere (it would seem) in Illinois, America?

Your review of “pursuit of happyness” was so bad. I loved it along with the several hundred others in the theater. Your biasness against the this kind of movie and Will Smith really shows through. Also your express personal belief that a person shouldn’t pursue materail goods or be in a stock broker type job  given his situation is wrong to do in the review. You should be subjective, that’s what a journalist would do which film critics are supposed to be. Just because you don’t like it, doesn’t make it wrong. You let that effect your viewing of the movie. The rest of your reviews are no prize either. You’re a really negative, pathetic person.

Erm…okay. I think that speaks for itself. Thanks, Dubya…I mean, “Matt.”

The author of this repeating fun one now calls him/herself “10012416,” does not comply with my vital Zodiac request, and appears to be transmitting from Milton, Queensland, Australia:

Your website is appealing. Be encouraged to do the work of the Lord.

…with a side-dish of (no kidding):

cheap maltese puppy for sale

Until further clues are found, I am forced to assume that The Work Of The Lord has more to do with puppy commerce than I first assumed. Whatever.

Here’s the return of Sampaguita:

I know I should probably let this go, but I’m a little bit amazed that my IP address apparently has me showing up as a Virginian when I am actually from the San Gabriel Valley (precisely in that nebulous area bordered by the 10, 60, 605 and the 57) in Southern California. (And for the record, I’m a Taurus.)

As regards your notes about publickly voicing your opinion: I appreciate your opinions more than most– even though I don’t always agree with you. And yeah, you do come across as one of the most sober critics I’ve ever read (seriously)…eccentric, to be sure, but definately sober.

Well, thank you for clarifying matters (Is he being sarcastic? Isn’t he? Who can tell???). These IP-lookups are pretty weird. Like most things (and people) these days, they don’t seem to be geographically-rooted, but rather form a sort of complex network of digital mold-spore-type information-onslaughts.

You’re kind of nearby, though, which means that it’s probably kind of cold-like where you are, too, huh? (Me, I love it. I feel — and act — like I’ve been stuck in a kiln for the past several years. This is a relief.)

And you’re a Taurus, which is a lovely sign but indicates that we probably shouldn’t mate.

As for my opinions and sobriety (we’ll soon cover these topics more exhaustively with a large, epistolary triple-header, coming up below), there are a few things to be said. For convenience (even though they’re not all explicitly related), I shall number them:

1. I have no agenda to cause anybody to agree with me; rather, I write (often about cinema) because it excites and illuminates me, and sharing the fruits of this labour (and buddy, until you’ve stayed up writing until dawn for several years in a row, only to have brainless, spineless “editors” — no offense to the couple of good ones — wreck your work and lace it with errors and then send it out so hobbled into the public sector, you may not quite know everything about labour), has, over time, given me a handle on the world (and, probably, vice-versa). Pity that my past several years have been more often than not wretchedly unhappy ones — which in turn colours the work (which is why I have restrained myself from fiction for the while; I don’t particularly like Dostoyevsky either, so nyah-nyah-nyah and doodie-doodie on him and his depressing old shite) — or maybe it’s not a pity at all; in a country caught in the stranglehold of Dubya and Roeper, somebody has to prove that they have a fucking spine with a brain attached to it.

2. But really, if anybody and/or everybody disagrees with my various opinions, that’s fine with me. Opinions change anyway, plus I’m simply not one of those rabid, venomous film-geek guys who sincerely believe that their views are law. I just happen to enjoy this dance (among many others), so from slightly-after-toddlerhood onward, rather than sinking hoops, I have written thusly. Those shits who formerly paid me for it off the sweat of strippers, prostitutes and plastic surgeons (their ads, silly) added a bit of dubious notoriety for a while, but again, those were ghastly years — and now, as John Cleese wonderfully put it, “I could be arguing on my spare time.”

3. Sobriety and I are essentially one and the same.  Strictly in terms of alcohol, I honestly never learned why anybody likes alcohol.  I certainly don’t.  Hurts your body, wastes your money, makes you feel lousy.  Weird!  But beyond very-near-teetotalism (I only sip to help other people feel comfortable), I’m pretty sure that my sobriety, as such, stems from growing up sad and confused; you don’t let go of the wheel when nobody else has a clue how to drive. Is my objective in life to be the wordiest and most pretentious of movie-jocks? Nah. It’s just that, unlike a Terminator 3-lovin’ kid like Scott Foundas, I forgot to blow the right people (or, for that matter, anybody), so my self-indulgent verbiage (which is practically industrial writing compared to his auto-fellatio) is not sanctioned by scumbags, but rather by my own editorship — which I consider fun. The whole Saying What Thou Wilt thing is simply terrific, and although mine happens to take a somewhat hyper-cerebral-absurdist route, I cordially invite any and all to enjoy such freedom (if only they’d take me up on it; that guy who was gung-ho for that Ed Norton urban cowboy movie never followed up with his review, alas — the way of the world).

4. There is no 4. However, Sampaguita, although I can’t make large-scale promises, if you’d like to offer embellishments, a rebuttal or an original review of any sort, I’d be happy to run it. Cheers.

Here’s Jayne, Zodiac unknown, Victoria, B.C., Canada:

Your mention of Peter Sellers (and The Pink Panther) really lit me up, as I am a comedienne by trade and like to think of myself as “the female Peter Sellers.” Just for fun, what’s your favourite movie of his? Mine is a toss-up between Dr. Strangelove and Being There.

Also, I’m curious. It seems that you don’t like L.A. very much, but as an actress I feel that I should make my mark there. Any suggestions?

Hm. Uh. Well.

Sellers first: I dunno. As time goes on, I find Sellers less amusing than I perceived him to be when he was in his prime (and, slightly later, in my early years, which were his final ones). The whole “zany attention-hog” thing no longer holds the charm it once had (for me, anyway; others are still lining up in droves for it). But then, I must say I enormously prefer Sellers over the many iffy wannabes (Myers, Baron Cohen, whatever) who have followed in his far-more-impressive wake (literally). So I’ll say The Magic Christian and leave it at that.

(My copy of that movie, incidentally, I lent to some pot-heads, and naturally, as a result, I no longer have it; when will I learn.)

As for being an actress in L.A., it’s really not a very attractive topic, is it? Here. I already answered it thusly, with this post, ’bout halfway down:

 

http://ubercine.com/glogg/2006/09/13/touched-by-the-hand-of-godfather-of-soul-part-ii-of-ii-plus-bonus-material/ 

 

Okay, and now for the triple-header, courtesy of Moeez, who is a “Vergo” (”Maybe?”), writing in from Amsterdam, the Netherlands:

Hey Gregory, I’m surprised about your name and gender. Are you a woman? Cause in your reviews you write awfully like one. Kidding aside, I read your reviews on Harry Potter and Marie Antoinette. Why the hell is your Harry POtter review like 4 pages long?! I forced myself to read through it, and wished I never had taken that bold move. Anyway, you do pretty good reviews except you go on the most unnecessary of tangents possible. I have no idea what is going on with the Marie Antoinette in the beginning, there’s some posh woman in the future talking to you? I doubt that conversation at the end actually happened. Scratch that, there’s no way that actually happened. I’m shocked you gave Harry Potter a high schore, an entertainment value of 11/13, that’s understandable for general audience. But philosophical insight like 10/13??? What does this score even mean? Philosophical insight?! Seems like some really pretentious way to show you get something more out of movies than anyone else and hold your life very close to them. I’m surprised how much detail and unneeded tangents you go through. It’s like you have a pen and pad and write all the niggles and bits while you’re watching a movie! I think it would be best for you to just write a book for yourself rather than going on and on about your pop culture influences and know-how, and using satirical and very cynical musings. Maybe that’s the person you are, but it doesn’t help you injecting your own personality into movie reviews, which I only hope to read to see if the movie’s good or not. Harry Potter, the 4th one, was the worst of them, and me and my sister cringed through each scene. We could tell the guy from 4 funerals did this, and yet extremely bad comedic timing and pacing, boring action scenes (as you said, ripped straight out of ILM work) the most pathetic villain i’ve ever seen with atrocious make-up, (could Voldemort be ANY MORE of a wuss snake reptile bitch!), and some bloody glamour rock (rock, ROCK?! you call this ROCK!)band that totally ruined the movie for me. And yet you rate it higher than Marie Antoinette, which is decidely as crap as Harry Potter. I hope you read through all this, and take some suggestions: don’t rate movies, stop going on tangents, and just push on with the MOVIE REVIEW!

First of all, thank you, Moeez, for sharing such enthusiastic feelings (without actually spitting in my face or making me smell what you had for dinner yesterday). Ha! Just kidding. You seem like a nice young-person, and I sincerely appreciate you telling me how you feel about this aspect of what I do.

I must say that being mistaken for a female writer is one of the greatest honours ever bestowed upon me, and I shall wear it with pride forever.

And look! — there’s “good” again (What is “good”?). And indeed, the conversation following the Marie Antoinette screening either: A. Happened; or B. They put very mild hallucinogens in the popcorn.

As for my writing in general, plenty of other projects are boiling, thank you — and I do indeed sit and scribble like a madman (madwoman?) through on-duty movies — a habit I acquired when my life was at its most dire and I lacked the mental RAM to retain the smaller details and nuances of other people’s creative work (you should have seen the irritation of the bitchy, twitchy guy sitting next to me at that gay cowboy movie last year! — through which I scribbled but never reviewed because there really wasn’t any point). But yeah, any critic can say the obvious things over and over again (which is why the publishers of their outlets pay them for their reviews, which, regardless of quality, are a form of advertising); me, I choose to wiggle about as much as possible within the critical idiom. So it goes.

As for Voldemort, I think he was the bitch sitting next to me at that gay cowboy movie.

The Return of the Moeez:

Also, I noticed one of your quotations of your page saying “Allah gave me pancakes” and something else. WTF?! I see you’re very creative around creating your website and great interview on the Mirror Mask. BTW, Algonquinel is an awesome name for a fish!

Yes, this Allah business does merit clarification. No, I am not mocking anybody’s religion or their particular name for The Big Kahuna. The quote I appropriated (”Allah gave us the pancakes, and he will provide the honey.”) comes from the awesome 1940 version of The Thief of Bagdad — and I liked it, so I added it to the cheeky topliners on the site.

Yes, I think MirrorMask was slightly too cutesy and slightly too jazzily-scored (for my tastes), but otherwise quite delightful, glorious, weird, even moving (I have a thing about Brighton — just thinking about the place almost brings tears to my eyes). It was wonderful to sit down with McKean and Gaiman in the midst of many Muppets.

Oh, and Algonquinel is the handle of the Lucky Winner of Contest #1 — she named my fish “Uber” and “Cine” — to which I added the titles “Lady” and “King.”

But wait, there’s more!

The Moeez Strikes Again:

Now that was a lot of unneeded commentary on that Blood Diamond review. Seriously, it’s like you have some condition where you have to write down what you’re thinking on a moment all the time. Give the person a break, he/she’s writing a review on IMDB! Of course, his efforts to be professional has failed but doesn’t mean you have to point out all his faults. I know you must seek pleasure through butchering that review and coming off as incredibly sarcastic and cynical. Heck, I’m sure there’s a job where you can criticise IMDB reviews! Dude, I like your site and all, but going through every idiot on the internet, every fanboy, every pre-pubescent dick, every thickhead, is in do way entertaining for us to read. Yeah, that’s right us. There might be no one commenting in your blog recently (Glogg, genius, seriously, genius stuff) but doesn’t mean there are quite a few people who do read it.

The short version: Well hey, I get grouchy too sometimes.

The somewhat longer version: Hm…my…condition…

One thing I have noticed after living half of my life in one of the largest, most desperately neurotic cities on Planet Earth is that anybody and everybody who has a “condition” also wishes to pin that “condition” upon everybody else: thus, ADD people have wished ADD upon me; alcoholics have wished alcoholism upon me; Seinfeld-fans have assumed that I share their adoration for Seinfeld (I don’t); etc. etc. I notice, Moeez, that you nearly challenge even me for verbosity, and thus I take it in stride that you choose to criticise me thusly; if there’s one thing we can’t stand, it’s seeing our own faults reflected back to us through others.

However, taking responsibility for my glib (and, notably, singular; I’m not on a thickhead-hunt) attack on that IMDb “journalist,” my only defense is that doing it made me giggle, so there. (Noteworthy: Picking on similar idiots who actually get paid for their drivel actually cost me my job, my income, and nearly my life; thus, idiots of the world can count on me to rub their idiocy in the mud forever, whenever I feel like it and even sometimes when I don’t, Amen.) If you’ll read a bit more carefully, you’ll also see that the writer of that piece was actually female (and not, as you quickly assume, male), and I’d also like to state that although I am frequently very pissed off at the so-called “fair” sex (Ha! Hardee-har-har!), I really wish this person and everyone else no real harm. Words. Apparently new to Americans — but only “dangerous” if you’re a fucking paranoid idiot.

That particular series of jabs — which really don’t merit further attention except as case-study — occurred simply because of my increasing frustration with trying to travel across an utterly impassable urban environment to absorb and comment upon the works of people who routinely buy up as many houses as I have dollars in my pocket. I failed at it and was very weary. When some girl — some kid — who has no idea what she’s talking about but has a “newspaper job” to pay for her dog’s pedicures — manages to get herself chauffeured to a screening of an important social treatise starring deep-thinkers such as DiCaprio and Connelly, yes, it annoys me, and thus I blurt those incendiary things that obviously herald the end of civilisation as we know it.

Since honesty is the [fill in the blank; buy a vowel?], I have no problem also noting that these years have been rough and ragged ones for me, and much of what has been unhappy for me can be symbolised and summarised thusly:

When I see a young woman moving house, I routinely observe not one, not two, but a large gaggle of her friends and associates, packing and lifting and transporting all of her many heavy belongings for her. Her part in all this is to say “Thinks!” over and over again (American vernacular; means “Gratitude!”) and, maybe, possibly, to buy the gaggle some cheap beer or breadsticks for their sweat and pulled muscles.

When I have had to move — which over the past few years has been several times — I have asked my male friends (most of whom are screenwriters, shudder) if they could help me out a bit.

My male screenwriter friends have said, in return, exactly this:

“No.”

and/or

“I do not help people move.”

Thus, yeah, when some dipshit cheerleader gets hot and bothered for “that Titanic guy” and dubs herself a professional critic, it brings back unhappy echoes of many of these gender-unbalanced experiences — not to mention that the extremely unbalanced female corporate thing that terminated me and wrecked my life went out of her way to disregard fair and non-discriminatory hiring practices so she could have a San Francisco-based female critic on board, thus displacing those who had toiled longer and harder at the job.

It sucks, frankly. I even have a Christian friend, and when I told him about it, that’s exactly what he said:

“That sucks!”

But Moeez, dear Moeez, you’re right: While it’s sometimes fun to swat flies, I think it would serve me (and my readers) much better to move further away from the shit. 

Although, at the time, Sampaguita found it funny. (Thinks!)

Since this entry is essentially a big blow-out sale on spare Gregory merchandise, I’d like to throw in that I don’t really spend much time considering the relation between gender and cinema criticism: I’m sure that someone like Manhole-a Dargis (talk about blowing the right people!) feels she’s upholding boring old Kael’s ghost with all her stupid cat-metaphors or whatever, but frankly I’m most attracted to intelligence. For instance, Peter Travers, he has no intelligence:

“Peter Travers sucks!”

Whereas Carina Chocano, she’s good!

So, ultimately, the irritation may be about the idiocy, but it ain’t about the plumbing.

There’s a cold breeze blowing tonight. I like it. It’s not cold-cold, but SoCal cold, which is kind of like what actual cold places get in early October. Sleep will feel great. I’m going there now. Thanks for sharing the ride, and blessings to you and yours throughout this Season Of Many Strangely Competing Holidays.

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12.15.06

Toy Store-y & The Pink Panther

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 7:44 pm by Gregory

Hi. I walked around amongst Shopping People a bit today. Familiar face here, friend’s girlfriend there*, almost a sense of community — which is damned rare around these parts, I can tell you!

(*”Friend’s Girlfriend” is, obviously, a person in her own right, but language only stretches so far; in addition, she’s not actually a “girl.”)

In the supermarket parking lot, I observed a woman wearing a black, mid-length dress and bright gold sparkly shoes — Ruby Slippers, essentially, only Golden Slippers.  Feeling not the slightest attraction, I very nearly complimented her on her footwear — since this was obviously the reason she was wearing said footwear in the first place — just to be nice.

But she was on the ‘phone.

Wait…

…no she wasn’t!

She was gibbering to herself.  Rather like an insane person.

Whew.  A near-miss.

Earlier, when the sun was beating down and then, eventually, being beaten out by the cool, gentle grey clouds I happen to adore, I very vaguely wandered into a toy-store.  This was in no way my original plan (the original plan was this: Noodles; Broccoli), but we men, we have our impulses too.

I didn’t feel any need to buy anything.  I observed a scuffle between two young male seasonal hourly employees who made no secret of their violent loathing for one another.  I saw a fellow I like, whose mind is exciting and alive, and I wished him well.

My primary observations were Four:

One: A Freddie Mercury “action” figure has been created.  It’s one of those eighteen-inchers (baby), and, alas, it is from arguably the peak of Freddie’s career but when I feel he looked his saddest and strangest: 1986, outfit of gay-drum-major-meets-disco-jogger, that terrible, terrible moustache.  Apparently the thing plays “We Are the Champions,” “Radio Ga-Ga” and “We Will Rock You” if you nuzzle its wee-wee.  I am kidding about the nuzzling and the wee-wee.  I put it back on the shelf with no remorse whatsoever; it doesn’t even look all that much like Freddie (whose best year, in my estimation, was actually a decade earlier).

Two: Along with the many Presidents (and “president”) of the United States of America, there is now a similar (if daintier) package containing an “action” figure of “Diana: Her Royal Highness The Princess of Whales.”  I very nearly bought her just for the box (hey, isn’t that what Dodi said?)

Three: Speaking of women and their feelings, I very accidentally overheard two running-out-of-time-ish women commenting on the large, grotesque “pro-” “wrestling” figures on display.  All of the figures I saw feature the exact same body-sculpt (in varying shades of racial plastic) with different clothing and heads (rather like most men in the world, if you really think about it; rim-shot for the ladies!) Anyway, as the girlfriends gazed upon these grotesqueries, one of them was heard to say, “I don’t find it attractive when their thigh muscles are so big that they split into three different sections.”

(Honey, I’m your man.)

I turned to them both and politely inserted, “Thank you for the tip; now I have a slightly more evolved understanding.”  They giggled and fled.

Four: Everybody hates The Phantom Menace. I don’t, but everybody else does. Mainly, I feel that the film (for it’s probably the last time Lucas ever uses actual film) stands very well on its own merits – and I only issue de-merits for Jake Lloyd (whom I once encountered on an aeroplane with his family) being directed to play everything extremely hokey (rather than with drama), and of course for Jar Jar, whose outrageously unamusing presence nearly capsizes an otherwise rather tight ship. Beyond that, great music, great villain (alas), great actors (Portman is irrelevant to me, but I liked August, Neeson, McGregor, McDiarmid, Stamp all quite a lot) and truly sensational design. 

Passing the Star Wars gobbledygook in the shop today, I overheard a young boy of perhaps five, expressing enormous joy to his mother (presumably) as she allowed him to pick out a couple of items.  His enthusiasm was particularly nice to hear because it was finite; when she asked him if the couple of things he selected would make him happy, he replied “Yes” in an appreciative tone and fell silent in his cheerful awe.

However, as I walked by them, I noticed his renewed enthusiasm for a Jar Jar figure with some crap-cannon thingy involved.  Ho-hum.  I would have ended my notice of them then and there had the boy not gotten much more excited than before over a small ad for a different-but-related toy on the back of the package — which, given how astoundingly suave I am, I recognised to be the “Opee.”

A few words about the Opee: The Opee is a big, nasty fish-crustacean thing that lives underwater on Naboo and chases our heroes through a brief, animated segment and does not actually exist.

The Opee, like many things Phantom Menace, was obviously produced in excruciatingly high numbers — and thus became a jewel in the Clearance crown around the turn of the millennium.

(Ladies, by the way, this plastic killer fish thing is kind of like whatever purse you buy each season — only entirely useless/more fun/much cheaper.)

Well…

Let’s just say that I know an Opee when I see one.  The boy was clearly set for Pure Joy if he could have one, and yet he had missed the one sitting in plain view on the lower shelf!

I reached down, picked it up, and handed it — at first covertly and then when his sensors detected my action blatantly — to his mother.

His mother was concerned: Was I coveting this Opee — and merely taunting them by showing off my prize?

Heh.

I left the shop knowing that the product I had located for them is really useless junk and a waste of money (even at cra-a-azy “Opee”-prices) — but that a child’s imagination was cultivated slightly, and a mother felt pleased for being able to land a toy her boy actually wants.

That said, although the temptation for fun cinema this evening was significant, I am quite pleased that the day was not without its kindnesses — however bizarre — and this pleasant feeling has allowed me to muster the courage to miss tonight’s screening of the first two Inspector Clouseau movies.  Great fun, however what I need tonight is a bath and a book.

(As previously stated, this web-journal is essentially a catch-all for mostly random detritus, and should never be employed as a means for surveying one’s entire existence — not mine, anyway.)

Today some new movies opened, including a couple of things with Jeremy Irons in them.  He totally flirted with me on a boat in 1989.  I would see that kid-with-the-hella-supportive-parents fantasy-movie-adaptation whatsie except that I really don’t feel like paying for it (I paid for Narnia Part One; gimme a break).  David Lynch’s new movie sounds like somebody shat on a paper plate.  I’ll probably get back to those Jude Law and Kate Winslet movies (and such) soon.  Or that other Brit — what’s her name…Renee Zell-something?  Her latest is pretty good.  I didn’t hate The Holiday, incidentally.  Quote me.

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12.14.06

Ducks

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:39 pm by Gregory

Yesterday, as the winter sun began its early descent but before it took its light away, I found myself completely surrounded by ducks. Your first imagining of how many ducks this entailed would most likely fall short of the mark (the experience surprised even me), for I have never in my life been so utterly surrounded by ducks. There are no words for the joy this brought.

But some try.

Although I am certain that my sacred duck experience (including the flecks of naan I ritualistically flicked to the quacking multitude) was in many ways unique, I shall defer to the poetry of Steve Martin, who long ago attempted to put this ecstasy into verbal form (and a valiant go it was; good on ya, Steve):

What to Say When the Ducks Show Up

by Steve Martin

I, for one, am going to know what to say when the ducks show up. I’ve made a list of phrases, and although I don’t know which one to use yet, they are all good enough in case they show up tomorrow. Many people won’t know what to say when the ducks show up, but I will. Maybe I’ll say, “Oh, wonderful ducks.” I practice these sayings every day, and even though the ducks haven’t come yet, when they do, I’ll know what to say.

P.S. This is a somewhat truncated, found-online version of the published work, as my copy is not presently available owing to my not knowing where my box of religious books is at exactly this moment. The version from the book is slightly more amusing (”Oh ducks, oh ducks, oh ducks”), but you get the idea. Also, please note that while Steve and I used to be great friends, I was forced to sever our relationship when he insisted on no longer allowing me to choose his projects for him (his loss; Texan). Unrelated to that, I have a couple of assignments to complete tonight, thus shall most likely answer mail tomorrow. Probably. Monday is very unlikely. I am, however, delighted that this year Christmas falls on a Monday, as this perfectly fits my plan of never worrying about anything on a Monday ever again, forever, Amen.

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