05.31.07

There She Is…

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:00 am by Gregory

My Best Friend!* 

* Results of Award achieved via rigourous tests of: A. Overall Lifetime Consistency; B. Inarticulate Yearning; and C. Guaranteed Song-Hummingness & Toe-Tappingness In Wistful And Mildly Eerie Yet Pleasurable Nocturnal Manner. Actual Humans hoping to claim such a mantle are encouraged to avoid despair, for despite lyrics such as “I smell her perfume when my eyes are closed, and I see her face in the moon,” independent surveys have revealed that a large chunk of (possibly formerly Terrestrial) rock hovering hauntingly and indeed curiously above in the inky black sky, casting upon all a Romantic Yet Tantalisingly Slightly Out Of Reach (Recycled) Glow, simply qualifies as its (Her) own category of Friend — the whole point of which being that: No Matter Where You Go, She Is With You. Actions and Words both pale in her pallid luminance, and so “Best” is, frankly, somewhat misleading, as, in Her case and category, there can be no other (at least around this particular planet). Her boldest face has recently beheld both Pure Joy and Pure Agony, and, thus, given that She returns yet again, humbly and quietly yet in glory and majesty, one cannot but presume that She is in it for The Long Run, The Real Deal, The I’m Not Kidnya, Man. That, friends, is a Friend. And so tonight we honour Her. Wherever, whenever, however, whatever and whyever you are, may She smile sweetly upon you as well. I miss you.

 

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05.30.07

Excavation & Scintillation

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:07 am by Gregory

Hello, Dear Readers.  How’s it going?

I have been dutiful to a number of patterns which, it recently occurred to me, no longer serve.  No total existential overhaul and really no particular angst, but rather I realise that I have been most guilty of wishing that things will go well, and then being quite disappointed when they…go extremely far south of well.

Plus the standard Giving Too Much For Too Little, the routine Hoping Rather Than Planning, and the fatal flaw of switching off my supernaturally powerful Bullshit Detector.

Caused some trouble, all that.

But this post is intended as a breezy one; and not really a continuation or explanation of the previous one (that’ll come soon enough).  But, rather, just some reflections from oblique angles.  A slate is being cleared, and so here’s some of the more interesting dust in the air.

Cribbing from Kurt Vonnegut’s Slapstick is nothing new, however today I cracked it to Chapter 22 and was amazed:

This purchase resulted in more publicity. Eliza would still not come out of the booth for cameras, but Mushari promised the world that she was now wearing a New England Patriots blue and gold jersey in there.

  She was asked in this particular interview if she kept up with current events, to which she replied: “I certainly don’t blame the Chinamen for going home.”

  This had to do with the Republic of China’s closing of its embassy in Washington. The miniaturization of human beings in China had progressed so far at that point, that their ambassador was only sixty centimeters tall. His farewell was polite and friendly. He said his country was severing relations simply because there was no longer anything going on in the United States which was of any interest to the Chinese at all.

  Eliza was asked to say why the Chinamen had been so right.

  “What civilized country could be interested in a hell-hole like America,” she said, “where everybody takes such lousy care of their own relatives?”

Yowza.  This also happens to be the book in which Vonnegut offers:

Love is where you find it. I think it is foolish to go looking for it, and I think it can often be poisonous.

  I wish that people who are conventionally supposed to love each other would say to each other, when they fight, “Please–a little less love, and a little more common decency.”

Doubleplusyowza.

Ultimately, via sheer contrast, I have decided that this has been My Worst Spring Ever — however I am grateful to several friends and associates who have provided wise and even very amusing words (to be released in some other form), which buoyed my spirit until it could fly again of its own accord.  Such a travesty.  I only wish that it hadn’t dipped quite so low into The Realm of Unbearable Cliche.  Human Nature I love and respect, but Cliche is purest poison to me.  Thank goodness for the antidote of wit and wisdom with which, from friendly sources, I have been grandly blessed.

Hey, after that Star Wars extravaganza I got three fortunes at the Thai restaurant.  They were and are:

Your nurturing instincts will expand to include many people.

and

Others are attracted to your endearing warmth.

and

Others are attracted to your endearing warmth.

(Little slips of paper are rarely so kind.  I’ll happily live up to these.)

A couple of days later, at an Indian restaurant, I was leafing through an essay about catharsis — how one keeps compulsively playing out the same actions until the inner (past) dramas are consciously appraised and understood, which then allows the actions to become conscious, optional — and then I happened upon another essay, “Myth, Dream and Contemporary Philosophy” by Richard A. Underwood, of which this part I really like:

The word spoken out of love is a word spoken out of origins. It is, to use Martin Buber’s term, a primary word: it brings into being as fruition that which would otherwise remain hidden in the depths. The word spoken out of loving, made possible by the sense of originating experience in the depths, thus creates new worlds. It is not bloodless and jejune: it is sanguine and vital. Nor is it heavy and suffocating: it is springlike, promising a new time while recalling times past. The word spoken out of loving origins does not cover up or hide the powerful interplay of height and depth: it displays the rhythm that enables source to become resource.

Bingo.

On a lighter note, I was recently conversing with a strange young woman who was obsessing over ingredients for baked goods, and suddenly, apropos of nothing, she launched into the notion that All Celebrity Deaths Come In Threes.

“There was Anna Nicole Smith, right?” she enthused. “Well, I think Mel Gibson will be one of these three, probably the third one.”

“Who will be in between?” I yeastily pondered. “Perhaps Martin Lawrence?”

“Why Martin Lawrence?”

“Because we already have funny people.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Martin Lawrence. Then Mel Gibson.”

So there’s that.

On Tuesday in Whole Paycheck — er…Whole Foods…I noticed that Myra Ellen “Tori” Amos has a new CD in the racks. I gave it a once-over and didn’t feel overly frothy. Indeed, the woman keeps her promises (catching her from above the stage at the Greek for the last show of her 2005 tour, she used that faux-Soul-Mama voice thing of hers to intone, “See you all soon, in Two Thousand And Sev-uh-en…” — her playing otherwise extraordinary) — however at first blush this new album seems old hat: Punchy Grrrrl Issues With Coy Swagger. Don’t get me wrong: I was on board from Little Earthquakes (which I still like best), but something shifted.  Back when I was working in a horrifying Hollywood talent agency, I daydreamed about perhaps “marrying” Tori Amos — because nobody female I was encountering had any apparent soul or character or (ironically) talent (mind, we’re talking SoCal — as soulless a place as you’ll find on Earth).  In lieu of Kate Bush, who was busily having her baby, Amos seemed a reasonable candidate.  (But one of many thoughts of a man formerly noosed daily in a tie, beneath cruel fluorescents.)  Now I may give it a listen, but…hm.

As for movies, a strange woman of a totally different generation (and sans baked goods) placed in my hands The Guardian, a movie about Coast Guard “Rescue Swimmers,” starring Kevin Costner and Ashton Kutcher.  I ran it through during a spell of semi-delirium.  The action sequences I found unbearably boring.  Kev still stuck with total messiah complex, poor guy.  Ash doing weird over-earnest turn.  Adequate, nothing special, but I do find it noteworthy how interested some women are in “men’s” movies (she also had both Rocky Balboa and Copland ready to view).

I was hoping a bit more for some What Makes A Man A Man kind of stuff — Joe Jackson’s “Real Men” cues itself on the memory jukebox — but I suppose that’s pretty easy: Be like Hugh Jackman. And if you’re a total asshole, you’ll get the girl.

Me, I don’t really fancy girls; I’d like a woman.

As for the site and its imminent modifications, excessive bells and whistles are unlikely at this point, as I am the sole “programmer” and I’m a writer.  To this end, however, I’m going to do away (mostly) with the individual-page-per-review format, as I am simply not a layout person and it takes too much time.  Most likely any reviews from now forward will fall into a web-log receptacle, where, I suppose, they’ll be retrievable alphabetically.  Other changes will be primarily thematic.  Words are taking plenty of other shapes.  Meanwhile, I hope you’re having a giggle with the absurd place-holder page; I am.

The book is going well, and will peek out its pretty head as soon as I am able to instill it with the courage and self-esteem for it to want to be a part of the world.  June publication is still on.  Other works this year will likely be easier, as I decided to put the most challenging one first.  Music, too.  The strings are vibrating.

There was something else…

…hm…

…oh, yes…

…the Moon is nearly Full again.

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05.27.07

breakthrough

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:00 pm by Gregory

o yeah

plus anon

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05.26.07

Live Baby Live

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 1:42 am by Gregory

The week was bookended by grey, with a main course of Summer in between.  Acceptable.  I am amused by how like bugs humans can be: Turn up the heat and they move about faster.  This is perhaps why I have been enjoying the cooler bits: I just checked my watch and realised I’ve been running non-stop marathons for about twenty years.

This web-journal, I think, reflects that.  Although some regrets are laced through it, essentially it reflects the frenzied state of mind of someone in a massively transient environment.  Personality grab-bag, with very few consistencies.  Under duress, I wasn’t able to find it particularly funny.  Having been here awhile, now I’m rediscovering that feeling of: “Oh…this is how it feels…here…but not necessarily anywhere else in the world.”

Friend P. met me for lunch on Friday and my fortune was the following:

“STICK TO THINGS AS THEY ARE, DISTRUST NOVELTIES.”

(The mind reels at the myriad interpretations.)

Here, from my desk, is another one I like:

“Just be yourself; your are wonderful.” (sic)

Love that; they swing a semicolon into a fortune, then make a typo (presumably).

Since people love to talk about movies, here’s what I got for ya presently:

I reviewed the first two Pirates movies, and — particularly since Rotten Tomatoes is reverse-alphabetised for #3 — I’ll prolly do that one over the “long” weekend.  It’s odd — I don’t actually feel compelled to see it, but I know once I’m in there I’ll at least like the way it looks.

My friend Daniel, whose Sex & Death 101 is bowing in Seattle next month and opens in the Autumn, not only introduced me to the term “woe-mance” (wight on), but says of the new movie Once: “I’m thinking [Gregory] film of all time.”  He’s probably right — the poster alone makes me feel like I’d feel it; however since I was recently under the impression that I was living it, something about a mere movie feels trite by comparison.  We’ll see.

It’s funny how movies work on consensus reality: Outside of The Industry, people seem to use movies as a sort of “club,” a Gotta See That! society.  Meanwhile, anyone who’s been inside may become significantly more jaded.  I recall asking a friend-of-a-friend Australian actress if she wanted to join me for a charity-event premiere of Van Helsing (c’mon; Hugh Jackman), and she responded as though I had asked her to eat a couple of tarantulas with Miracle Whip.  It’s like press screenings; I feel significantly more well rounded in my understanding of the medium for having attended so many; and yet ask any friend in L.A. — and it’s just too much trouble to attend.  (Other critics know of what I speak.)

But if L.A. is about anything, it is about Me.

Tonight I went for cinematic (dis-)comfort food: The Wicker Man, 1973, slightly trimmed but still one hell of an awesome movie.  By today’s standards (or lack thereof), it certainly feels quaint – plus there’s a distance now to the faces and locales, which brings a strange melancholy — but oh what a script.  Of course there’s the kicker, but all throughout there’s such strange wordplay, so many awkward-yet-delightful moments (the ol’ frog-in-the-mouth trick), and the characterisations are tops.  Especially following The Other (which is eerie but nowhere near the same league), it was a night of excessive creepiness, but — unlike in many cinemas — at least there were friendly, familiar faces about (I was acutely reminded of the end of John Irving’s — I think — The Water-Method Man, wherein he simply expresses gratitude for the warmth of humanity around him); thanks for that.  Meanwhile, my only significant criticism about the movie’s otherwise brilliant script is that it all fits beautifully UNTIL Beltane (deja-vu!), as Sgt. Howie is running through the town, desperately searching for little Rowan — until, of course, he suddenly decides to go back to his room for a little nap!  The plot depends upon this bizarre turn, but it utterly collapses under the first pass of logical scrutiny.  Since the rest of the film is so tight, the glitch glares.  Mesmerising depiction of shared insanity, though.  This was the first time that I realised that the viewer isn’t really asked to side with anybody.  I like that (when I was a child I never understood “Good Guys” vs. “Bad Guys” — always attempting to explain to the deaf ears of my friends that it’s all relative and all people are essentially good; it’s just a matter of perspective.  In this moment I am reminded of making that very statement in the domicile of someone dear during April’s full moon, and being demonstratively adored for it.  I had just done some adoring as well.  Ah.  Ah.)

While hardly a peacenik (he kicked Nazi arse during WWII), Christopher Lee — star of The Wicker Man, of course — turns eighty-five this Sunday.  Happy Birthday, Sir!

For those who are beginning to tire of me frequently celebrating these octogenarians (my Honourary Grandfathers, including the — sigh — late Kurt Vonnegut, Ray Bradbury, Ray Harryhausen, plus of course Mr. Lee — and a few others), here’s the deal: When Michael Hutchence was found dead for retarded reasons several years ago, at thirty-seven (”I’m not old!”), it suddenly occurred to me to appreciate people we appreciate while they actually share the planet with us.  Since some are probably closer to shuffling off, I do what I can to appreciate them first.  (Celebrities, incidentally, follow people I actually know.)

I also do what I can to appreciate those who have no apparent intention of shuffling off any time soon.  Case in point, Stephanie Bettman, a violinist and fiddle-player par excellence, whom I met by fortuituous connection and who put me on her email invite list.  Lots of people do that, and one simply cannot go out and support everybody, but I do what I can.  (I even once bought a CD from that hella-pushy English rapper guy — but, alas, his attitude soured my enjoyment of his work.)

En route to the pub, I asked the bus-driver — a grizzled coot whom girls probably wouldn’t find cute — if the bus stopped at a certain street.  “UONG,” said he.  I asked for clarification, to which he said, “UONG” again.  Then, as I exited the bus, he loudly muttered, “Knock yourself out, Chief!”

Great.

The performance was last Tuesday night, and my friend T. and I managed to transform the slightly-earlier evening into a brief but useful script meeting.  Amazingly — we’re talking bazillion-to-one odds — the one progressive-rock song that directly addresses the themes of our project happened to play through the pub.  I found myself smiling at that.

Stephanie’s performance is also quite smile-worthy.  She and her fine backing band just won some awards at the Topanga Banjo and Fiddle Contest — and yes, they are a Bluegrass outfit.  Some feelings about this.  Country weirds me out.  Bluegrass is not all that distant a kissing-cousin to Country.  And yet…Bluegrass reminds me of Northern Exposure or Garrison Keillor — both smart entities.  Better yet, it reminds me of Emmet Otter’s Jug-Band Christmas.  (If ever there were a milieu involving Muppets marrying their siblings…but I digress…)  Given my druthers, I’d rather be listening to The Chieftains or Le Mystère des Voix Bulgares or reggae or mazurkas or The Clash or something — but when we stretch a bit we learn things, eh?

What I learned from Stephanie (fiddle, voice); Luke (astounding mandolin, spare fiddle, backing vox); Adam (stand-up bass, backing vox) and Danny (guitar; backing vox) is that sometimes delivery trumps form.  In other words, I don’t know jack from Bluegrass, but the songs were so tight, the performances so spirited, that I had a fine time.  Very diverse, too, within the general genre: Although I found myself acutely receptive toward many of the plaintive lyrics (this May, dismay), overall Stephanie is simply a consummate showperson, and from glee to woe she keeps things crackling.  Recommended.

T. had to leave early, and no other familiar faces appeared, so after the second set I walked back to the bus-stop where I encountered a lot of Shrek 3-related trash courtesy of the local McDonalds.  I put on Queen’s A Day at the Races and marvelled at how much melancholy resides within that particular project (so much longing; it’s the album with “Somebody to Love,” and that’s just for starters), and then the bus finally showed up — and it was the same oafish driver!

“I knocked myself out,” I informed him.

Actually, it’s late and Spring has been a major Feelings-flim-flam — ME-me…me-me-me-me-ME-me; thank you, Beaker – so no extra coaxing is going to be needed to enter Dreamland in a few moments — or as my Belgian amie M. calls it, “into the arms of Morphee.”  Fine.  (Something is still wrong anyway…)

A Weirdness is afoot, and it is still plugged directly into my nervous system — but I am quite fleet of foot (I just danced a night storm up a major thoroughfare, to Upsy Daisy Assortment – which The Universe literally gave me on Friday; The Universe in this case being portrayed by a senior Italian woman who hangs out at the library) and so I am doing my best to sidestep it, for the moment, for sanity.  Never before like this.  It’s Something.  Whoo.

Sidestepping on Saturday will involve attending Star Wars Celebration IV, in downtown L.A.  It’s odd — under the circumstances it feels very peripheral and unrelated to my current priorities.  However I’m sure that the spectacle will be worth it, and friend B. invited, so why not?  I like being among people getting their fantasy groove on, so it should be fun — even if I don’t presently hunger for fun, as such.  (Will there be a visual report?  Almost unnecessary at this point, don’tcha think?)

Thank you again to those who have been sending word from hither and thither.  I’ll return to mail again soon.

Meanwhile, the current Book project is still underway.  I do not experience writer’s block, however under my current circumstances I would equate writing a book with trying to bake a cake whilst skiing. 

There are other variables, but I am learning some lessons about posting them here.

The Love is Real, though.

Slainte.

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05.21.07

Sweet Grey

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 9:27 pm by Gregory

Todey was gray…er…today was grey.  Soothing.  Much of this particular land-mass was hot.  Here was not hot.  Here was cool.

A few words about this: Although I not infrequently rave about it, I am not predisposed to love miserable weather.  Au contraire, I like happy weather.  What I love more, though, is detail…even mystique.  You simply don’t get that with blinding glare – it all burns away.  A bit of fog, or the sun obscured by clouds until it resembles the moon — then one can see (my eyes do, anyway) the Beauty too often left languishing in dead-on sunblast.

Subtlety.

Ah.

There was plenty of subtlety today, so I went for a walk with a musical instrument.  There was a practical reason for this, but the side-effects were more interesting.  The side-effects were:

1. People all over were adequately affected by the sight of me with the musical instrument that they felt it worthwhile to speak with me about the musical instrument (I had to keep checking to make sure it hadn’t suddenly transformed into a dog).

2. Homeless people muttered, “Rock Star, Rock Star, Rock Star…” (Ridiculous, but amusing.)

3. Women of all sorts flirted with me — a lot.

Addendum to #3: This means beans to me.  Unlike previously, I am not irritated by it — in fact I responded quite pleasantly — but that “Ooh, he looks like what I’d want!” business is totally nowhere.

Addendum to Addendum to #3: Beyond any apparent attitude plus Musical Instrument, what was probably occurring was that that particular respresentation of the species was somehow picking up on a peculiar void.  This was not something I sought; it was something I noticed (by contrast, usually I encounter such rudeness that I consider calling the Guinness Book to see if they have a section for such).

More Fun: I wandered into a Music Shop and an effete Boomer pot-head guy (he told me) from Oregon started rambling about creating a new musical with his partner (who was busy trying out the instruments) plus some 20-year-old girl with a great voice they somehow know (whose ‘tude apparently ruins all their sessions, according to him), plus another girl that age who proudly thickens their broth with her feisty Lesbian ethos.  Weird-O-Rama, but pretty funny to hear such things.  (One of the songs became “Fighter Girl” — “But I’m not a fighter!” she protested…until a couple of months later, when she suddenly liked the title.)

More Fun Than That: I ran into my friend E., who works hard locally and knows his stuff.  He also understands the discipline and pleasure of writing.  We have enjoyed each other’s company for years, and usually we surprise each other with insights into popular culture.  Today he had just been videoed — rather hesitantly — to discuss the pop-culture world for some cable programme.  He added that he has just designed a (trendy term imminent) Shared-Use storefront-dwelling for somewhere in the Philippines — and it looks like they’re actually going to build it.  His company is always a pleasure.

On a sad note, the body of the mother-in-law of a friend of mine was finally identified after going missing for months.  The case is finally resolved, but at such (emotional) cost!  My thoughts and prayers go out to their family.

I dined in a diner with some bittersweet associations, but forewent them and simply ate and wrote and enjoyed one of my very fave T-Rex anthems plus Talking Heads’ “Blind.”  It’s odd to think both how long ago those were – and also how they aren’t dated at all.

I also read this article about Warren Zevon.  I never met the guy, but I listened to him a lot during his peak years (my first dewy experience of the jagged Excitable Boy came courtesy of vinyl-protected vinyl from the local library).  I’m glad that I took note – not just because I liked “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner” or Zevon’s unabashedly uncool baritone — but because he was a textbook case on how not to live.  Plenty to learn from Mr. Bad Example (Zevon was Nick Cave well before Nick Cave was Nick Cave) — meaning, of the cautionary-lesson variety.  Morris is right, too: No singer-songwriter leaps to mind who more succinctly summed up what L.A. really is (or, perhaps, was).  2003 had its moments, but on the whole it was a rough year, as my way-too-young-to-go friend Marnye died, as well as Zevon himself.  One blazing hot weekend, I recorded a cover of his surprisingly moving “Never Too Late for Love” as part of a triptych of songs in tribute to her (The Beatles and Peter Gabriel supplied the rest).  Nobody cared — but it felt right to express those confusions via song.

Today was free and good, though.  It is best never to take Mondays seriously.

Good how the world sometimes works.  I don’t feel like figuring out the accents on this thing, but a friend of a friend is well connected with Medecins Sans Frontieres in Europe.  Excellent.  They’re actually doing something.  This is why I am going to put some proceeds from book sales (if any) toward their efforts.

Speaking of which, still restoring balance after Tilt-A-Whirl of a Spring (to put it mildly), however there will be evidence of Book soon.  How soon…well, we will sell no wine before its time…but soon.  This is already a good week.

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05.20.07

55% & 77%

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:18 pm by Gregory

Two chocolate bars, in lieu of love.

Both with Bonus Poetry inside the wrappers.

55% Cocoa Content says:

from At Her Window

 

Beating Heart! We come again

  Where my Love reposes;

This is [my Love's] window-pane;

  These are [my Love's] roses.

 

Is she nested? Does she kneel

  In the twilight stilly,

Lily clad from throat to heel,

  She, my virgin Lily?

 

Soon the wan, the wistful stars,

  Fading, will forsake her;

Elves of light, on beamy bars,

  Whisper then, and wake her.

 

Let this friendly pebble plead

  At her flowery grating;

If she hear me will she heed?

  [My Love], I am waiting.

 

-Frederick Locker-Lampson

AND!

Extra Strong Dark 77% says:

(incidentally, although the chocolate manufacturers were apparently too lazy to look it up, this is Sonnet CXVI:)

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments, love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove.

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wand’ring bark,

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come,

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom:

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

 

-William Shakespeare

Official Comment?

Whatever.

That wand’ring bark will have to do.

Slarti-baby, how’s about a new planet? 

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05.19.07

Weekend Political Addendum

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

I don’t like politics at all. In 1996, I wanted for Joycelyn Elders to become President of the U.S. — because she openly reveals the qualities of a humanist, rather than those of a machine. That was over a decade ago. Can you imagine how much healthier things could have become by now?

During my lifetime, Jimmy Carter has been (thus far) the only President I have actually respected and trusted. This appreciation has grown over time — not because he’s white or male or Southern or Christian or any of that (frankly, Southern Christians wig me right out; and I don’t comprehend most white males, either) — but because he and his wife Rosalynn clearly demonstrate a love of people, and a desire to help them.

In case we have forgotten (and, quite clearly, we have) – religion absolutely notwithstanding – that’s what being a Leader is about.

Thank goodness that this was expressed today.

‘Bout time.

Adding my own tuppence, yesterday I was reading last week’s British Weekly, and among all the quotes from stepping-down PM Tony Blair about how Britain is “the greatest nation on Earth” (bit naff, that) I noticed this…um…what to call it…small pile of word-like things…about Blair…from U.S. “president” Dubya:

“He is a political thinker who is capable of thinking over the horizon. He is a long-term thinker. I have found him to be a man who has kept his word, which sometimes is rare in the political circles I run in. When Tony Blair tells you something — as we say in Texas — you can take it to the bank. We have got a relationship such that we can have really good discussions. And so we will miss him.”

Ahem.

W?

T?

F?

Why – I ask why — does the alleged “leader” of the alleged ”free world” ALWAYS have to embarrass everybody by sounding like a retarded monkey just learning the preliminaries of speech via (oh, the irony?) some Noam Chomsky workshop?

I’m so sick of being embarrassed by that guy.

It will be a thrill when his “term” finally ends.  A thrill.

Bravo, Mr. Carter, for speaking up.  Good on ya.

Okay, time to partay.

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Weekend Update

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:19 pm by Gregory

Welllll…not exactly. But I haven’t used that title before.

Foremost in my thoughts this weekend is that I’d like to record some new music. More specifically, I’d like to play some new music — however I may go the homebody route and lay it to tape before I lay it on the public.

Have been listening to a lot of former faves of late — even Elvis Costello Vs. Bono last night (which is funny because the former thinks the latter ridiculous, even though they both prance about under fake names attempting to claim some crazy “American Roots” mantle) — and am gradually warming to the notion that more need be said and done than has yet been said and done.

On a whim yesterday I read an excellent interview with Andy Summers, in Guitar Player magazine. It’s not a publication I usually open (the last time was to glean the chords for “Livin’ On a Prayer”), however Summers’ wit and wisdom about his craft prove illuminating. (He also spoke about his recent memoir at this year’s UCLA Festival of Books, an appearance I regret missing.) I’m really not a “gear” guy, and although he rather comprehensively discusses gear, what impresses me most is his philosophy (he is sixty-four — ! – and a bit of a local guru at this point) of instinctively employing harboured wisdom. Of course, guitar-playing is but one of a bazillion disciplines for such expression, and disciplines (and their disciples) change. Being someone who can spell, it is questionable whether I will ever become an obsessive musician — but with the proper catalysts, you never know.

It’s strange: Last year Stewart Copeland absolutely declared to a large body of witnesses that The Police would never regroup, let alone tour. This year: HUGE tour. After twenty-three years. Obviously the money is talking (the money, frankly, is SHOUTING), however, on a personal level I wonder: Do I care? Should I care?

Rock & Roll is a kid’s game: all that freaked-out passion and confusion. The themes tend to stretch all the way from “Why Are You Breaking My Heart?” to “Why Am I Breaking Your Heart?”

But…as the song goes…I like it.

Generally.

The thing is, I never liked the dum-dums – but The Police — although they played for a short while at being “punk” — were never dumb. They fused many (stolen) styles with a mainstream (white) foundation, and all three guys could be argued to be masters of their craft. When a sleek (if adolescent) track like “Every Breath You Take” hits the radio, you still notice it, don’t you?

(Me, I prefer “Walking on the Moon.” I just put it on right now. Ah.)

Things have changed in some ways since this band ruled pop consciousness. “World Music” is now widely accessible (even to white people). Do we still need them to bridge that gap? Will they have to struggle to achieve a new level of significance? Will they bother? (If “Sting”’s son’s band being the opening act is any indication, a certain complacency already dogs the endeavour.)

Since this is, for sheer scale, pretty much The Tour of 2007, I have given it some thought, and feel that it is cheesy but acceptable. It will bring people satisfaction. They will dance. They will sing along. They will reminisce. An exciting (albeit recent) era of 20th Century Pop Culture History will live anew. Kids desperate to dig back beyond the (often, not always) utter crap forced on them nowadays will discover that conventional musical instruments can be played in unconventional ways, that themes need not be limited to jerky junk. Plus I enjoy seeing people age energetically.

Bottom Line: I’ll attend a show if it proves reasonably convenient.

(I do dig that tap-tap and hi-hat.)

(Although I’d rather see Loreena McKennitt…)

Since we’re on pop music, a Merry Merry Month of May it has not been (”…seven hours and fifteen days,” indeed!), and thus I have run amusing thoughts through my head to distract myself. In the supermarket parking lot the other day, the genesis of a new Self-Test occurred to me:

Describe Hell.

Michael McDonald and Donald Fagen duetting Gangsta-Country versions of Stray Cats songs with that gun-nut Blues Traveler guy’s infernal harmonica toplining the mix. And you’re not allowed to leave.

Describe Heaven.

Almost everything else.

That sort of thing.

In other “news,” this week I picked up an hilarious copy of The Onion: For Women. Although America needs The Onion, most days I do not, as I am already adequately Funny and the boost would be overkill. This edition, though — whoo, I thought I’d have to call a paramedic. As with the best humour, it takes the Painfully Obvious, contorts it, and FedExes it back to your nervous system in a manner that startles and stuns. From the cover alone, headlines and teasers such as “Blues Singer’s Woman Permitted To Tell Her Side” (”To the contrary, my lovin’ is so sweet, it tastes just like the apple off the tree.” !!) and “Cosmopolitan Releases 40-Year Compendium: 812,683 Ways To Please Your Man” and “Women Now Empowered By Everything A Woman Does” and “Woman Masturbates To Concept Of Commitment” had me tickled…notably, not from some boring, knee-jerk (or regular-jerk) misogynist angle (yawn) — but rather because I AM SO TOTALLY EXHAUSTED FROM AMERICA’S PURITAN-FESTERED PARADIGMS OF “ASSHOLES-HURT-WOMEN-WHO-IN-TURN-GO-HURT-GOOD-MEN-WHO-THEN-(OFTEN)-BECOME-ASSHOLES-REPEAT!”

C’mon, people.

Laugh. 

Anyway, my pick of the litter is this one. Speaks utter volumes. Had me on the floor.

(Doubt, thou art burdensome in longing hours.) 

Some kind of transition…began…or almost happened…or something…too. I just walked through my front-room and beheld a book-jacket photo of Kurt Vonnegut. (Grampa?…) I don’t mean to place inordinate significance on a man with whom I only breathed the same close air once — but he shuffled off just as something Vital shuffled on…and then…

Hm.

My current book has a bit of him in it. Only a bit, though. Beyond the obvious factors (notoriety; none), we’re different. He’d have scoffed at the Granfalloon of hailing from the same general region. And I have never gone to war, nor even sold cars. On the other hand, I am confident that I have attained some experiences about which he never even dreamed.

The book will take up most of this weekend’s daylight hours. It would be an easier birth, but there have been complications.

Sample chapter (still combing) and cover-art possibly Sunday.

Anyone reading this who actually knows me: Hi.  

O! To carry a Gem through Darkness…

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05.18.07

Dance Camera West

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:33 pm by Gregory

Le Cinéma est un langage universel…

So it says, anyway, every time you partake of a movie in one of Landmark’s theatres. Other tongues follow, but the point is the same: People everywhere get movies — which is why some people become filthy, filthy rich off them, and others kill themselves over them, and some (like me, and probably like you) occasionally employ them as windows to the world (as relatively few people are actually stuffed into aeroplanes headed to different parts of the globe every day; and who would want to be).

Lasting Communal Memories — imagine that!

Me, I’ve always been more a feeling person than a seeing person — and, thus, when the studios trot out their promo reels of, “Remember These Golden Moments [From Our Studio]: BUY THEM AGAIN! TODAY! RIGHT NOW! FORK IT OVER!!!!” — that makes me wax just an eensy bit jaded. To hell with Rain Man — it really wasn’t all that. Gimme something that surprises and enlightens and delights me. Gimme something to feel. Provoke me. Gloom me. Soothe me. Tickle me. Even Wow me. Bonus points if it’s pretty or striking — but, to me, that isn’t what matters; what matters is that I’m not sitting in the dark pointlessly; I want an Experience, or else I’m going to go do something.*

(*This statement is uttered by a qualified and seasoned professional — of moderate stature, but of stature.)

What matters is that Cinéma represents a major component of the Collective Soul. Yes, really: Boys with their Indiana Jones; Girls with their Steel Magnolias; Others with their Liquid Sky. The list is nearly infinite, but it should be noted that Cinéma — for all its considerable hold on the consciousness (and, especially, unconsciousness) of most humans — is still a baby. We’ve had glyphs, parchment, oral traditions, theatre. But Cinéma — the act of collecting and manipulating moving images so as to create a permanent (regardless of scope…or ‘Scope) work of highly populist art (no entrance exam required; you don’t have to know how to read! or even think!) — in terms of Human Endeavour, this is really rather New.

Mostly it seems to come down to Icons. People generally forget the subtleties they observe in films (I don’t; see mild boast above). But they don’t forget Marilyn, Charlie, Jackie, Yoda, Hermione…  From a cheap perspective, these are the Archetypes of the Illiterate (apart from Hermione, mostly). But from a bigger-hearted perspective, these are Guides. We share, we discuss: “Hey, did you see that part when So-And-So did that thing…” Etc. That’s Big. Movie Executives know that, which is why they live in houses most couldn’t afford to paint. And, fortunately, Artists know that, which is why we keep getting wonderful motion pictures zooming in under the corporate radar. And once in a while, the twain meet: And me, I dig that.

This peculiar and unsolicited Overview of Cinéma — arduously shouldering its conventional three-act structures and plot-points and marketable icons and all that — is hereby presented as Overture to a revolutionary annual film festival I have heartily endorsed since its inception, and which I enthusiastically recommend to you right now.

It is called Dance Camera West, and it very happily alters our perceptions of what Cinéma can be (as well, frankly, as those of what Dance can be). This June, all over L.A. I just love the thing.

As but one reflection, it was a rainy night in 2003, and my mother was visiting, and we rode the monorail up to the high-tech Getty — and we spent the evening among lovely people, viewing truly amazing short dance films. (One I recall was a wee bit too erotic for comfort, but you know those demonstrative dancers.) The budgets were low, but the creative expression was (pardon my Californian) way high.

The first film I viewed in film school — big screen, 35mm, beautiful print, awesome sound — was Singin’ in the Rain. Changed my world. (Comparatively, I had to sit through Citizen Kane three times before I could make it all the way to Rosebud without falling asleep.) Even when you watch Léon (forget The Professional; it’s essentially a botched, Bowdlerised edit), who does that intense film’s antihero idolise? Gene Kelly. There’s something there.

Friends, I may be a Straight White Male, but Cinéma and Dance utterly delight me, often when combined.

I am aware of the classics, and yet I grew up with The Wiz and Grease and Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (just try to tell me Billy Preston’s “Get Back” isn’t a Lasting Communal Memory!) — and I’d be remiss if I didn’t say that there was — and is — something about Xanadu.

Phantom of the Paradise. Rocky Horror. Labyrinth. Ah.

During my splendid professional catastrophe a couple of years ago, a director friend who also works in distrubution asked me to review one of his titles, a 1995 Bollywood musical called Rangeela — which had been repackaged for DVD as Bollywood Dreams. I gotta say, I loved it. No Bollywood expert am I (how could one be? — it would take hundreds of highly specialised brains in jars connected to a central computer like Deep Thought) — but Bollywood Dreams brought me many smiles. I smile even now at Mili and Munna and their rhythmic ways.

Oh…the musical numbers on The Muppet Show (”Coconut”!), The Monkees (”Cuddly Toy”!), Busby here, Björk there, I’m even one of the world’s only Cinéma critics who would dare admit that he thinks Shock Treatment is a great movie.

The Grand Central Waltz in The Fisher King is my fave movie scene ever. (I well up just thinking about it.)

And that is so very much just the tip.

So, yes, I am well prepared to dig something like Dance Camera West — because there really isn’t anything like Dance Camera West — but somehow I get it. I have raved it up before, and I hereby rave it up again.

(Nice one, Ms. Kessler.)

This year’s DCW features an Opening Gala at the Roy and Edna Disney/Calarts Theatre (REDCAT), honours for choreography, a four-day dance-film workshop, via the American Cinematheque a Clare Denis dance documentary (I reviewed her Beau Travail** a few years ago), a video exhibition and some unknown entity called “Razzle Dazzle.”

Again: Yes, I am fabulously straight.

But I’m going to attend as much of this as possible.

See you there:

Dance Camera West

(**Funny, although I am grateful to the creators and tenders of both All Movie Portal and Metacritic for compiling many of my reviews, an easy link to the Beau Travail review proves tricky to locate. It was kind of an amusing one, though.)

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05.17.07

The Lilac Time

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:13 pm by Gregory

It is, actually.

Today I feel appreciative that my neighbourhood is festooned with many lilacs and lilac-like things.

Meanwhile, within rest many lilac-coloured bags filled with beautiful books, requiring my attention.

Arrived at today’s title semi-independently, however of course it’s also a newly-revived band.

Only other comment today is

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