06.30.07
Happiness Is…
(Apparently the Universe is in Balance.)
(Arigato, ladies.)
(More soon.)
CONTEST!
(interpret title line as you please)
Just a reminder that The Big Contest! is up and live through 7 July.
Some splendid responses have arrived, but there’s a good week to go.
Incidentally, in response to the couple of detractors from whom I’ve heard, fair enough: But as most of Life seems to be a Mad Rush into Squandering Existence, why not just lay out the brass tacks (and glitches) up front, see if the important bits are reasonably compatible, and then — without wasting precious time and/or energy — get down to the Good Stuff?
Note: The Date is most likely to be 13 July, 2007. Am very flexible, but that’s currently the best option (and great fun it shall be).
Foe & Friend
One thing I’ve noticed about this particular form of communication — HELLO THERE! YES, YOU! (isn’t that funny how that actually works?) — is that it comes with a built-in irony: When time is (ostensibly) slack and typing at length is a breeze, the cause is likely that relatively little is going on in the present existence of the scribe; meanwhile, when life’s a go-go, there are mountains of things to say (and pix to post), but time to do it is at a premium.
This is one reason why so many of my posts are of the ruminating/nostalgic variety: It is much, much easier to “go,” here’s what I think about this event/thing/experience/memory than to type, HERE’S WHAT’S ACTUALLY HAPPENING RIGHT NOW!!!
“Skydiivng is intreestnig; btu Im not supwre fi were spposed 2 B diong it frmo a cmmorcial alriner; is 35,000 fete dangereux?//”
(Quick-witted readers will note an “inside-joke” referring to British Thermal Units — although I’m not entirely sure what it means; nonetheless, giving self points for bewildering inside-joke within already-obscure-joke.)
Anyway, yes, obviously: This is a very imperfect process. That’s part of why I have learned to enjoy it.
And…while many in this world choose selective accountability or even non-accountability for their words and actions, I’m generally okay, under reasonably fair circumstances, with dealing with what comes back. Am feeling very happy today (it’s a lovely time), but willing to field a slam. Oh, and then to respond, very belatedly, to a Favourite Correspondent:
First the slam, arrived two days ago, from someone called Margie:
Hi. Ok. I would like to say I think you’re a pretty pompous asshole. (Hey, at least I’m pretty. -Ed.) At first, I thought you were just some arrogant jerk and honestly, at that point, I had only read your list of Ten Insights for Young Dudes. Then, I went back to the top and decided to read the entry before I posted this comment; however, I couldn’t get through it. I made it to the part where you started talking about Thora Birch and I just couldn’t stand anymore. I have to pick this apart, because it’s driving me crazy! You play yourself off as some “know-it-all” intellectual, but if you would proofread your post, you would find several typos, grammar fallacies, and places where it looks like you typed one word then went back to replace it with a bigger word.It doesn’t fit the sentance structure. If your going to present a smart front, then you have to write a smart piece. And you just didn’t pull it off.
Honeydimples, first allow me to assure you that when it comes to pulling it off, I have, over hard years of passionate study, become a Maestro.
As for being a “know-it-all” intellectual — well, duh. Obviously I am enormously ignorant of many aspects of the Universe. But eff it, somebody’s gotta sound like they have a clue.
Otherwise, you’re totally at liberty to hate me for my views — but I referred back to the rankling post, and I’m content with the way it reads. I’m not delighted with the tone either (and I suspect that this is what really bothers you about it — as well as, perhaps, that it may catalyse your own self-criticism), but it is a fair and honest (if highly personal) reflection upon the feelings of that time and place. Happy? Hardly. But quite appropriate to the circumstances. Alas that not everything can be oogie-woogie wuv-wuv every minute of every day; although I adore the dreamier aspects of existence, I have been living in an outrageously (and really stupidly) harsh-spirited place.
Regarding (or not) Thora Birch, at the time I was planning to post a few pictures and some interested commentary — except that she didn’t interest me, at all. So I didn’t.
In response to your apparent outrage at my writing style, hey, whatever. Sometimes — but not frequently, and very rarely in this medium – I do a once-over and replace a sagging word with a pointier one. Just as Wodehouse was known to draw up his plots first, very mechanically — and then to go back and finesse his language into the art many know and love. Writing as Rewriting: Perhaps you have heard of this?
In closing, please allow me to be utterly tickled with your use of “sentance” (sic) and especially — oh, how especially! — “If your going to present a smart front…” That, Margie, makes my day. Thanks.
Now, as my April was Up!!! and my May was Down!!!, I neglected quite a lot of mail, and am not sure at the moment if I ever aired this geographically astute note from Our Beloved Revolutionary Sampaguita. So…here:
One slight correction— Alhambra is decidedly not in the Inland Valley. The Inland Valley starts somewhere in the middle of Pomona. I’d even go so far as to say that it starts east of Diamond Bar— probably directly east of the 71.
(I took my undergrad in the Inland Valley [UCR] and am eager to distance myself from that nebulous blackhole of desert/stripmall landscape.)
Hear-hear, Sampaguita! I was all the way over in Long Beach yesterday (and talking with visitors about how bizarre it is that most of the motorways here don’t even have names), and I really had a terrific time — but also noticed that, apart from the touristy areas along the water, the majority of Long Beach is ugly. SoCal in general needs the facelift it so often foists upon its denizens!
06.29.07
PHASE THE NEXT
I’ve just had some of the most fun ever crammed into forty-eight hours. Shall report — with pictures!
(Mind, some of it was actually quite arduous and lonesome and traversing-of-unpleasant-terrain — but then again much of it was simply cake, too: Very, very diverse and delightful cake.)
The overall feeling: Hey!
Although kvetching didn’t begin here and won’t end here, this seems a good place to drop the last of the old smellies: Parents none too bright; Family none too supportive; Special new Circle in Hell awaits landlords; Former employers still aspiring to lick boots; Nation bent on idiotic consumption; Many humans still need to be introduced to revolutionary concept of Contraceptives; World-”leaders” still think war “o.k.” (hint: It Isn’t.); Recent “girlfriend” disaster was disaster specifically because that person really is a selfish, deceitful dipshit; Leaf-blowin’ “gardeners” and SUVs and people with plastic bags filled with dogshit and neighbours-who-belong-in-barns and SUVs and Television Personalities and SUVs and clear-cuts and SUVs all SUCK; most new movies unbearable wastes of time, respectively; oh, and I totally don’t dig smog, man.
That’s the meat of it.
Just wanted to purge the pipes, as I’ve just had many close-packed experiences truly deserving the adjective AWESOME, and all of it — all of it — was a matter of choice and perspective.
Things: Lookin’ up.
The Breakthrough of recent mention, made manifest.
Whoo!
P.S. Reasonably reliable source indicates that the “Harry Potter V” screening to which I am invited (with enviable Plus One action) is now known. The lack of demporal timension seemed to be a blumbling stock, so, if interested, ask.
06.28.07
Paul ‘n’ Me
I say: Hello.
Subtle pleasures are my faves.
Tonight was not exactly subtle.
But talk about a wonderful evening!
Right in the middle of Hollywood.
Fancy that.
Details forthcoming.
Meanwhile, this four-syllable hint:
Na-Na-Na Naaaa!
06.26.07
Like a Flower
Considering that The Contest has only been live for a couple of days, I am surprised that already there are responses — and furthermore that the responses are generally kindly, if not downright interesting (and interested).
Best line so far:
“I like that you are so very honest; do you eat fish?”
(She — well, I’m hoping it’s a she, anyway — obviously noticed; or shares; my semicolon fetish.)
Honesty; it’s such a lonely word.
Erm…
Frequently the conundrum arises: Should one be honest – or should one be kind? Especially if the two are mutually exclusive, a conundrum indeed ’tis.
In terms of a real, one-on-one relationship of the Couple sort, I am quite fond of that adage (not sure of its origin, paraphrased here) that, “One should keep one’s eyes wide open during courtship, and half-closed thereafter.” Indeed. Find out what stuff of which someone is made (and of which you are made with them!) before caving to matrimonial (or partnership) expectations — then, after that, always allow them (and yourself!) to be fallible and human (not rotten and unfair, mind; fallible and human). This seems to me a good philosophy: Giving Honesty priority, and Kindness the long run.
From the African-American popular music community, I offer as well these helpful cautionary tales: The Supremes’ “You Can’t Hurry Love” but also very notably Percy Sledge’s “Take Time to Know Her.”
Honesty: I consider myself reasonably honest. Often to a fault, actually. White lies, yeah, everybody tells ‘em — but I think it’s much more to my detriment that I do everything I can to say what I mean: which precludes games — and many people thrive on games, rather than Truth.
For instance: You tell someone you actually care, you’re actually there — and, as far as any potential relationship goes, you may as well dig a hole, jump on in, and cover yourself with dirt; for you have just officially ended any possibility of them retaining interest. Be aloof, though — or stupid, or vain, or shallow, or an asshole, or distant, or thoroughly unpleasant: Guaranteed, there are people of the other gender who have become programmed to be comfortable with those neuroses, and thus you’ll be in — well, if not good — in company.
For me, with this Contest, I am simply fed up (and then some) with illusions. You meet, you flirt, you date, you pay, you pay, you pay, you may even receive Outrageous Proclamations of Adoration – and then the other person’s hardwired Agenda overrules anything resembling Fair and Reasonable Communication — and all your Kindness (as well as Honesty) were for naught. To hell with that. I just endured the most miserable Spring of my whole life as a result of that (prior to that, for several years, I was practically a monk; talk about your rude awakenings!) That’s over and I’m fine now, but I did glean from the unfortunate experience a very useful lesson:
Put Verbal Communication FIRST. SAY what you MEAN. And WALK your TALK.
Thus the Contest. It ain’t a crush, it ain’t lust, it ain’t My Way Or The Highway. It is a fairly apt description of who I am and where I am (presently) and what I hope to find and nurture with a Lady — including receiving and nurturing her dreams, hopes and intentions.
Cute, throughout, the write-up is not; but neither is Life.
So, yeah, if you’d like to call it Honesty, that it essentially is (words are never everything; but they beat the shit out of illusions). In this sense, Honesty cleaves very closely to Kindness.
(Oh, and kindly note: Regardless of apparent verbal swagger, some degree of ignorance on my part is presumed throughout — well, throughout everything, really.)
As for the fish, well, since The Hotel Heiress’ cupcakes (literally) made the news today, I don’t think it’s too self-indulgent to delve, briefly, into my diet:
I have been vegetarian for seventeen years, including five concurrent years of being a Total Vegan (even sent my leather jacket to the Bosnian relief effort — and was this close to cutting off my accordion straps). During those five years, I was at my slimmest and fittest — which, of course, led many women to accuse me of being “too thin” (”Are you okay?”). After returning to Stupidland — which is still very much the land of Dead Cow Muscle Yum-Yum (not a health-encouraging environment) — my absolute Veganism gradually dissolved into basic Vegetarianism — meaning that I’d eat pancakes and occasionally scrambled eggs, and no longer ask about the ingredients of cookies. The idea of drinking milk disgusted me (and still does; nice cow-secretion!), but no longer could I be called a Vegan.
Then, gradually, sushi happened.
Mind, I had been dining in sushi restaurants for years (I enjoy the whole: “HELLO-HELLO! YOU OUR NEW FRIEND!” schtick) — but always from a Vegan perspective: meaning inari and yam-rolls and avocado and cucumber and such. Lots of tofu and miso soup. Stupidland, however, takes a severe toll on the body (this is a very stressful place), and I began to think, “Hm, maybe I’m not sucking down adequate flax-seed oil to sustain my Omega ratios or whatever; does my heart mind?” So I let a California Roll creep in there somewhere, and eventually spicy salmon (which the locals call “SALL-m’n”).
I know that some people get all wet and/or hard about extremes, but for me that was about as far as non-veganism went: Salmon rolls. This incurred mockery more than once, as I tried to engage in discussion about how I will eat fish (then pretty much a new thing for me, after many years without) — but also how I’d rather not, and would prefer that such behaviours weren’t even part of the human matrix (obviously we’re overfishing the oceans as it is).
Ultimately (up to now), this practice has modified itself into the following: I eat fish once in a while, and not very much of it, and it is always and only salmon (apparently wild-caught is just about the healthiest fish to eat), and I prefer it smoked to raw. Lox. Whatever you want to call it. Occasionally.
I recognise and appreciate The Fish as a symbol of Life (and it certainly ain’t doing Japanese and Scandinavian hearts any disservice — well, unless they’re fish-hearts!), and yet the concept of running around willy-nilly, eating animals of any stripe (including lots of “seafood”) pretty much yucks me out.
So there’s your answer: Smoked salmon, very sporadically. Honestly.
That’s how I’m Moderate Vegan. (At least 90% of the time, I’m Totally Vegan.)
(And — if somebody were willing to cook with me, and work flaxseed meal and other healthy et-ceteras into the deal, I’d be quite happy to give up fish entirely — or even to return to Total Veganism — which would be a happy fate.)
Once again, thank you for these early Contest responses. I know I don’t come across as entirely Open or Nice (nobody is), but I am indeed touched. I truly look forward to having at least one date this year not retroactively ruined — and possibly even hopefully directed toward a Loving Future.
I’ll give the rest of you a moment to squeegee the vomit from your screens.
I spoke with a delightful relative today. We have in common another relative who is a [dubious astrological sign]. His appraisal of her proved interesting to me: “Yeah, she’s all sweet and nice until she doesn’t get her way, then there’s no middleground for her: She either loves you or she hates you — and if she hates you, she goes straight for the throat!”
Sounds familiar.
Anyway, that’s why one-twelfth of the Zodiac is excluded from the Contest. Stereotypes are sometimes more than mere hot air.
Turning the topic — and this may shock return-readers — today I was kind to #1 (as in, Actress). Why? Well, I had put her off for a week, and she really needed help with a scene she was doing. I am good at such things. I helped her. I already know she’s crazy, so it was a conscious choice, with service and not personal happiness in mind (I simply answered the call). The demons of stress also winged their way into her life in a big way today, so I helped with that — with kindness, that’s all (even in the midst of gratuitous nudity). The following dialogue, however, is presented for your entertainment:
She loves television (or at least being sedated by it), and some shitty soap opera was on. Startled anew by the fact that I accidentally had a wreck of a relationship this past season, she was bewildered by the notion that I am indeed a straight male human with feelings, desires and opinions. Puzzled as she was by her own sudden (if modest) acknowledgment of my humanity, she asked me to comment upon the “actors” onscreen, which I did (”He looks like he smokes a lot, and, even statistically, is likely to die relatively young; She clearly is into yoga or pilates or whatever, and will probably live a lot longer, but she’s obviously not a real blonde, and there’s something fake about her smile, too…”) And then #1 asked me to tell her what I see when I look at her.
“But I already know you. Do you mean, if I just saw you out on the street?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’d think that you’re pretty, and kind of stylish, with a nice way of carrying yourself, and usually you seem energetic, even effervescent.”
“But you know me.”
“Yeah, I know you.”
“So what does that change?”
“Well, for the past several months you’ve been stringing along two sugar-daddies who don’t know that you’re two-timing both of them.”
[Silence.]
“Total buzz-kill.”
[Pause for almost-thought...then:] “Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”
Anyway, I doubt I’ll write about #1 here much if at all anymore, as she has become simply a human — and one in whom I definitely have no unrequited interest. (Already knew that, but it’s useful to be reminded under kind circumstances. Well, I was being kind, anyway; she was just being kind of useless.) Even as freakshow fodder, the thrill is gone.
However, since this freakshow arrangement survived while the Spring Horror yanked me in and self-detonated in the nastiest possible way, it serves as a sort of framing device — and it’s kind of interesting to me, how Sweetness and Affection and Apparent Sincerity appeared, but then were consumed with alarming rapidity by Totally Heartless, Self-Serving, Irresponsible, Lying, Two-Timing Ghastliness. Now I’m right back at WTF? — but it’s a quiet and shrugging WTF?. An “If That’s Your Deal, That’s Your Deal” WTF?.
Oh well.
There’s more to life than mad appetite, kiddo.
Anyway, I know that being Honest very rarely brings Success in this world — especially not material success — but it’s just the most comfortable path for me — through some very rocky gorges, I can tell you. So expect more of it. You may not like it, or you may not like me, but somehow I was born without the DNA that allows people to Grin and Deceive.
So there’s that.
Speaking of smiling one’s way to big bucks, though, tomorrow night at this time, Sir Paul McCartney will be completing his live set at Amoeba Records in Hollywood. I like Paul. As a performer. Generally. Just yesterday, in shops and out on the street (from passing cars) I heard five excellent songs he co-wrote. Even though he is partly responsible for dreck like “Say Say Say,” I must…erm…say…that I feel blessed to inhabit a world with Paul still in it. He sometimes gets on my nerves, and his Look How Cute I Am! schtick gets old faster than he does — but there’s also something wonderful about his terrific tunesmithing — yes, and with a smile.
(Speaking of which, if you happen to be in London this weekend, Robyn Hitchcock will be performing — twice — a benefit concert including the entirety of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Very old-school, but as it’s been with me all along, this notion is, indeed, guaranteed to raise a smile.)
#1 had never heard of “She’s Leaving Home.” (!) I rebuked her accordingly.
My mother (should know) and I were talking this evening, and when I brought up “Live and Let Die,” she waxed enthusiastic and proclaimed, “That’s a good song!”
(Weirdly, both she and #1 share a birthday — and that’s all.)
So, anyway, thanks, Sir Paul — sorry I missed ye this evening, but happy that, in the midst of such prevalent ugliness, you’re out there doing your thing, and giving people some reminders of goodness.
(Oh: And remind me soon to explain how it’s only one degree of separation between R.E.M. and my ex-rabbit!)
Songs of the Night:
“You Can’t Hurry Love” by The Supremes
and
“Take Time to Know Her” by Percy Sledge
Tuesday
The sun rises, the son rises, and anew needed is he by parties various and appreciative.
Song of the Day:
“Superman” by Mitchell Botler and Gary Zekley
(popularised by R.E.M.)
06.25.07
Keeping All Your Secrets Safe Tonight
Well — a bit melodramatic; nice lyric, though.
O, such a Monday was this!
It did that hot-grimy thing right from the start. I know, because I was up early, and out there. Horrific. That thing in which the air isn’t the least bit comforting or pleasant. That’s weird. The way we’re burning up the planet, I suspect we’ll be seeing more of that.
Errands completed, I fled back to bed. I slept the Monday away. That was pretty cool. Please note: I know that, particularly in this country, we’re all supposed to browbeat each other into total misery with the Work Ethic thing and all that — and I enjoy working, when it’s useful and social — but today? Eff it! Hideous Monday out there! Why bother? So I did some more repair work on my nerves instead. Confronting utter madness shreds the nerves. Mine are in much better shape now.
Well, apart from the damned “gardeners.” On TV and in movies, L.A. is either represented as a cool, glammy place or a cool, crimey place, but essentially never do they show you the “gardeners” — those roaming banditos of the leaf-blower, who remove absolutely all traces of soul (anything organic) from the neighbourhood, raising HELLISH cacophony while they’re at it. This is no small bitch. They SUCK. (And BLOW.) Today, in the midst of dreaming away the Monday (yeah, poor widdle me), yet another one of them fired up his motherfucking leaf-blower. Those, notably, are illegal now: An ordinance has been passed against their use. Did I call the cops? No. Why? Because I called the cops on them twice last week, and, of course — absolutely of course — the cops did not show up. At all. Alleged law-upholders, please relax sphincter, withdraw head.
The Contest is up, and I know that some would probably tell me to stop embarrassing myself, or something, but whatever: What’s more important, reviewing some Michael Bay trash, or seeking a date with substance? Well, obviously.
It occurs to me that some are likely to use the thing as a “gimme” in the way of insults or scams, but whatever. It feels GREAT to say What You Really Want; I heartily recommend it!
Glastonbury is over. Missed it. That’s okay, though, as bands like The Killers mean nothing to me (it’s not that they’re bad, but they’re far too derivative to interest me personally). Would have enjoyed seeing and hearing Bjork, though. I like her. As a performer. I took my dead rabbit Balzac to see her back in the late nineties. Well, to clarify: Balzac wasn’t dead then, and Bjork was playing the Palladium, and I happened to be taking a drive with Balzac. So I stopped and joined the crowd outside, with my rabbit. When Bjork came out, she checked us out, busted a Macaulay Culkin “Yes!” move, and fled to her tourbus. Then she married Matthew Barney. Not sure how that fits chronologically with my rabbit dying, but pretty sure it’s unrelated. Balzac is now under the ground on top of a mountain in Malibu; probably with some partly fossilised carrots.
#1 called again today, and I ignored it again. The Insanity Shield is up and strong.
Sister arrives shortly.
Shall work through evening, as productivity and social usefulness still – despite Monday restorations – major concerns.
Song of the Night:
“Nobody Does It Better” by Carly Simon
Happy Birthday, Carly Simon.
(Thanks for the notion.)
06.24.07
Just Gimme Some Truth
Fourteen minutes until the washer concludes, thus this.
Q: Is L.A. a toilet?
A: Possibly. Apart from the routine filth and grime and terrible manners and toxic mould and unbreatheable atmosphere and nasty water, two absolutely real observations from last nite:
1. Awaiting bus, standing near restaurant, two heterogeneous couples of human beings emerge, the female of one of the couples loudly stating: “This is the only city where you walk outside and there’s pants on the sidewalk!” Perhaps not entirely true (I’ll bet it also happens in [amusing city name here]), but there indeed a pair of male adult beige trousers did lounge on the pavement against a palm tree, owner unknown (there was also an errant leg-brace lying against the next-over palm tree).
2. Departing bus, striding up Fairfax, I notice somewhere in the vicinity of Fountain that there is a female human form in the darkness, squatting next to a rusted-out old ’70s sedan. As I approach, the details of the woman (race withheld) become clearer, and her own trousers and undergarments are around her knees, with her buttocks in plain view. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” she groans to me as I hasten past.
You make your own verdict.
I arrived at the party and suddenly found myself in a Stylish Off-Sunset Apartment filled with peers who are also friends, and vice-versa. Two of them were playing baseball. To clarify: They were playing “baseball” on an extremely high-resolution wide-screen television, courtesy of freehand motion controllers and Nintendo’s “Wii” (”Whee!”) system. This was new to me. One can design one’s character onscreen to resemble oneself. Soon enough, I was playing one friend at tennis. I won, but barely. The action was remarkably like real tennis, or at least one could go along with that illusion. A bit arbitrary, overall, but (in “American”) kind of neat. Then that friend and other friends spent several minutes on the Godfather video ”game” (essentially a CG movie with brutality and Real Marlon Brando Samples) — first designing a character from pate to feet (kind of alarming, how much detail one can finagle), and then commencing with the muttering and street violence. Fortunately, everybody found this boring — so we cracked up looking at people’s online identities (people trying to define themselves tend to be very funny; all I did was observe, but my fave self-descriptive line was, “Classic, with a twist!”), and then we somehow watched about four visually astounding movies whilst offering commentary and stray asides. The night went fast.
It’s our turn now.
Didn’t even try to see The Police. I did speak with a distant friend, however, about how nice it is to reckon back to 1980 or so and recall the hopes and dreams of our dewiest youth. That’s why these things make so much money: A lot of people want to do that.
Me, I’d be happy getting the very significant time and energy of the entire Spring back (except for the parts I spent with nice people; thank you).
This Week:
Sister imminent!
There shall be Reviews!
There shall be Interviews! (!)
There shall be Book (Preview)!
Oh, and there shall be New Contest!
The thing about this Contest is — it really is absurd. But then again — maybe it isn’t. You’ll see. I’ll have it available for perusal by Monday morning.
Maybe lay in a couple of short stories, too. I enjoy what I’m excavating. Even if you don’t, at least these will be free.
I picked up the paper very briefly and noticed that a bald, obnoxious former rival has managed to suck up to (as if) Roeper. I really shouldn’t look at things like that. It would be better to go to Singapore or take up cricket or something.
Ever feel like the World can’t really take much more away? Please — I don’t mean to sound spoiled, but as I was walking a few minutes ago it occurred to me that, if I had been born female, I’d have spent most of the past several years crying. Kind of obscene even to mention it, but even though I am blessed in countless subtle and understated ways, just about every Dream I have wanted to come True has turned not only to shit — but turned to fetid, mould-encrusted shit with bugs in it — which then explodes. It’s really, really, really weird: To do something (or, especially, someone) right — and then to be shot down in cold blood for it. I must figure out why this keeps happening (in most major areas of Life), because there certainly aren’t any useful lessons in it. (Incidentally, the way I view the world, if anyone can attain any life-lesson without pain — then far better, for the pain is not necessary. I intend to teach in exactly this fashion.) But yeah, not merely because Stupidland is shallow and callow and fast and crass, but because Best Intentions seem to be for naught in general, I wonder: Why is sincerity meaningless, and assholery victorious?
Oh, very entertaining line from my weekend horoscope:
“You might not be totally unhappy with new information.”
(???)
Song of the Night:
Well, that’s rather obvious, innit?
06.23.07
Assorted Volleys
A few angry or at least disgruntled responses have shown up (not at all unexpectedly) regarding “my” recent “statement” about a fatal turn in the next (”last” — Ha!) Harry Potter book. Here is my official reply:
As If.
Like I would know. It just spun through the news this week that Voldemort Kills Hermione (among other things), via an alleged hack to Bloomsbury publishers in London. Upon re-reading the accompanying missive, however, I feel inclined to add that the culprit is clearly mainly an egotistical troublemaker, and not one with any apparent gift for the English language.
That didn’t keep Schwarzenegger or Bush out of office, but still.
As far as the narrative turn goes, I happen to think it’s an excellent narrative turn. I doubt very strongly that most people in control of the money would allow Rowling that sort of creative freedom — but what a terrific shocker! Plus, given that Ralph Fiennes was stuck with a much older life-partner for a prolonged period, it may make sense that his character would want to “do” (in) Emma Watson’s much younger character in the alleged “final” movie. Fits.
Last night I viewed not a new film but one from the last time I was so overwhelmed by (the harsh side of) life that I couldn’t see anything unless I was actually reviewing it. It was David Lynch’s The Straight Story. It bored me. I stayed mainly because it was largely inoffensive and mostly quiet, so I could think about other things. I will say that I truly enjoyed the two “episodes” with the women along the road: The pregnant kid and The Deer Slayer — but otherwise I felt an overwhelming sense of, “Just because somebody is old does not necessarily mean that they are interesting.” Moron should have taken a bus. Spacek annoyed me, too.
Speaking of annoying, if you are a casual reader here, it is likely that I have annoyed you — at least somewhat — with my “relationship” (it turns out, in the very loosest sense of the word) woes of this past Spring. Well, sorry. No — really. It behooves me to note this, which I consider important: I would NEVER write (especially in public) about a Significant Other (feigned or otherwise) under any circumstances short of saving people’s lives — unless that person started doing incredibly hurtful things which caused a direct and damaging effect in my life. That’s what happened, so I wrote about it. Then I pulled most of it. It is awkward in that I do not have the ability (some do) to “switch channels” instantaneously for maximum short-term personal convenience, thus there has been…residue. That’s normal. But I do apologise, nonetheless, for mixing Business with Displeasure. It’s like a shaken bottle of fizzy stuff: It’s gonna come out, one way or another.
Anyway, although I do believe in full disclosure whenever possible, there is also such a thing as taste — some obviously lack it, but I’ll do much more to cultivate it here and elsewhere. I’ve just never been through such a, “You have GOT to be kidding!” experience before. Live and learn. I’ll explain the whole thing in detail some time when it’s convenient for me. Sorry again.
Let’s see…there are a lot of new movies to mention, some of which I have indeed seen (and liked), however it may be a couple of days (as if you were holding your breath) before I can blather about them — owing to some software glitches which are screwing up my new review web-log. (Formatting page after page is for people who like to sit mindlessly; I don’t.) Not that the world is desperate for my reviews, but since Pete Hammond of Maxim (Maxim! Can you believe that? What about Leg Show?) is currently the King of the Quote Whores — I’m sure that I can at least add some unexpected grace-notes to the consensus.
Hungry. Late for lunch.
So much could have been so good.
Oh: Contest. The new Contest will be posted, most likely, this Sunday night on the main page (with a note here). It is very, very audacious — but so am I (in some ways), so after much consideration, I deem it appropriate. Fun, probably, too.
Last night I encountered the most physically attractive female human I have ever encountered in my life. This does not mean that I “fell” for her (image, for me, is not everything!), and she was standing with her fiance, but she was also an excellent conversationalist, and it rather blew my mind to enjoy the presence of a glorious-looking person who is also creative and also intelligent and also obviously not a crazy creep. Once again, of course she’s engaged — but it was good for me, in general, to see that there’s more out there than LIES, LIES, LIES YE-EAH!
(Meanwhile, in lieu of love, I have been achieving some degree of emotional satisfaction via Baked Lays. No, by this I do not mean trysts with stoner chicks. Rather: the flat, low-fat crunchy things with the fibre content varying significantly in the alleged “Nutrition Facts,” depending upon the size of bag purchased. On the large bag, “Fitness and Wellness Expert” Dr. Kenneth Cooper (?) declares, “Fitness is a journey, not a destination. It must be continued for the rest of your life.” On a potato-chip bag. Fair enough. However I tend to give a slight advantage to Butt-Head’s “philosophy” that, “The journey of a thousand miles…begins in my pants.”)
Tonight I am going to a party. How very good. Several long-term friends will be there. They, too, are creative, intelligent and not (usually) insane. This is a pleasant plan.
Mind, I almost knuckled under to go see The Police at Dodger Stadium. I know that it’s hardly altruistic or highminded to want to attend such a thing, but I do enjoy checking in with my creative forebears — and, very notably, I tend to sustain an undercurrent of faith in various parties even after they’ve delivered every reason to greet them with nothing but cynicism. Ultimately, though: Eh. Too much hassle. Plus I don’t care at all about “Foo Fighters” (or anything associated with the horror that was “Nirvana”). Of course, the event is putting a baseball stadium to much better use than baseball does, but I think I’ve got a good hookup for Madison Square Garden later this year, so I’ll just get my little kick that way (by which point, who knows, they may have new songs; or at least fewer bugs).
Currently inhabiting a place in which a pedestrian cannot take a single motherfucking step in any motherfucking direction without six motherfucking SUVs careening toward said pedestrian, I cannot in all sincerity endorse the lyric, “Take the space between us: Fill it up some way!” — however I nonetheless enjoy the outraged vibe of its host song, and so I present it to thee as
Song of the Day:
“O My God” by The Police
(Again, just volleys here. More to do with Breakthrough and Book and True Beauty when the energy is properly tuned.)
counter