08.30.07
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:39 am by Gregory
So very clever…or, at least, I thought I was in 1988, when I attended this performance…and taped it, and labelled the cassette via the title line above.
I think it was my second venture into L.A.’s famous (and kinda beautiful) Wiltern Theatre (with many, many to follow), and it was indeed an exciting show. My Irish-American friends and I paid no attention to (recently deceased) opening act “Mixmaster Spade” (no slight, either; it just didn’t grab us; although in retrospect it revealed a hip[-hop]ness to the primary performer most people didn’t see coming until “I Am Stretched On Your Grave” a couple of years later [which rules, to this day]).
The writer of that old Times blurb forgot to mention Sinéad “gobbing” a lot (I wonder who had to mop the stage?), and that she also performed a Smiths song (if memory serves, it was “Reel Around the Fountain” — brill!)
I was quite dewy, and wrote a letter to her. I never delivered it. I wonder where it is. It’s probably funny. She already had a kid, even then — long before she became an Hassidic Rastafarian or whatever.
Anyway, this is essentially another Fluff Filler Post in order to save regular checkers-in from having to greet the patriotic week-end thingy caked in the rude residue of my previous post (as if).
So I’ll tell you that I finally got to ask a question that’s been building up for nearly two decades. The askee was Rosanna Arquette. The asker was me. The question was this:
“Nearly twenty years ago, some friends and I were watching Sinéad O’Connor at the Wiltern–”
Ro: “Cool.”
“–yeah, and one of them noticed somebody sitting near us: You. Since then, I’ve noticed you at all kinds of shows — Joseph Arthur at McCabe’s; that crazy ‘NSYNC IMAX movie–”
Ro: “Mm-hmm…”
“So since you’ve attended so many shows, what’s your favourite concert memory?”
Ro: “Radiohead. Absolutely. They’re my favourite. They blow me away.”
There you have it. She’s the expert. (And it’s a long way — baby – from Toto to Radiohead.)
(Me, I still haven’t “gotten” Radiohead — I suppose because I’m already sensitive and weird enough, thank you very much – but I’ll try again.)
(She also mentioned another of her very tops — but it wouldn’t do to make every detail public, would it?)
Her most recent movie (as director/”experiencer”) is very enjoyable, offering comfy, candid commentary from a reasonably wide spectrum of superhuman idols. (Thanks yet again, ‘theque.)
Here — since I’m on a totally random roll, here’s a list of…things:
1. Garlic Naan varies significantly between and among restaurants.
2. Today I parted with my box of “Krusty-O’s” — and I really don’t know why I bought it in the first place.
3. This evening a friend told me of a woman he semi-desires, who aspires to be the leader of a cult. (!)
4. Apparently it was one-hundred seven degrees Fahrenheit in Agoura Hills today (melt, yuppie-scum?)
5. Even here, most of the palm trees (palm trees!) are drying up due to utter parchedness.
6. Apart from cameos from a few sexagenarian celebrities I kinda enjoy, I have no desire whatsoever to see the Halloween remake – none. However, even though this is a franchise I outgrew a long time ago, I nonetheless feel obliged to comment that it is a terrible idea to explain why the evil guy is evil.
7. Week-end plans include three classic rock’n'roll movies with two friends, one of whom I met right after the last time I saw the other one. The latter is due to return to China in a few days.
8. Greeted the day (Thursday) with an excellent e-mail from a woman I’ve known since we were both very small humans. She’s doing well. I’m not sure if she reads this thing or not, but if she does I’d like to thank her – in particular for telling me that there was a Christian prayer at the beginning of dinner at a recent reception we both attended. Nothing wrong with Christian prayers — for Christians; but blithely assuming that there were no Apaches or Zoroastrians in attendance was, IMHO, inappropriate. I’m glad I showed up late, or I would have had to say something (at least they played Prince’s “Sexy MF” during the dancey-part: It is my All Time #1 Housecleaning Song).
9. Tea Tree Oil shampoo and conditioner feel nice even if one doesn’t have an irritated scalp.
10. I have several articles to write — involving heavy transcribing; considering buying foot-massager to make the process heavenly.
11. Not giving crazy people time of day anymore; quota exceeded.
12. Explored this shoppe; had nice time; only of its kind in America; lucky us!
13. Four books, two CDs, two feature films: All progressing yummily.
14. (Bonus Item): I’ve literally been sleeping with a guitar.
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08.29.07
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:41 pm by Gregory
Sometimes I enjoy picking up The Learning Annex seasonal…erm…syllabus? — because, usually, the entertainment factor approaches infinity. “YOU Can Become A BILLIONAIRE By Recycling DENTAL FLOSS”-types of thing. Brightens the occasional breakfast.
The current issue boasts the apparently only (surly) promotional image of that self-appointed “dating/relationship expert” “Lucia” (not to be confused with the saint), along with the punchy pastel headline: “HOW TO DATE YOUNGER MEN! or DATE OLDER WOMEN! With Lucia.”
Um…
[Sensitive Readers Kindly Note: Rude Humour Imminent!]
Please let me help you save the fifty bucks for this class:
OLDER WOMEN who would like to date YOUNGER MEN, this is the ONLY line you’ll need:
“Wanna fuck?”
Meanwhile, YOUNGER MEN who would like to date OLDER WOMEN, this is the ONLY line you’ll need:
“Wanna fuck? (Optional, as required: ‘…or do I owe you a huge apology…Ma’am?’)”
Q.E.D.
Obviously, even though these lines represent the core magic of finding that blissful state of temporary/convenient relationship-”empowerment” sought by so many YOUNGER MEN (”CUBS”) and (get this) “COUGARS” (as Lucia invites her wizened peers to call themselves), some may find my appraisal a bit too elegant, and for these critics I offer the following elaborations:
“COUGARS”:
“Hello, child. I am currently aspiring toward the zenith of emotional maturity of a cocker spaniel. Wanna fuck?”
- or -
“Greetings, youngster. My estranged husband requested that I behave responsibly, and that sure wasn’t in the contract. Plus he never got me those shoes I told him about. Wanna fuck?”
- or -
“How do you do, sonny-boy? Oops, I forgot to have a male baby and/or purchase a male dog I could control. Wanna fuck?”
“CUBS”:
“‘Scuse me, Ma’am. Enjoying your pizza? Jeff and Todd bet me that I couldn’t, like, do you — but I totally said I could! Wanna fuck? (+ Optional Line, as required)”
- or -
“Hey, lady…huh-huh…huh-huh-huh-huh. Huh-huh-huh. You’re…sexy. Huh-huh-huh; huh-huh-huh. Wanna fuck? (+ Optional Line, as required)”
- or -
“Yo! Grandma! Check it out! BOI-YOI-YOI-YOI-YOING!!!! Wanna fuck? (+ Optional Line, as required)”
That sort of thing.
To save you, my readers, further time and expense, please allow me to wrap up Lucia’s prescribed topics, thusly:
“HOW AND WHERE TO MEET “COOTERS” (Oops! Pardon! “COUGARS”) & SCHLUBS (Oops! Pardon! “CUBS” -Ed.)”:
By shopping. At the mall. Duh.
“IS IT JUST ABOUT SEX?”
Yes.
“WHO PAYS?”
She does. With her estranged husband’s money.
“HOW TO HANDLE FAMILY AND FRIENDS”:
Avoid them.
“RULES FOR ‘INTER-AGE DATING’”:
1. As soon as it becomes inconvenient for her, it ends immediately.
2. As soon as he enters college, it ends gradually.
“WHAT OLDER WOMEN HAVE TO OFFER”:
More smell.
“WHAT YOUNGER MEN HAVE TO OFFER”:
Less body-hair; far fewer overtures toward common courtesy.
CAN THESE RELATIONSHIPS LAST?
No.*
(*Unless there’s a lot of money involved.)
Anyway, that ought to annoy a few (stupid) people.
In the interest of full disclosure, my catastrophe from earlier this year started banging a significantly younger (and much dumber) guy within hours of melodramatically departing my insistence-upon-mature-communication-but-otherwise-kindness. So I have every right to complain — even though at this point it’s totally boring. But mainly, beyond being marginally relatable, I simply find this material (and its alleged “revolution”) hilarious.
And…this, sincerely: I believe that peers do best — actual peers, close in age (yes, even in California). However I have no major criticism for older-younger intimate relationships (within reason, and legality), apart from this: No matter how comfy they seem, they’re largely selfish and illusory.
Speaking of relationships, I recently received a love-letter in the post! Well, actually, it was a promotional kit from Paramount Pictures — representing their cinematic lineup through December. You may laugh or scoff, but I have been out of Paramount’s loop for quite a while (I’m sure that War of the Worlds review didn’t help), and I really like Paramount (these days, increasingly), so, yeah, the sudden arrival of the package warmed my cockles.
Within it I found a DVD. For some reason, my player had trouble with the Sweeney Todd trailer at the end (over twelve years ago, I had hoped to work with Burton on Sweeney Todd; oh, well) — but I’ll save the actual appraisal of the materials (except that I’m tired of Angie Voigt’s silly multi-purpose faux-Transylvanian accent) for a less-rude posting. Except for this:
Perhaps not surprisingly, I find the trailer and theme of The Heartbreak Kid (sorta Neil Simon remake) appealing and funny (A major part of the reason we go to movies is to look [or, in some neighbourhoods, point and shout] at the screen, and say, “Hey, that reminds me of me!”)
Well…
There are significant differences, of course (I’m not much like Ben Stiller, although I think he’s terrific when he’s on — plus I didn’t actually propose to the catastrophe, and would never honeymoon in Mexico) — but in general, yeah, I get it: She seems great! She’s not! In fact: Yeccchhh! Excessive flatulence and all, though (you really wouldn’t believe it), if only my error could have been merely extremely annoying — rather than certifiable (which isn’t funny).
I look forward to seeing the movie. I’m sure I’ll laugh. I wouldn’t mind seeing There’s Something About Mary again, either. I like Jonathan Richman. And, weirdly, today is Cameron Diaz’ birthday. Amazingly, she does not offend me. Saw her dancing to “Hot Legs” at Whole Foods once. Happy Birthday, Cameron.
More from The Paramount Press Kit soon!
And Poetry…
And Prose…
And Photos…
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08.28.07
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 5:08 pm by Gregory
FIRMAMENT: Totally Clear.
TOTAL LUNAR ECLIPSE: Right On Time.
DURATION: Approximately 3.5 Earth-Hours, Start To Finish.
BEST BIT: Magical Shimmering Exactly When My Camera Went Down, As If Some Spaceship Or Whatever Was Mucking With The Electronics.
EVEN BETTER THAN BEST BIT: Tell You Later (Maybe).
TOTAL NUMBER — THROUGHOUT ENTIRE NIGHT OF WANDERING – OF OTHER ONLOOKERS: Four (Shocking!)
ATMOSPHERE: Romantic.
IMAGES: Soon.
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08.27.07
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 5:42 pm by Gregory
I pick on America a lot (because, currently, it’s constantly begging for it), however, today, just to show a bit of respect, I’ll stream a song on the site from an actual American Band — they being Camper Van Beethoven…and the song being “Might Makes Right.” I’ll leave it up there until the end of the week — just to make sure that a few Americans notice that there’s a thing in the world called SATIRE.
It’s funny: The album from which this song hails (New Roman Times) came out in 2004 (which seems like either a thousand years or ten seconds ago) — and naturally, because Camper are really terrific, it garnered little overall attention and essentially no airplay (that seems to be the formula: be really terrific = vanish from public consciousness; suck big time = make lotsa coin). Anyway, it’s a loose, weird effort, not quite up to the masterpiece that is Our Beloved Revolutionary Sweetheart — but considering that Camper are pretty much America’s best working band (when they’re working; and oh you should check them out! We have!!!), it was a very welcome return indeed.
The thing is, back in 2004 “Might Makes Right” was exceedingly topical. And now? It is equally topical. Sigh and sigh again!
Well, anyway, it’s got a good beat and you can dance to it — especially if you’re deeply bothered by humanity’s time, energy and resources being wasted on destruction and death…and you happen to feel like dancing about it.
iViva Camper!
In other news, the funny, wealthy actor Owen Wilson apparently made some sort of attempt at suicide yesterday. Alas.
Were I in a cheap mood, I’d offer some comment about him finally taking stock of that nose, or stepping back and noticing that his entire career is based on one note (it is a cute, charming note — which is probably why the girls like him — but it is, nonetheless, one note).
It’s weirder, though, for I used to live quite near where Wilson currently lives. And I don’t mind disclosing: When I lived there, I was miserably depressed (which had much to do with Wretched Employers and The Crackhead Family, but still it’s geographically intriguing)…and one night I actually sent out my own Suicide Warning. Taking things to an even weirder level, Wilson’s and my respective birthdays are so close that we’re nearly twins. Plus I am also cute and charming, and the ladies used to like me until I started telling the truth.
Anyway, my Suicide Warning was probably far more dramatic than Wilson’s — but also far less potentially lethal — which is to say, it wouldn’t have been even a little bit lethal. I was at my wit’s end (which is looong road, baby), miserably lonely, surrounded by THE BIGGEST ASSHOLE NEIGHBORS IN THE UNIVERSE (yes, worse than my current ones, who are merely stupid, much like barnyard animals), and all of my friends, family and even casual associates had deserted me. It was my birthday. Nobody called all day. Nobody sent a card. Nobody did anything. (I’m not at all a birthday hound, but when nobody does anything — following many weeks, months and years of this sort of cast-off-ness — it stings pretty badly.) The previous night, I had gone to the American Cinematheque’s annual fancy-pants fund-raiser, this one for Nicole Kidman. I literally knocked knees with Sydney Pollack (or he with me), watched The Mosquito screw up the pronunciation, watched Kidman herself scramble to evacuate her kids from the room during her more lurid scenes (smart programming…not!) and bade brief hellos to various people, including Naomi Watts. I had a nice time, actually — although previously some scuzbag local druggie girl had stood in front of my car on purpose and when I attempted to drive around her (slowly and widely) she smashed a gin bottle against my window (thanks).
When the birthday came, though, all of my accumulated unhappinesses of the past several years hit me like a tidal wave — and I’m a writer; so I wrote them. And when nobody checked in at all…
…I sent them.
This, to me, was a huge purge; a sort of poetic (if graceless) catharsis.
(Frankly, I wish more people would do it; it’s not elegant, but it is useful and productive.)
The cops came. They asked if I was okay. I told them I was. In fact, I had been planning to take myself out to dinner — to mope through it, but to eat and then read and then sleep. Temporarily sleep. I had indeed approached The Great Cliff Of Self-Destruction — however I’m also not an idiot: Indeed, it seemed very clear to me at that time that there was no reason for me to continue existing, and that the world would probably be better off with one less mouth to feed (particularly an articulate one; not so popular in America; see: White House) — and yet I know that life’s pathetic pits eventually transform back into its happy hills, if one simply keeps walking. Were I the sort to be overrun by passions, I probably would have sought attention by doing something along the lines (pun possibly intended) of what Wilson has now allegedly done. But, again, I’m not an idiot. (Romantically often a moron with astonishingly terrible radar — but not, in life, an idiot.) So, once again: I wrote out all my unhappinesses, emailed them to a bunch of people under the notion that I had considered ending my life (which really is scary enough in itself) — and let that be that.
It had been a very hard time. I didn’t want any more.
However!…
I also made it clear — for those who read on — that I wasn’t going to “do it.” Only that I needed to express the unhappiness — to expel it, really. And one needs people who know one to do that (which is probably why institutions often fail).
After the cops questioned me and left (for it turned out that some people on my list had called them — which further depressed me, in that they didn’t fucking call me) — I puttered a bit and tried to figure out where I should take myself for dinner.
Then the cops came back. There had been more calls to them (and not to me; hey, thanks — although there were a couple to me; sincere thanks to those thoughtful souls), or they had spoken with their supervising officers or whatever — but it had been decided, on my behalf (and without my consent), that I was to be taken away “for my own safety.”
Does nobody read???
Once again, this was my birthday. Happy Birthday. I was taken away (peacefully) by two police officers — who were gentle enough, but come on, they were police officers — to an emergency centre, where I was made to wait (sans shoes, if I recall correctly; I was very, very, very unhappy by that point, and am trying to recall if they made me hand over my clothing — I loathe hospitals and tend to block them from my memory) for hours and hours, as the night passed. I was told that I would be billed for this. Again: Fucking thanks. Whee. Eventually, literally hours later, I was questioned by what appeared to be a child wearing a labcoat. Possibly a college student, but it really appeared that he was just learning to shave. As I had never actually intended to follow through with any destructive acts — inwardly or outwardly — by this point I was purely annoyed, albeit at a low boil: I really wanted to try out the “fava beans” line on this kid. But I decided that this wouldn’t really help anybody, so I withheld it. Once again: Happy Birthday. The kid asked me a bunch of personal questions, I answered them honestly, and then — after about another hour — I was declared sane and fit for release.
What nobody understood was that I just wanted somebody to fucking take me out to fucking dinner on my fucking birthday.
Or even to call and say, “How’s it going?”
When I stepped outside it was past midnight, and overcast. I had been transported to this Insult-To-Injury Fiesta in the back of a squad car (my first! may it be my last!), and I had no money with me (it had taken considerable reservoirs of persuasion to convince the cops to let me put on my socks and shoes before I was extracted from my little bubble of dourness). I began to walk.
As I began to walk, it began to rain.
Hard.
Yep: November Rain.
Can you believe that?
It was a long walk; I was completely soaked; I didn’t mind; I like rain.
(The rain, as it turned out, was the only good thing about that night.)
So anyway, yeah: No drugs, no hotties, no stereotypical comedic self-loathing — but I do know what it is like to contemplate suicide in that neighborhood. Been there, Wilson. Years ago.
My Sincere Recommendation: DO. NOT. DATE. ACTRESSES.
Happy healing, Mr. Weird-Nose.
Hey, speaking of which…guess what? Today I set out in search of victuals, and whilst traipsing was summoned by the actress for a simple task of moving a large piece of furniture. Fair enough. I like to help people. This then turned into a large-scale redecoration and general transformation of a significant percentage of her place. This was not my plan at all. I went through with it, though, and here’s the nice bit:
After all the crazy shit (and it has been plentiful), it felt very nice to acknowledge her (peculiar) beauty, to help her a bit, to see some progression for her — and to desire nothing in return.
Happy to see her smiling — and I have my own work to do.
Oh, speaking of dead famous people, 16 September of this year marks the thirtieth anniversary of the sudden, woefully premature death of Mark “Marc Bolan” Feld. He was almost thirty years old. He was one of the best and brightest ever in the field of Pop Music. He never learnt to drive, but he sang about cars a lot (although his best songs were about…other things). That unfortunate night, his girlfriend wrapped their car around a tree. Ironic! Marc suddenly became strictly a legend and not at all a living human anymore. A shame, because he was brilliant.
Why is it that all the really, really good ones are taken from us?
(Incidentally, I intentionally do not include that grunge shithead — I think he was a lousy, self-absorbed loser who shouldn’t have been “entertaining” in the first place.)
Camper Van Beethoven, baby: Now that’s alternative!
What else? Oh, yes:
As long as we’re discussing the deceased, let us today hang our heads for the departure of the natural foods grocery chain known as Wild Oats. I was in a Wild Oats yesterday, and asked its manager when — and indeed if — the merger-consumption with Whole Foods would come to pass. Strange timing! He told me that today, at two p.m., Whole Foods would officially consume Wild Oats — and Wild Oats would cease to be.
Not that Whole Foods is bad — it’s good to have a big source for natural means of nourishment (not to mention cheeseball granola-prep fashion) — but after careful consideration I have become a Wild Oats person: Whole Foods (or, on bad days, AssWhole Foods, a.k.a. Whole Paycheck) has its merits, but there’s something pretentious and aggressive and show-offy about them that doesn’t sit well with me; Wild Oats has always been the softer side of Natural: Better prices, nearly equal selection, gentler overall presentation.
Oh well, it’s not as if we’re strangers to Big Hideous Corporations swallowing up nicer, smaller companies.
(I wonder how Mrs. Gooch is doing these days.)
I salute thee, Wild Oats; thou hast fed me well!
And…let’s see…
I’ll write more stuff and post it up here and on the site soon. In the meantime…
PLEASE TAKE NOTE!!!
LUNAR ECLIPSE TONIGHT/TUESDAY MORN!
At 1:51 a.m. Pacific Time (that’s 4:51 on North America’s East Coast, a little bow to Mr. Bradbury) the Moon will enter the Earth’s Umbra (full shadow) — with the roughly ninety-minute eclipse beginning at 2:52 a.m. Pacific Time.
Awesome!
Although there was another full lunar eclipse in March of this year, the previous one I saw — and oh did I ever see it! — was in the Spring of 2003. What wonders! I was aboard the Air New Zealand jet “Frodo” (and, to be fair, “Sam”), flying over the tundra of northeastern Canada, en route to the U.K. One of my friends had just died, and in general my life still mostly sucked. But I was aboard a jet with nice people who clearly didn’t spend their every waking moment being wretched (see: L.A.), plus en route to even more niceness, and so I was feeling okay. And lo! Out my window did the Moon begin to wane…and disappear! Right outside my window! Most of the passengers (being standard-issue people) didn’t know about it and didn’t care (plus they were asleep — the better to get up miserably early and begin SHOUTING at each other across the cabin) — but I was watching. The whole thing. Start to finish. I told some flight attendants (female and male), and they seemed pleased to have a look. I know I was pleased to have a look. I must have filled up three-quarters of my paltry stock memory card before I even got to Heathrow.
That was a Transition.
And so is This.
May we all Transition Well.
~Gregory