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…
Permalink
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.
Permalink
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
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08.26.07
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 1:53 pm by Gregory
I love checking in, however “time” to be “here” is currently tight. For your up-to-date gratification, here’s this:
1. French or Spanish?
French.
2. Almonds or Peanuts?
Almonds.
5! “Three, Sir!”
Three:
3. Cats or Smoke?
Fresh air.
4. Africa or South America?
Crete.
5. Steak or Fish?
Lasagne*.
(*w/ fake cheese)
6. Lily Allen or Amy Winehouse?
Lily Allen. (no contest)
7. Enlightenment or Religion?
Enlightenment.
8. Love or War?
Oh, come on.
Well?
Well, what do you think?
What we think isn’t significant here; we are merely the inquisitors.
What?
Nothing, nothing.
“We”???
Look, could you please just answ–
Isn’t it obnoxiously obvious?
Not to everybody.
Fine.
Fine.
War.
What???
No, I’m kidding: Love, actually.
Whew.
Yeah.
9. Fluoride In The Tap Water, or No Fluoride In The Tap Water?
No Fluoride In The Tap Water.
10. Medicine…or dying really stupidly like Jim Henson did?
Medicine…but absolutely as holistic and organic and real and non-corporate as possible.
11. Gilbert & Sullivan, or Andrew Lloyd Webber?
Gilbert & Sullivan. (no contest)
12. Japan or Korea?
Probably Korea.
13. Happiness or Marriage?
Both.
Permalink
08.25.07
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 1:42 am by Gregory
When I worked at Paramount Studios, I’d frequently stride (or ride; on one of the many borrowable mailroom bikes) around the back of the lot — which is where much of the prop- and set-related stuff is. There were many aspects of the whole lot with which a young man’s fancy could become entwined (somewhere between Tia Carrere and Klingons), but the sort of “Design Region” held for me the most mystique. There was a lot of fascinating stuff back there (I recall walking around on the bridges of Federation starships, or through the Addams family’s parlour, occasionally fondling associated properties), and yet: It was really not my world; I knew nothing of how one gets involved in the process of Design — nor how those Designs are brought to fruition. It was very close to magic (if sometimes highly chemically-toxic magic), to me.
I write. However I also absolutely love the hands-on process, bringing Ideas to Form.
Well, on Friday morning I got to sit down with one of the foremost Designers in the industry — a magician (albeit a humble one) in his own right — and thus was an Interview conducted. It was very nice. It was also enlightening. Of course, in the ensuing years since my grunthood at Paramount, I have learnt much more about the whole process — however this particular interview with this particular person really crystalised the notion of bringing Ideas (fluffy, wispy, nebulous) to Form (nuts, bolts, plaster, paint, and above all, inspired manifestation). I was in fact quite weary, owing to running hard all summer through various unexpected obstacle courses in the intense heat (plus I tend to stay up late and rise late — which is delicious), however the conversation held its own natural energy, which provided not only momentum but fun! For the moment, just mentioning – but soon enough there shall be a proper piece revealing much more. (Tidily coincidental hint in the meantime: This person’s latest project was released by Paramount.)
Unrelated and very nearly amusing: “Sting” got back to me (via San Francisco — most impressive while they’re on tour in Europe) regarding Marty Jourard’s candid (if provably true) comments, thusly:
Author: Gordon Sumner (yeahsure -Ed.)
E-mail: yobculture2001@[blankety-blank].[blank]
But I am funny!
Read this interview from 1999 where Stewart, Andy and I have a “reunion” of sorts… We’re all drunk and I am fucking brilliant in every way!
Much funnier than the other two…
Okay, I have a doubt or two about the sender (although I wouldn’t doubt the real Gordon calling himself “fucking brilliant in every way!”), but here is the link nonetheless. Kind of a fun read; I appreciate the admission that “So Lonely” was always just “No Woman No Cry” mixed with thrash.
When I first became aware of Bob Marley, I reasoned that “No Woman No Cry” was an equation, meaning that if you don’t have a woman, you won’t have to cry (largely my experience thus far, alas).
When “Sting” was in his forties, I used to laugh when people called him “Boring Old ‘Sting’” — but now that he’s in his seventies, I sorta admire him again (actually, it was some crazy rock’n'roll IMAX movie I reviewed a few years ago that let me get over his incense-clogged higherness and see and hear anew that he really is a terrific and truly vibrant entertainer — when he’s not being a grotesque self-caricature.
Speaking of “So Lonely” — I’m not, but I have known that crushing feeling many times (and protractedly) over the years. Extra-weird when one inhabits a city of millions (although of course that seems to be the trend; countless fleeting acquaintances, “insta-friends,” precious little depth). Since it is presently Friday night (which this year became a source of sadness), I am given occasion once again to ponder the utter catastrophe that was my Spring — and it’s interesting; I mean, at this point, it’s clinically interesting: That somebody could be such a terrible, terrible liar in the realm of emotions; that somebody could knowingly and willingly be horrid, flirt coyly with (and bang randomly) various whoevers whilst brutalising one vulnerable heart, and (the ugliest bit) be blithely, insipidly unaccountable for it. There was shock and misery, but those are gone now. I’m okay. Pretty happy, actually. The Mind has bested the Heart with the simplest of queries: “Dude, why would you want to date a reptile?” However, the theoretical aspects continue to perplex, specifically:
In romance and in its natural evolution into mature relationship-building, the primary currencies are Emotion and Honesty and Intimacy. How can one enter into this exchange if a partner consciously and willingly exploits these elements as weapons and explosives?
That’s L.A. for you, anyway. Where else would we have gotten those early Pat Benatar anthems?
Back to Bob Marley for a moment, I never got to see him perform live in person – however I have seen his excellent son Ziggy a couple of times. The first time was up in Vancouver, at the Commodore Ballroom (which wasn’t a corporate interest at the time). I mention this not because I happened to be there under yet more dubious romantic circumstances (insane artsy girl wanted both me and her then-sugar-daddy to go; I was then running for the office of Moron King), but because Ziggy & Co. went on very, very late; it must have been about one a.m. or perhaps even later before they began their show. The reason? They had been held up interminably at the border (that night, the usually very amicable Ziggy hissed a dedication to “racissssst people…shhhhhhh…“). At the time I thought little of this (Ziggy is not only a Son of Bob, he’s also the author of the song, “Herbs and Spices” — hm…gee, ya suppose there’s any contraband on that tourbus, eh?) — but now it seems that the younger Mr. Marley (who is close to being my peer, and I’m quite proud of that, and of him) may have revealed a trend.
Responding briefly to that: Canada is VERY MUCH not the U.S.! Expect Canadians to respond differently to things, particularly when it comes to volatile material. Is it a “racist” country? No more than any other, I’d say, and far less than most (kindly note that many of their Native, First Nations people are honoured and respected — more than in the U.S., anyway). However, a lot of American rap (mostly African-American) quite obviously continues to be ugly and violent. Not all of it, certainly! Good on everybody’s creative process! Although I should disclose that I’m really, really not a fan of hip-hop (although I prefer it to grunge and country — at least when the hip-hoppity-hip-hip-a-hopper is making some effort toward a melody) – plus I loathe Big Dumb Bass With Idiot Yelling Over It — it seems to me that the plaintiff in this…this… crusade to sue Canada might benefit from considering that he may not be doing the U.S. any favours of diplomacy via his attempted exports on his MurderCap record label (”MurderCap”?). The world around, these are not gentle days, but perchance to sing — rather than to spew hideousness.* What would Miles do? What would Nat do? What would Harry do? What would Otis do? What would Sam do? What, indeed, would Morris Day do?
(*Note: I haven’t heard a thing off this guy’s label, and am not making a direct criticism of him or his art or commerce; rather — and I doubt I’m alone among sensitive and thinking people here — I am harshly, harshly criticising the alleged “music” that foments violence and ugliness. Got something to say? SING IT.)
The only good rapper is one that’s dead!
- Prince, “Dead On It”
From his Black Album — arguably his most revealing work.
“The only reason you don’t understand our music is that you don’t like it!”
- Rick, The Young Ones
Anyway, to clarify: Not messing with anyone’s creative catharsis; just sick of the air being filled with ugly-ass noise. Enough already. SHUT UP AND SING.
And indeed, Toronto and Vancouver really do not need increased violence. New York, Detroit, Chicago, Miami, Atlanta, L.A. and other American urban centres should be taking lessons from their Canadian cousins’ successful strides in terms of diversity, cultural sophistication and civility.
Or look to Jamaica:
“Love Is My Religion”
-Ziggy Marley
Oh, very incidentally: Since I included the word “fucking” back there (and it is a word, and a great one at times), it occurs to me that sometimes there’s a strange, underlying hypocrisy to my presentation here in this medium. For it truly is a strange and new medium: Should we be fully honest (which would not infrequently include the word “fucking”)…or should we be (as it were) “nice”?
I’d prefer not to have to go over this point again, or to be terribly redundant about it now — but it seems to me that any “blog” (hate that “word”!) written by an adult (particularly an adult beyond the second childhood of one’s twenties, as enjoyed by many Westerners) is going to be something of a “PG-13″ (at least) proposition. Nice all the time it simply cannot be — not whilst occupying Planet Earth under its current duress (particularly as that duress trickles down into the realm of Emotion). But True — we can certainly aim for that — for Honesty — in the hope that, while such forthrightness may intensify some alienations and exacerbate some prejudices, the end result is that everyone gets to be their own Umpire — callin’ ‘em as one see’s ‘em (sic; intentional).
Well anyway, fuck it.
After the interview today (for it’s still “today” to me; although you may call it “Friday”), I wandered, dined (best cup of soup I’ve had in ages; w/ cupcake chaser!) and then somehow acquired some excellent Old Time Radio programmes on cassette. I spoke at length with my mother about Not Too Much In Particular (which was nice) and then fell asleep listening to the first of these tapes: I didn’t really care too much what the performers were saying — only that they were saying it well!
An alarum roused me from this semi-stupor, and I had to make a decision: Venture out to see a Hitchcock (Alfred for once; not Robyn this time) double-feature…or…not. I decided to go. I’m pleased that I did. I had forgotten how brilliantly Psycho is constructed. Mind, the first “sequel” came out just as I was beginning to deconstruct movies, and the original, while stunning, has never been one of my faves (given the velocity of our culture, it is very easy to boil down its essence to “the shower scene” — which isn’t particularly well-directed, and around which exist far superior sequences, which I had mostly forgotten). With this (my first, maybe second) big-screen viewing, Psycho has risen significantly in my appraisal: I had never really noticed before how very funny it is! For so many years, so much press about the film (and even my preliminary film school textbook) heralded the film’s masterful handling of suspense and horror. Of course, that’s in there, but even back in my freshman year of film school, the energetic and enduring Professor Drew Casper was already delivering unto us his definition of Comedy: “Man Coming Apart”. Which is Psycho, period. Although its tone and themes are hardly sweet treats, Psycho is now (in the aftermath of nearly five decades of ugly, ugly, ugly ante-uppers) essentially gleeful in its delivery of the macabre: It presumes that its audience is intelligent, and it masterfully winks at us as it’s freaking us out. All in all, I’d say it’s even funnier (and better constructed) than Stanley Kubrick’s much-worshipped comedy, A Clockwork Orange. Noting that these are not my favourite sorts of films (Man has a Shadow; check; next?) – yet experiencing chilled giggles with a crowd can be a fun experience (particularly when the filmmaker is not taking pains to disgust and insult us).
Amusing anecdote: Throughout Psycho, I was sitting beside a snowy-haired woman I would estimate to be in her (actual) seventies. She giggled along at the American caricatures and at Anthony Perkins’ wickedly funny delivery, but — notably — she did not flinch at all during the murder sequences; she flinched when “Norman” unknowingly disposes of the cash! (She even spoke aloud in horror: “Oh, he’s not going to throw it away?!”) Egad.
There will be no mention here of the shot-for-shot remake, because I haven’t seen it and don’t care. There will be mention that Danny Elfman obviously owes his composing career to Bernard Hermann.
It also seems to be worth mentioning that, with the production of Psycho, the alleged Summer of Love ended — eight years before the alleged Summer of Love ever started! (Not that the hippie-dippy stuff wasn’t nice, but the pool of pop culture was already irrevocably tainted — just in a different medium).
I was going to go on and on here about how a couple of critics I know (and one of whom I like, although they’re both intelligent) both happened to dislike Frank Oznowicz’ Death at a Funeral — and how it seemed ripe for a Double-Feature review on the site — pitting it against Psycho (which doesn’t pull punches in favour of fart-”jokes” or whatever) — but I haven’t actually seen it yet, so I’ll leave that at that for now.
The second film in the Hitchcock double-feature was Spellbound – which I remembered even less. At the start of the film, I had to overcome the double-melancholy inspired by how beautiful Ingrid Bergman was, coupled with how easily I could have met Gregory Peck while he was still alive — but stupidly turned down the opportunity the night of that benefit concert, in favour of cavorting with alcoholic journalists (talk about redundant!). Alas. I enjoyed the film anyway. Rarely, for instance, do men get the aesthetic benefit of Soft Focus. Beyond that, the dialogue rocks. The now-corny Freudianism is quite amusing. The music cues are amazingly erratic. And that Dali dream-sequence (actually a couple of them, sandwiched together) is quite fun to watch. It reminded me of the Seussian antics in the somewhat obscure The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T. – which I mentioned to a friend on the way out the door, which prompted this response from the last visitor exiting the cinema:
“That’s my favourite film of all time; I have seen it more than a hundred times; actually, more like one hundred twenty.”
How unlikely is that? I drop a Dr. T reference just as its biggest fan in the world happens to be walking past?
It gets Hollyweirder: The man in question turned out to be Michael — the son of classic actress Jane Wyatt (who shuffled off last year at the glorious age of ninety-six). Michael is a pianist (that movie; go figure!) and highly recommended that I pick up DVD copies of both Dr. T and Lost Horizon — to replace my sentimental Vee-Aitch-Esses. Duly noted.
It was that sort of evening.
And now? Now I think I need another bite of multigrain bagel…
…mmmowmph…
…there. Good.
Oh, and to state that High Anxiety is Mel Brooks’ funniest movie. I remembered that this evening, watching those Hitchcocks. I well recall walking into the mall cinema in nineteen seventy-whatever, watching the camera smash through the window at the end, getting a hearty chuckle, sitting down in the half-light of intermission wondering for what I was in store…and then just loving the hilarity that ensued as High Anxiety unspooled. Let This Vital Notion Be Hereby Expressed: Gregory says that Mel Brooks warmed up with The Producers and cooled down with Spaceballs — but in between, even with very impressive competition stylistically and experimentally, High Anxiety was and is his funniest film.
Pauline Kael despised it, so you know it must be good.
Ha-ha.
Oh: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. JOURARD!
(And, heck, why not: MR. MACMANUS!)
Weekend of work looms; actually, I’m digging that nobody has demands on my time (for several shrieking, neglected projects do).
Have Yourself A Merry Little Almost End Of August.
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08.23.07
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 3:33 am by Gregory
…out of ‘Lobster’ and it’s ‘obster.’
(Possible early demo version. That amuses me. More in a bit.)
J. came to play. He arrived seemingly out of nowhere (actually: Texas — but he’s a transplant) and did something we never did as kids: Namely, he showed up at 11 p.m. This was cool. We walked, we talked, we reminisced, we wondered Where To Live Next, we theorised about the history of this strange region, we commented on the strange trees. There was much rejoicing. We even checked out a silly talk-show some mutual friends and I made last year. Then there was a Thai Iced Tea (or, according to the bill: TIT) and a Pellegrino.
That’s my kinda nite!
Good to see you, J.!
Then I strode back in at three-ish or whatever, and checked email, and was Quite Surprised. Here’s the thing: J. and I grew up together, and we both played A Whole Lotta Cassette Tapes. Kilroy Was Here, Next Position Please, Signals…whatever, you name it, we revered it in that now-antiquated format.
We both liked The Motels quite a bit (I still have one of their cassettes quite nearby).
J., in fact, is my only friend with whom I shared a distinct Motels fandom.
Strode back in, checked email, found this:
Having just watched “Does Everyone Stare” and then read your review, I have to say I wholeheartedly agree, especially your take on “Bring on the Night.” Stewart Copeland is basically everything Sting is not: funny, self-deprecating, and truly loopy. I was in the Motels back in the ’80s and I and my bandmates loved the Police…I saw them at the Whiskey on their first tour, and later at the Forum, they kicked ass both times. But then Sting went solo and he became, and has remained, to this day, absolutely and without fail, truly insufferable. Copeland has given us a wonderful look at what it was like…I sort of hoped he would have that cool personality. thanks for the review.
This nice note is signed Marty Jourard (who states that his Sign is “Yield”!), and I’m really rather touched that the man behind some of my favourite sax solos in the pop idiom (not an easy proposition!) would correspond thusly.
He also has a very cool web presence, which is more fun to read than most! (And I strongly concur on those composers, fellow!)
Happy Birthday (in two days), Marty Jourard!
As for “Take the L” (alas, it’s not about Chicago commuter trains), that was one of those pop singles that makesyathink. I recall being a dewy youth – brain already frazzled by things like “Biology” and pretending to care about something called the “Civil War” (now there’s an oxymoron) — and being delighted by my gradual discovery: “Hey…’Take the L out of Lover…and it’s Over!” With that and ABC’s The Lexicon of Love at my side, I learned that Pop could be clever and smart, sans apology.
The Motels, of course, had several other hits (and continue, in their latest incarnation — with sexy web-design befitting their chanteuse — to this day). I really do like what M. Jourard added to their mix, though, so it’s extra-special to hear from him.
And I like that the Aussies somehow “got” and “get” them (currently on tour Down Under; who knew?).
As for Stewart, he’s kinda nervous in person (I encountered him a bit last year) — but in that lovely, mad-scientist way that made us love Klark Kent in the first place.
As for “Sting” — hey, even though his persona is essentially fish in a barrel, I must admit that I still get chills whenever I hear “All This Time.”
As for Andy: It’s his world; we’re merely leasing it.
Oh, and as for Mr. Bean…I believe I owe him an enthusiastic review. Thursday may prove complicated, but we’ll see if I can pound out some praise for that strange little man.
Oh, and L. — if you’re reading this — Bon Voyage!
Oh…and Poetry and Prose soon.
Whoever deemed this The Year of the Bright Green Minidress, I’d like to thank you personally.
Right. ‘Night. Sleep. Tight.
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08.22.07
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 2:51 am by Gregory
Oh, come on.
A kid? On her birthday? For shooting a few seconds of already-blurry and confusing robots?
Hollywood, is the caviar really running that low?
The best thing about this article is the long list of comments below it; they’re worth skimming. (My fave line is: “What’s next? Execution for a negative movie review?” — Well, at least Pete Hammond and Peter Travers will live to meet their great-grandkids. -Ed.) My disgust over this should be implied in its very mentioning.
To put it precisely, though, it’s like the grocery industry getting up-in-arms over the enormous losses incurred by dumpster-diving.
Tonight I listened to side one of the soundtrack to The Muppet Movie — on very-used vinyl; it skipped a bit; I loved it.
Time for one quick correspondence, from “Jenny,” who claims to be a Capricorn from Winnipeg:
Dear Gregory,
I love the way you write. Sometimes it’s a bit hard to follow, perhaps owing to how crazy it is where you live (or so you say). But I get a lot of kicks out of your turns of phrase, so thank you. The Stardust review was quite fun, and caused me to go see it, and I’m glad I did (best movie of the summer, loved it when the goat hit the wall). So thank you. But…
On your blog you keep ripping on this “actress” person. On and off for several months! The imagination boggles! For one thing, if you don’t like her, why do you keep seeing her? And for another, is she somebody we’d know? And mainly: aren’t you afraid that she’s going to notice all the things you’ve said about her?
I’ll keep reading. You keep writing. Oh, and post that poem! I want to see if you suck or not!
Sincerely Yours,
Jenny
Um.
Some people just bang off my hull like blind sharks or confused, spineless jellyfish — but Jenny leapt right up on deck and told the captain what’s on her mind. I like that. Thank you, Jenny.
The thing about the actress is this: She doesn’t read. I’m not altogether sure that she can read (apart from two to three pages of riotously unfunny “sides” for acting classes). So no, I’m really not worried about it. Besides, even if she does eventually stumble upon my ramblings here, and slo-o-o-owly pieces together the letters into w- w- w….ords, I doubt she’d even recognise herself (the mad rarely do).
Pretty much everybody is at least a little bit nuts, plus it takes a nutjob to choose to live in Southern California, so I’m really not pointing the finger at anybody (usually). However, the actress, to me, is like a case-study that’s been plopped down almost (but not quite) into my lap — and her ways are so incredibly alien to me that sometimes I like to attempt to comprehend them. Here are but a few things she has actually said to me:
“I don’t have a soul; it’s like I’m completely empty inside.” (semicolon mine)
(Of one of the current suitors, who has provided her with thousands upon thousands of dollars in Fabulous Prizes): “He’s cheap!”
“These guys aren’t good enough. I need to find a billionaire. I need to just marry a billionaire.”
“I don’t have any interest in doing anything; I just want to be a Kept Woman.” (semicolon and Caps mine)
There are many, many more, but (given my current works) this may be my personal fave:
“Nobody actually reads anymore…do they?”
It goes on and on, but essentially she’s a kind and well-meaning person who is rather fascinatingly insane. She calls me every few days (and always when she’s menstruating), and so we talk. The quality varies, as we have almost literally nothing whatsoever in common — but what used to drain me horribly (because I was led to care) now just kind of amuses me. Plus, the bottom line is this: Deep within her Utterly Insane Alien Guise lies a good heart. It is severely crippled, but try as she might, she just isn’t capable of becoming as comprehensively disgusting as some of the lost females I’ve met around here* — so I keep the channel open; it’s not a primary channel; it’s just there because it’s okay.
(*This isn’t to suggest that there aren’t also disgusting, lost males around here; of course there are; but they are of less interest to me.)
Anyway, in brief: I see her because we’re neighbours; She isn’t known unless you happen to have seen a commercial she milked for three years; and again, No: Even in America, I’m never afraid of any consequences of telling the truth.
As for the consequences of poetry…well, that’s another matter altogether, and one best left for another time. My friend J. is winging in for an abrupt visit, and I must prepare to welcome him!
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Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:22 am by Gregory
Indeed.
(I mean, heck, everything else seems to be pointing to 1984.)
Actually, it is really gorgeous out there right now.
Too gorgeous to be doing this.
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08.21.07
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:07 am by Gregory
Now that’s about what I am talking:

Up 698% (!) for an astonishing TWO credits (eighteen years apart):

Whereas, f’rinstance:

And, like, y’know:
(Is that a Herbie reference, or are we just unhappy to see her?)

Moderately Lengthy Disclaimer: None of this is to be taken the least bit seriously. It is merely weird. Also, although I take pity on this actress (who is referenced here for sheer Popularity Contrast [go me]), and I also find her the Overall Least Repulsive of the current crop of Sickening Little Starlets (at least she works for a living), there’s no further ooginess implied or expressed; I only looked her up because I just met another person who happens to have directed her. That said, even though she has a cool name – whereas I think my surname is really pretty stupid (have been meaning to change it for years; never seem to feel like finagling the legalese) – the whole purpose of this posting is to point out how much cooler I am than Lindsay Lohan – to the tune of 751% cooler, thank you, thank you very much.
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