12.31.07
Last Post
Heyyy… dramatic!
Short ‘n’ sweet this time. Maybe futz about with pictures and movie things soon.
Mainly:
May Your 2008 Be Filled With Much Happiness.
Fuck unhappiness!
Yeah!
Bonne Année!
~Gregory
12.30.07
Piss Off, Postie!
One of my fave lines from The Young Ones. Uttered by Vyvyan. Genius.
Indeed, this is the Penultimate Post — at least as far as the Gregorian (nice name!) Calendar is concerned.
As I launch (*ahem*) into this particular entry, I note that: A. Words are so easily misinterpreted (particularly if you’re stupid — not saying that you are, but gee-zow have I met my share!); B. There’s really no way to convey the thick soup of feelings and experiences that make up one’s existence; and C. I really am tired of most communication going through fuckin’ SkyNet here, while most of my actual “peeps” seem to be drifting further and further away (Bonus Note: If you’re reading this and going, “What am I, chopped liver?” — well, I mean, part of you certainly could be [Bwah-hah-hah-hahhh! Thunderclap.] — but I then I don’t mean you, specifically; I mean those peeps in that apparently fast-disintegrating matrix of humanity that keeps one safe and sane.
Weren’t these supposed to be The Happy Years?
So it goes.
Kurt Vonnegut died this year. Worst possible timing imaginable. I miss him a lot. I only ever encountered him once — at a reading near UCLA in 1999 A.D., at which Kirk and Spock (the real Kirk and Spock) were also present. I stood beside Spock, didn’t see Kirk that particular evening (Spock asked the list guy his whereabouts), and managed to say hello to Kurt Vonnegut as he strode past me in the front row on his way out of the auditorium.
God (or Whatever) bless you, Mr. Vonnegut.
With that, I am tempted to turn this entry into yet another Year End Wrap-Up thingie — but in truth I really am weary of the damned screen all the damned time, and thus this entry will be a lot more random and sloppy.
ARMAGEDDON IT!
Get this: Only last Thursday night, nearing midnight, did I finally realise that the Def Leppard song cited above is actually built around a pun! Why mention? Well, I was driving to the airport to pick up a friend (in his car) after his Family Experience, and the radio station colloquially known as “JACK-FM” played that song. I turned it up a bit. I was an adolescent when Def Leppard broke big with “Photograph” and “Rock of Ages,” and I liked their direct, pure adrenaline sound — and then, like most, I forgot about it. Their previous albums (in cassette form) sat on my shelf — but the “Why” of Def Leppard never clicked. I read a few years later that, after their drummer lost his arm (what next, would an alleged President lose his brain?), they played a frat party at UCLA.Lean years for the Lep. I admired them for that, actually. They spied an easy paycheck and took it.
In all this, though, I never really understood that band. Growing up, Zeppelin and all that stuff was strictly for the stoners and miscreants, and I suppose that, comparatively — especially with their Mtv image — Def Leppard seemed “clean” (give or take a wife-beating). Like I said, though, I advanced to Pyromania and went no further. (Lesson to Artists Everywhere: Don’t do your best work at the beginning!)
As I zoomed through the SoCal night in my friend’s snazzy car, I was afforded a moment to listen to the words for what I had always considered “latter-day Lep” — and suddenly: Epiphany! Dig:
“Are you gettin’ it?”
“Armageddon it!”
Hah!
Hah hah hah hah HAH!!!
(Honestly, I had never noticed that before. American ears — even highly Anglicised ones such as my own — generally wouldn’t do.)
Anyway, bully for them.
(I shall refrain from pathetic-night-club jokes.)
And then came Amusement #2: “Don’t You Want Me” by The Human League.
Blasting that, on one’s way past the big, silly-coloured cylinders bordering LAX, feels remarkably cool. Kitschy, of course — but singing along — BOTH parts (!!) — makes for the sort of release you just can’t get in any other way. (The big cylinders, incidentally, were a crazy green on the way in, and a crazy purple on the way out. If you live around here, you know about what I am talking; and if you don’t, consider yourself fortunate.)
(It was only last year that I got to hang out with The Human League at a party. It was great — but in fact the ABC guy and the Psychedelic Furs guy both proved much more affable, and far less apt to provide secondhand smoke.)
As for “JACK-FM,” I take issue with their (earnest, “low-key,” Hamburger Salesman voice here) “Playing What We Want To Play” shtick. Here’s why: Over a decade ago, I was tuning into that “Classic Rock” station with the outrageously pretentious nighttime DJ with the apparently fireproof contract, and somewhere in between all the Stevie Nicks coke-binge anthems, I heard “Life During Wartime.” And did a triple-take. What??? There’s Smart Person music on here!!! How did that happen!?!? Flash forward and you’ve got “JACK-FM,” employing that same “revolutionary” formula: Basically, mix “Classic Rock” with “New Wave.” But I must ask: “JACK,” if you’re really “Playing What You Want To Play,” then why is it all merely the pop music equivalent of lucrative comfort food? Say, your Supertramp back to back with your Gwen Stefani. Big whoop. Why not really surprise us? Just for me, “JACK,” why not play something from Lene Lovich, a bit of Andews Sisters, a Gamelan track, some Kraftwerk, and then wrap up the block with any ol’ track from George Clinton’s Hey Man…Smell My Finger L.P. I am certain, if you really possess the freedom of which you boast, that this programming will prove effortless for you.
Anyway..
Green and Purple: Well, I promised you some randomness. I really respect and appreciate the overall cinematic output of Warner Bros. Pictures. I make this statement not because “they” are likely to read this (they’re not) — but because it’s true. In 2007, only Paramount provided ample competition in terms of the sort of films that I tend to like. And then there’s New Line, of course — but there’s always New Line, and they’re awesome, and since they’re technically a subsidiary of Warner Bros., I lump them, to some extent, together, in their glory.
But this new Batman movie…
I dunno. I just think that Chris Nolan is a bit clueless about how to cultivate mystique. English boys are often like this: They think that “fast” (pronounced: “fahst”) and slick and cool = the best formula. Which it generally doesn’t =. I liked what he made out of his first attempt (#7 in terms of series quality, but in with the pack), however I smell the geek factor outweighing the sleek factor — and why would anybody want to make Batman “real” anyway?
Here’s where the Green and Purple enter into it: The Joker. “HEY, LET’S DO HIM WRONG AGAIN!!!!”
Fine: Heath Ledger gets to compete with Johnny Depp on the gay/confused/neurotic front (not that he’ll ever top him, lucrative as that mode currently is, and Depp is king of it) — but people, please, look at the images: The Joker looks nothing like Jack Nicholson. And he looks nothing like this “smeared-Crow” thing Ledger is selling.
Joker: Eight feet tall (or seems to be). One hundred thirty pounds. Wiry. Terrifyingly perfect clown makeup. Bright green coiffure. Extreme malevolence. Enormously toothy sneer. Zoot suits. Dangerously pointy nose and chin. And if he existed in real life, his mere presence would cause most people to wet their pants.
Instead, we get “The Crow-ker.”
(”Hey, everybody! Check it out! I’m ‘Gothic’ and vengeful! How very mid-90s of me!”)
Go back to Perth, kid.
Whatever.
I’ll see it — but not in a hurry.
Same year, a few months later: Star Trek (Reboot). About this, I have decided to withhold my opinions. Trek has never been as good as it was in its original, 1960s incarnation, and thus, at this point, with so many prosthetic foreheads under the bridge (Hah!), it seems to me that any attempt at experimentation is a good attempt. You’re never going to catch lightning in a bottle like that again, but good luck to you. Could the cast ever be as iconic? No. But the mere fact that Adrien “The Mosquito” Brody is not involved causes me to leap with glee for the possibility that maybe this will be an acceptably entertaining echo of the real thing.
What else?
On the personal front…
Neighbors here confirmed god-damned horrid. I loathe them. I’m sure they’re acceptable socially, but the creature upstairs really is utterly intolerable domestically. Rabid swine in the bathroom would be easier to take. This evening I lay upon my futon and listened — and he really does spy on everybody: Whenever there was a noise outside the window or people chatting outside his door, he’d CLOMP and CLOMP and CLOMP to go investigate. This explains why, wherever I go in my apartment, he is right fucking above me all the time. If some of my transmissions over the past while have proved irksome, this has been a significant ingredient.
The bitch with the endlessly screaming accessory-brat just got back from her Family Experience. That was a more pleasant week than most. I profoundly did not miss them. I really have to get the hell out of here (or, better, get here out of the hell)…ASAP!
Nonetheless, today, Sunday, almost the end of 2007, was a day of some personal victories. I am not at all the sort of person who needs to win all the time (for one thing, I’m not short; with no snub intended to the comfortably average in stature — but short people have a major issue with the whole winning/losing thing), however victories do feel good. I had some personal ones today. They had to do with shifting perceptions of goals and even people, figuring out what works and what doesn’t (and, crucially in the latter case, why) — and they certainly weren’t all happy or cozy — but in running these personal obstacle courses I was able to shuck off some unpleasant baggage: Never a bad thing.
I wrote a song, too. Took me over an hour to find a functional tape-recorder (I have bad gremlins here), but I kept singing it over and over again until I could wire together a makeshift studio (the mics were hilarious). Again, it is largely impossible for one person to understand the many subjective variables which comprise another person’s…process…but preserving that song felt GREAT: A Breakthrough. It is simultaneously as melodic and un-radio-friendly as possible. I only trust one Pop DJ in the whole world (actually, he goes on in a few minutes: Click around at KROQ and CHECK HIM OUT!), so I’m not worried about the radio part (they wouldn’t want me anyway). I’ve just got to find a way to complete the thing in the current, highly restrictive environment.
I had more stuff to say about how I have discovered that women in SoCal really, really, really do become much more flirtatious if they think you own and drive a fancy car (such was my impromptu Christmas social experiment) — but that’s not actually very interesting: It is exactly what you think it is. They’re pathetic, and the topic is boring.
Speaking of fancy cars, though — and here’s a really zany segue — I did end up revisiting some full Bond films over the past while. Here’s the deal: The Pierce Brosnan films really are quite impressive. They’re fun and tight and cleverly written, and they just kept getting better as they went along (’95-’02 were primo Bond years). I am sorry that there will be no more, as I count them — with Roger Moore’s — among the best of that long-running series.
Why go to that topic? Because here’s how crazy and misguided Movie People are:
What year is it? What year has it been?
What?
I can’t hear you.
Again.
Louder.
Two…
OO7.
Are they crazy?
The ONE year in the entire duration of that franchise (assuming that it doesn’t go on for another millennium) that they have an ACTUAL CALENDAR YEAR with which to advertise their product:
And they fail.
Instead, they prematurely deliver an iffy, mean-spirited reboot with some blond stack of meat doing pseudo-porn for the latent homosexuals (with a PG-13 rating, no less; now there’s a stunt! Naked, bloody scrotum-whipping, dear MPAA?), and they not only miss the inherent wit in Ian Fleming’s writing (he openly admitted that Bond was an adolescent fantasy — again: WHY TRY TO MAKE IT “REAL”?), they release their movie…
…about a character very well-known as “007″…
…in ‘006.
Sigh.
Anyway, Brosnan forever. Even Ian Fleming’s cousin Christopher Lee commented that he provided the most accurate depiction of the James Bond character.
(Now who’s geekin’?)
Oh yeah: I despise Hip-Hop. It’s stupid. Quit yelling. It’s annoying. Learn to sing. Gimme some Johnny Mathis.
I guess that’s it for tonight.
May your final day of 2007 involve many things benefitting your mind, body and soul.
~G
12.28.07
Phase Transitional
As most of the Western World continues drinking and sleeping, this particular individual has come to look upon this particular time as a session of shifting ballast and realigning systems. Of course, it would be enjoyable to point out the week’s amusing pettinesses (it usually is), however sometimes even this is best left to the imagination (if any).
There shall be new reviews (I have many, many more movies fermenting in my head than are represented, currently, on the site), plus some gold from the interview archives, plus even some enchanting images. Soon enough.
(In truth, part of me remains D.I.Y. to the end — and I have been visiting and revisiting past filmic texts, rather than merely processing, machine-like, exactly what the marketing executives choose to force-feed the world; good, bad or inconsequential.)
(This selectiveness is known as Thinking For Oneself. I highly encourage it.)
The books are currently in reasonable states of revision. What I’m finding is that, although one may lay out the material in what is perceived as the proper order, discovering the tone nonetheless requires significant spirit and effort. Otherwise: Why bother?
Speaking of tone, the music is going well, too.
As for updates, research has revealed that people don’t care much about surfing on Friday afternoons, thus the curtness here. (Research has also revealed that somebody with a Mac went utterly apeshit frequenting this web-journal throughout September; Stranger, make thyself to me known.)
Other news is scant — which is good, as today I’m really not feeling computery.
Heureux vendredi soir!
Oh, and this may blow some minds:
Song of the Friday: “Tight Connection to My Heart (Has Anybody Seen My Love)” by Bob “Dylan”
12.27.07
Holidaze
They went past much too fastly and emptily this year! I mean, Hallowe’en, too.
Unless I’m being paid enormous amounts of money (the better to host great parties), this is the last time I do this sweet season in Southern California.
Just not enough Soul.
12.26.07
Merry Crassmas!
I know, I know: It’s Boxing Day. HAPPY BOXING DAY! But if you’re going backward in “time,” it’s almost Christmas — which makes this post incredibly relevant.
On what most call Christmas Eve, I overheard many people saying things. Here are my two faves:
-
INT. GODAWFUL INCONVENIENCE STORE — DAY
HORRID YUPPIE BITCH seizes Holiday Gift Card from hand of HORRID YUPPIE BASTARD.
HORRID YUPPIE BITCH
One hundred?! No. No. No.
(returns card to rack, snags another)
Here: Fifty. Fifty is perfect for him. Fifty is a tank of gas, right? Fifty dollars? That’s perfect.
-
INT. RESTAURANT – NIGHT
A LIQUORED-UP GEEZER wanders past, comments to nobody in particular:
LIQUORED-UP GEEZER
(making exaggerated sniffing motions)
Smells like fish in here! Oh, well, there are a lot of women present!
-
(The bonus on the latter quote is that, once seated, we found ourselves caught directly in the line of fire of a girl who had no idea what size jeans would fit her, had decided to go “commando,” and was sharing the top third of her ass with the world in celebration of the holiday. Full moon, indeed!)
-
Oh, and movies are pretty neat. Have a lovely Boxing Evening!
12.25.07
Xmas Dinner 2007
Yep, that was it.
(No, I did not have my dinner processed by ILM. I’m just all artsy ‘n’ shi’.)
There may be some for whom strongish feelings may be provoked by such an apparently pathetic image — but honestly, I didn’t think much of it. The hypocrisy of the holidays (ignore people entirely all year long; pretend to “love” them for a couple of days of boozing and gorging) has never worked for me anyway. I wanted something reasonably edible and nutritious (that’s a veggie patty under the grody onions I cast aside), and fortunately found a suitably well-attended diner which was able to accomodate me. For some reason, only males were working there today. No opinion on that; just an interesting sociological factor.
The day was, otherwise, not without its miracles, which included:
Driving down an alley in a friend’s borrowed car and noting before me a bouquet of six utterly gorgeous roses, just lying there on the concrete. I took them, and they’re currently slurping up the fluoride in a pretty vase.
Listening to Prince’s Batman soundtrack in said car. (It’s slightly tinny now, but I still enjoy it.)
Seeing someone I did not expect to see.
Opening a box of cookies from my cookie-mad mother and discovering inside a parcel containing an outrageously inappropriate tie bounding with dancing penguins.
Viewing no less than three opening sequences from latter-era Bond movies — without actually continuing through their convoluted plots. (Some may find this weird, since I totally loathe guns — however I sometimes like James Bond for the obvious other reasons.)
Partaking of a truly glorious sunset with oodles of other people.
Oh, and in addition to enjoying all that Tull, Baebes and McKennitt under my own auspices, the diner played an acoustic version of “Ziggy Stardust.” Not quite the Bowie which would have perfectly suited my mood — but close enough!
Spoke with my mother and a couple of friends.
My siblings made their usual not-at-all attempts to contact me.
Whatever.
I’ve been encountering French women with surprising regularity, and have been enjoying employing the language — so very refreshing in a region of Bad English and Bad Spanish.
Didn’t approach a cinema. Have significant interest in The Water Horse, though. (Looks good, but how utterly ridiculous: I know that New Zealand features a large Scottish population, but to shoot a movie “based in Scotland” there? Why? Oh yeah…)
Here’s the wild card: With all the way-pre-release buzz being circulated for the latest Batman movie, I decided to revisit the much-reviled Batman & Robin. You know what? As entertainment, it’s really pretty fabulous. (Adjective carefully selected.) There is a religious passion amongst the comic-book demographic for Batman to be done “right” — and yet, despite some melodramatic stunts, I disagree with the notion that Nolan and Goyer are somehow — by making their take on the Batman franchise gritty and (ug.) “real” — doing it “right.”
I’m no fan of George Clooney, but the Bruce Wayne character calls for being Ken-doll handsome, rich and vacuous — and he’s got that in spades. The rest of the cast of Batman & Robin is truly stellar (Thurman and Silverstone are genuinely terrific; Schwarzenegger is, hilariously, almost incomprehensibly retarded-sounding). I was mildly annoyed by the glutes at the beginning, but the glutes later on certainly balance that factor. And then, as far as design goes:
Batman & Robin is pretty much exactly how I want a Batman feature to look!
The design is awesome!
Friends…it’s A COMIC BOOK.
Parting shots are that the screenwriter sucked as much then as he does now (as usual, his manipulations ruin what could be a satisfying story; is this why he’s rich and rewarded? because he sucks?) Plus that Smashing Pumpkins dork’s croak is a miserable reminder of how unbearable pop music was in the 90s.
Otherwise, hey: If you want your Batman “real” — and sideliners, this is a major issue with many obsessed people in the world — you can have it. If necessary, I’ll just waft back to the 1966 movie and its much more entertaining Shark Repellent Bat Spray.
And why all the escapist entertainment? I have given this a bit of thought:
Batman: Lost his family.
James Bond: Lost his woman.
Captain Kirk: Is married to his ship (and surrounded by weird guys).
I can relate!
(Not the least bit delusional, though, friends — lest you wonder. I have observed men in their twenties and how crazy they become for emulating their onscreen heroes — which is particularly disturbing in terms of the “darker” ones — but in my case it’s just easily digestible archetypes and consideration thereof. Noble rogues in fanciful modern scenarios tend to appeal to me for vicarious amusement; that’s all.)
And how “heroic” was I today? Did I really reach out and “help people” as intended?
Knda…
Here’s the thing: Although I was a softie for years, I am no longer under any illusion that tossing a derelict a few nickels for booze is going to make even the tiniest dent in the world’s sorrows. It just won’t. Stealing some rich bitch’s SUV and giving the keys to the derelict — that would make some difference — but I’m not about to do anything along those crooked lines.
Complacency and consumption are also strongly encouraged at this time of year in The Free West, and as you can see from my previous comments, I didn’t exactly break from orbit in that regard. Had I done, then perhaps I’d have put forth the effort to be of use in a soup kitchen or some similar enterprise. But alas, my rogue-nobility didn’t carry me that far. I don’t know a single person who does anything like that (”single” in at least two senses of the word), and I’m sure it’s an adventure best undertaken, at least, in tandem. Plus I just didn’t feel like Princess Diana today. Sexy, sure. Plus a bit dead. But not ostentatiously altruistic.
So today, a friend wanted a ride to the airport. I obliged him. Pleasant little good deed. Not bad.
Later on, I was very nice to a mega-flaming waiter. He could have given The Human Torch a swoop for his money. I left him a good tip, even though his service was terrible.
After that, stuck in the truly outrageous crowds at the supermarket (most of whom were loudly discussing the tabloid stories — which proved even more depressing than the tabloid stories themselves), I let a woman with a bag of baby products cut in front of me. I invited no cheesy melodrama into the moment — but she seemed extremely pleased by the tiny gesture, and thanked me very enthusiastically.
Three small good deeds.
Zero bad deeds.
Joyeux Xmas.
~G
Brief Asides from the Island of Misfit Toys
The bells of the local church have just finished chiming. A few minutes late. I like that. Shows some degree of humanity.
Anyway, I suppose that cue means that Jesus is here. Great! I’m totally gonna ask him for a Mod moped with Quadrophenia mirrors — only solar-powered, so one actually pivots the “mirrors” toward our gradually disintegrating little sun, a process which then causes the thing to go, and silently, and cleanly — and (if I do say so) more utterly coolly than any vehicle anywhere since The Nautilus.
I, Gregory, hereby copyright and patent the Solar-Mirror Moped!
Thanks, Jesus!
What else?
Not much.
The wind is whipping wickedly.
The sky is clear and devoid of Nordic ruminants.
I partook of a nice dinner with lovely people all around.
Lucky!
Returned early (won’t be suckered into any “alternative programming” movies out there tonight), and (read, and) went: “And so this is Christmas…”
Actually, most of personal sentiment has burnt away over years of pointlessness and stupidity.
Those with hearts may be pleased to note, however, that I closed the front door, latched it, noted with hideous dismay that the Clomping Bastard is the only person also stuck here for the holiday (he is very easy to despise; you would probably despise him too, if you lived directly under him) — my cousin-in-law, incidentally, recommended pretending for one night that he’s reindeer — funny! — except that he sounds more like the Kentucky Derby via Jumanji via whatever Cloverfield is about…
…and thus…
…to sustain some semblance of balance…
…I fired up the synthesizer and played the right-hand, melody lines of “O Tannenbaum” and “Silent Night” (the former with Real Piano Sound!; the latter with some sort of Choir-Going-”OOH!” effect).
And that’s it.
No more to report.
Well, except that the musical selections keeping me company this somewhat dire holiday are as follows:
The Mask and Mirror – Loreena McKennitt (not technically Christmas-y, but makes any environment sound massively more cultured than it actually is; plus I have a lot of sentimental attachment to this particular offering of Loreena’s).
Mistletoe & Wine – Mediaeval Baebes (admittedly obvious — plus it’s an obvious money-spinner of a compilation CD — but I totally bought this act for years, and they do sound great at the holidays [even though now only one original member of the lineup I loved remains in the group]. Plus, although I’m doubting the mistletoe aspects — apart from perhaps something pseudo-Pagan-y — one can always trust English girls to know exactly what to do with wine.)
The Jethro Tull Christmas Album – Jethro Tull (Just plain terrific. I received this as a gift last year, and feel as honoured by it this year as I did last. It’s alive and real and rustic and witty and almost ridiculously lively. Here’s how good it is: I can listen to it at Christmas, but usually I just put it on at any old time simply because it’s great. Ta, N!)
And that’s that. On Christmas Day, apart from dining primarily in Jewish eateries which will be open, and the latkes will be quite welcome (Christ was Jewish, right? Did he dig latkes? Did he ever make the latkes multiply, or levitate, or sing? That would’ve been cool.), I’m going to attempt to do something to help somebody, for real. (This is not merely an annual concept for me anyway, but I’ll emphasise it.) Whether or not this is reported here depends upon many subjective variables — however if there is any point to this holiday apart from rampant consumerism and obsessive television, it seems to me that it’s about stepping beyond one’s selfish motivations, and doing something sincere and good for the betterment (however apparently small) of Humankind, The Spirit of Life, The Wheel in the Sky, The Spirit in the Sky, whatever, etc.
Oops! The computer just broke! Ha-ha! Gotta go!
Goode Tymes to Thee & Thine.
~G
12.23.07
Rudy Can’t Fail
No particular reason. Just another bummer of a Christmas, and that song went through my head today.
Thus, although it pains me to supersede that spinning dove “gif” at the top of the stack, I’ll just knock out a few extremely random observations and go to bed.
Last night I found myself wandering Hollywood a bit. If you’ve ever seen the “Overkill” video by Men At Work, it was much like that, but with longer hair and a lot less money and even less alcoholism. Urban plight, though: No shortage of that. As I strode past the gibbering homeless (it really starts to look like a central-casting cattle call for the maimed and neglected), my reflections fit into three general categories: 1. Hollywood is filled with weird and chronically confused people; 2. If I acknowledge how shot-full-of-holes I actually feel — instead of doing the socially acceptable thing and Acting Happy!!! — I’d have to reason that, in real, factual terms of Family and Relationship (ha. barf. i’d have better luck as a dog.) and Profession and Property (gotta hang your hat somewhere; and why keep paying the landlord-fascists?) — I do not really have anything about which to be happy at this time; and 3. Thank goodness there’s all kinds of Entertainment Crap with which to distract oneself in this utterly insane city!
This must be some sort of test. (I keep looking for the bubble and the aliens.)
Anyway, presently the wind is blowing hard and evil-cold across this particular land-mass, and I really don’t enjoy flying through rotten weather (who does? yet you do.), and don’t really have much in the way of Where To Go anyway, thus I’m in SoCal, solo, this Christmas.
The upside is that I’ll be here when the creepy guys in their pickup trucks case the joint (I’ve seen them doing this) to see if they can break in. Merry Christmas! Hello…cops?
Bleh.
Actually, I ate in a Chinese place for dinner tonight (one more reason to go: “Christ…who?” Could one billion people be utterly wrong in their vastly differing faiths? I doubt it!), and there were cops in there. Cops creep me out. Why? I don’t fear them. I’ve seen Fletch and I am, at worst, like him (minus the alimony and b-ball fanaticism; wouldn’t mind working with Geena Davis, though). But cops? Possibly the worst control freaks of all. They have made my life miserable on several occasions — all of them involving automobiles and the law extracting so much money from me that I almost begin weeping right now as I think about it. So I won’t. Instead, I’ll mention this: L.A. is nowhere near as bad — in terms of crime — as the provincial types think, due to crazy-ass television or whatever. It’s obviously much more dangerous in schools and shopping malls in Middle America. However, I have encountered crime a few times, and I have dutifully called the police…and not once…NOT ONCE…have the useless bastards even bothered to show up…AT ALL.
Thus, since they have the right to hurt and even kill people if they feel like it, and I have no rights at all, I’m not going to say anything bad about cops. But I’m never going to be happy to see them, either.
What we need is Jedi…
Anyway…
The “muzak” in that restaurant was pretty funny — almost like desperate little angels (or those aliens?) attempting to soothe my beleaguered spirit. I heard Pet Shop Boys and Culture Club and Squeeze and XTC and Police and Thompson Twins all in a row. (Nice one, aliens! Now may I have a non-psychotic woman?)
Earlier today I walked into a secondhand shop which was having a sale. I picked up a few things, which — given the sale — added up, quite fairly, to three dollars, total. There’s an old guy who works in there, and although many old guys are wonderful and full of experience and stories and inspiration, this one really is a little bitch. “His wife keeps his balls in a Mason jar,” a mutual associate once related. I never enjoy his ‘tude. Today he attempted, in his very lame little way, to grill me over the total, saying, “You don’t feel right about getting these for three dollars, do you?” I replied that it’s their price, and that he quoted it to me. Displeased, he held out his hand, into which I placed two dollars — then I noticed I had a ten, so I counted out four quarters from my change. “Oh, you wouldn’t!” shouted the little bitch-man. “What?” I responded, annoyed, “it’s money, right? And it’s easier than you breaking a ten.” Other people were buying things, and he was giving them the exact same deal, but he had chosen me as the target of his frustration (and general ballslessness). At the end of the transaction, he refused to look me in the eye, and he closed with “Bless you.”
This cracked me up for several minutes.
For I reasoned that “Bless you” is the Old Bitch-Guy way of almost saying, “Fuck you.”
Heh!
Whatever.
Last night I was on a bus, and I sat down across the aisle from a physically attractive woman who could best be described as “Kira” from The Dark Crystal, rendered in human form. Elifn. Kind of stunning, really. And yet…2007 is the year in which Gregory has officially graduated from being a CRI (Clueless Romance Idiot). My heart isn’t here. This is the short version of my graduate thesis:
1. If she’s in Southern California, she’s probably a psychotic mess.
2. If she’s pretty, she’s probably an “actress.”
3. If she’s an “actress,” she is guaranteed to be even more of a psychotic mess.
Q.E.D.
Thus, I did not even consider speaking with her — Gelfling or no Gelfling. Frankly, I have placed a moratorium on meeting new women. It’s all loss, no pleasure. To hell with that!
Plus there was a creepy Latino guy (note to any who take umbrage; it’s language; he was a Latino guy who also happened to be creepy; as opposed to, say, Julio Iglesias) sitting on the level above her (they definitely weren’t together), leering at me the entire ride, like some crazy gargoyle. Guys, the staring really is wearisome. Enough already. Here’s your Christmas present:
Learn some manners.
And how did I solve the problem?
I tuned out my surroundings and read Flaubert.
Anything else? No, not really. Not tonight. It is a very uneasy time, and I feel fortunate to be strong — as many people in my weird situation would have taken a nosedive into the bottle by now. I have some Star Trek and Bond movies I haven’t seen before, so if things get really grim, those’ll do.
Have also redesigned the main page for the holiday.
I doubt very much that the alleged person commonly called “Jesus Christ” was literally born on 25 December (especially since the calendar at that alleged time was radically different), if he was born at all (would you like to prove it?) — but I’m totally good with the whole Compassion and Humanity and Joy business (although that should happen every day). Plus I tend to enjoy Life more when businesses are closed.
A great excuse for picking The Man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December!
Here’s wishing you Compassion and Humanity and Joy.
~G
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