03.31.08

Soup & Toast

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

My goodness, such a lovely lundi munchtime!

And perhaps you’ve noticed the back-online-ness.

(And. Better. Than. Ever.)

Thank heaven for the whole “not dealing with dipshits anymore” policy.

St. Patty’s Day, incidentally, was as sensational as supposed.

Plenty to say about that, and plenty in between — however, for the moment, just this brief note.

Hiya.

Next up: “La vie sans la vie”

Meanwhile, this amuses me greatly.

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03.18.08

Thank you and good night, Anthony Minghella!

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 2:54 pm by Gregory

After recovering from my own St. Patrick’s Day headache (a fun-hangover, if there is such a thing), I click about online and discover that movie-director Anthony Minghella has died.

I liked The Storyteller TV series, and Minghella’s features Truly Madly Deeply and Breaking and Entering. (In fact, I’m really sorry now that I didn’t post a full review of the latter upon its release, as I liked it quite a bit, actually.)

I never saw The Talented Mr. Ripley (I really don’t like being forced to look at Matt Damon’s annoying face), nor Cold Mountain (subbing Romania for the U.S. just seemed too weird at the time). I didn’t like The English Patient.

Nonetheless, obviously a very talented filmmaker, and a great loss to the community. This is sad. (What the hell is a “routine neck operation,” anyway???? “Honey, be back at half-twelve! Just going for my routine neck operation!”)

Four years ago, at the Santa Barbara International Film Festival, it was my pleasure to attend a screenwriting panel featuring the likes of such luminaries as Denys Arcand (Les invasions barbares), Frances Walsh & Philippa Boyens (The Lord of the Rings) and Anthony Minghella (Cold Mountain). Seriously, these are very gifted people in the field, and I found their insights and observations to be sparkling and invaluable.

Thanks for your presence, Mr. Minghella — and for those who missed the easily-missed Breaking and Entering, check it out!

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03.17.08

St. Patrick’s Haiku

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:42 pm by Gregory

Out on me wash-line:

Leprechaun underpanties!

Weird feckin’ day, mate.

by St. Gregory, He Who Chased the Christians Out of Ireland

-

Poem and Text Copyright Gregory à la ÜberCiné.com, All Rights Reserved.

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03.16.08

Hollywood Hate-Mail

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 2:42 pm by Gregory

I rose today, and checked email, and online I found a highly vitriolic and very inaccurate response to the “Catharsis” part of my recent “Spring Clean” post. Ordinarily, I don’t receive much hate-mail (perhaps real life has been hateful enough already; see: “Journalism”), and anyway, most of it comes from people one actually knows (or knew — or thought one knew) — thus it’s generally best to let it roll off. People need to vent; personal quarrels are made hideous by cowardice; you’re welcome to your opinion; etc. But since this note makes a direct and untrue (if quite petty) accusation of me, I think it’s a good idea to respond to it presently and efficiently — rather than letting it fester.

For reference, the sender (one “Harry” — thus we’ll use the masculine pronoun) is obviously L.A.-based (refers to Hollywood as “here”) and has gone to the trouble of using a Kinko’s computer, so the IP address cannot be traced to a personal account (likely a trademark of individuals known for their fondness for flame-wars, trolling, and what we can call “hate-journalism”). “Harry” also knows how to find this web-journal when there’s no link available online (the site is currently in overhaul), which means he’s a regular reader (really, there is no mystery — mutual associates, take note). He’s kinda mean, too. (More on this at the tail of this response.)

I won’t gratify “Harry” by running his note here, but I will respond to it fairly and accurately.

The charge is that I somehow “lied” about an actual experience I had and sensed with my own sober senses. This was the arrogant-screenwriter giggle (”Who wrote it?” / “I did.”) a couple of posts down. That is true. It’s an exchange I had with another person, over the telephone. It may be paraphrased slightly, but it actually happened — and it’s funny — which is one of the reasons I mentioned it.

The other reason I mentioned it is that I am utterly exhausted from dealing with disturbed and unbalanced people — meaning, in this case, Know-It-All White American Males who have convinced themselves that all social graces and responsibilities are secondary to their self-obsessed quest for — I dunno, “Making It In Hollywood” or whatever? The Formula: You give; they take; they do not give back. Relating the incident (for a laugh) is my way of releasing myself from future entanglements with such pointlessly difficult characters (most of whom are terribly stymied boy-men).

In his note, “Harry” accuses me of ripping off the arrogant-screenwriter exchange from an allegedly well-known Steven Seagal anecdote. As neither fan nor hater of Seagal (I saw him once up at Universal, at a Little Richard-Chuck Berry concert; he seemed okay — I am mostly unfamiliar with his creative output), I can say in clear conscience that I was unaware that a suspiciously similar exchange had occurred between him and someone I’ve really never heard of before today, named Artie Lange (I just Googled the giggle, and found it). News to me. I still don’t know who Artie Lange is — really — but perhaps I’ll look him up later.

Let us be very clear about this: I have nothing to gain from “borrowing” a Steven Seagal anecdote, and wouldn’t do it even if I had been aware of it. I’m a smart cookie, and I’d have about as much to gain from claiming authorship of “Gregory phone home” or whatever. Again, it’s a very petty point, but my story stands, because it happened.

Also: Unlike many people (I know of an alleged “film critic” who once, enraged, threatened his editorial superiors with an office chair raised above his head as if to strike [both editors confirmed the incident, to me, directly] — and he kept his very comfortable job while, thereafter, as his perceived competition, I was fired for “insubordination”), I am no fan of glossing over glitches or rewriting history.

If I am flawed in this regard, it is probably in that I take careful note of unpleasant freak-outs (along with everything else), and perhaps am too unforgiving when people choose to be raving assholes.

Pulling thorns out of sides, however, seems very reasonable to me.

It may be true that I am intolerant of intolerant people — but the ability to contend with these troubles expands with age and experience, and I’m still learning.

Now, to conclude the point about the alleged plagiarism — there simply wasn’t and isn’t any — not on my part. For one thing, many, many, many long sleepless nights have taught me how to write my own words real good — for better or for worse (but, hopefully, better).

For the other thing — unless a remarkable conversational symmetry occurred by coincidence (which is possible) — the person on the other end of the telephone during that funny conversation either consciously or unconsciously stole the anecdote for his own use. It was the first and only time I’d heard it, or heard of it, until today, and he used it in the first-person without citing its apparent source, and thus you may point your finger at the person who falsely led me astray in this vital matter.

I am sorry if there are misunderstandings, but that is the truth.

It also behooves me to attend to “Harry”’s presumptions and personal insults. For one, paranoid, he suggests that I’ve been spreading that story around for a long time. Untrue. Prior to its proud placement here, I told it to exactly one individual — who is a friend. We all process a lot of information in a crazy place like this, but my friend gave no indication that he had heard the story before, anywhere else. He’s a shrewd guy. (I know a few of them.) He’d tell me if I were full of it.

And speaking of that, “Harry” goes on (coffee first next time, “Harry” — for all our sakes) to assail my own alleged arrogance, and any alleged warped perceptions attending it.

Responding to this, I often note that we usually attack in others what we do not like (or cannot tolerate) about ourselves. Many people cannot bear looking in the mirror. That sums that up very tidily.

As for Me and This:

I choose to write online — in joys, in sadnesses, in shallowness, in depth (when I’m fortunate) — because most good things in my life suddenly dropped away as if on some hellish malfunctioning travelling carnival ride — and in corresponding thusly I maintain — not a shield — but a measure of vulnerability.

I check in.

I admit — frequently — when I do not know or understand something.

For the record, when I state that I am happy, it rarely means in any material, occupational or romantic sense (the standards by which most humans judge their lives and those of others). It means, very specifically, that I am appreciating Life while I’m in it.

That, friends, is Happiness — and Existence gets no better; enjoy it while you can.

Although the response of “Harry” was mean and trite, it does afford me the opportunity to examine an issue which may be far less petty: This being Philosophical Aggression (yes, I am coining that term here, as far as I know — but not proudly — only because I cannot, at this time, think up a better term for it).

Hollywood — despite suffering a dearth of philosophy (outside of Star Trek) — nonetheless simmers and froths as a hotbed of Philosophical Aggression, i.e.: People push for Power so they can Oppress those they deem to be Other People. It’s the Executive Producer covertly beating up on the P.A. It’s the Agent playing mind games with her Client. It’s the Craft Service Guy letting the Intern work for him — as long as he gets a little, You Know, on the side.

I have witnessed a lot of this, first-hand.

It then follows that such Philosophical Aggression would be — and is — particularly odious (and contagious) at the level of Screenwriting: For where else would Know-It-All American White Guys find their field of perceived battle? “I’m right and you’re wrong!” “This movie is better than that movie because [whatever bullshit reason]!” Or especially: “I’m going to become more ‘powerful’ than you so I can ‘control’ you!”

This sort of shit goes on all the time.

Really.

Really-really.

And it seems to me that this note from “Harry” comes from exactly such a source: Bitter, vengeful, emotionally out-to-lunch, desperate to appear vital in a mostly farcical field.

Well, “Harry,” I’m not your enemy.

Apart from the usual parental and familial and professional hindrances, you’re most likely your own enemy.

And as for the farcical field, here’s the thing: I tried it. For years. Prior to that, I worked Joe-jobs for longer than many people in Entertainment’s most lucrative (and inexperienced) demographic have been alive. I don’t claim Wisdom, but I do claim Smarts. And as a Smart Person, I refuse to wage war — particularly on a farcical field (though I am very fond of alliteration).

There’s just no point to it. Life is too short; egos are too hideous; there’s never any good reason to throw one’s baby on the fire.

This is probably what bugs “Harry” most — this way of mine. And to spell it out, I refer to the words of a Smart Person called Randy Newman:

“I’m different, and I don’t care who knows it

Somethin’ about me

Not the same

I’m different, and that’s how it goes

Ain’t gonna play your goddamned game.”

In closing, if there is a perception of arrogance about me — due to this journal or any other legitimate source — I am truly sorry. My life thus far has been mostly lonesome, I have known few Wise Elders, and I take severe umbrage when peers and/or brother-figures (often jealous) consciously choose to be rotten assholes. I dodge and defend accordingly. However, as long as mediocrity and stupidity control the forefront of popular culture, you’re going to get some haughtiness out of me — and that’s that.

Now, “Harry,” as your penance for being mean and self-obsessed, two things: Procure a copy of John Irving’s The Water-Method Man and read it (particularly the last chapter); and, especially: Go listen to Jane Siberry’s “The Life Is The Red Wagon” twenty-five times or until it sinks in — whichever comes first.

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This Billy Bragg fellow always causes me to smile and consider and smile again:

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

Read all about it.

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03.15.08

It’s Just a Spring Clean for the May King

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

Yo!

Heh-heh. Well, so much for the “I’m Not Posting Anything This Week-end So There!” sentiment.

(Consider this 2008 Update #10: Addendum I.)

Sitting here listening to Bob Marley’s “Kaya” right now, actually; pretty much sums up my mood (if mood may be defined in a general sense; almost everyone I know is possessed by moods, and I’m certainly not that).

Bit of Catharsis, Vindication and amusing Come-Uppance here, and briefly:

Catharsis:

Met a guy at a party a few years ago. Friend, then not. Typical pattern. He once shared this exchange with me (he probably shared it with dozens of people):

ME: What’s going on?

THAT GUY: I just finished reading the best screenplay I’ve ever read in my whole life!

ME: Who wrote it?

THAT GUY: I did!

(wait for it)

…

(wait for it)

…

(wait for it!)

…

(okay:)

…

HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAHHHH!!!!!

People around here, man — it’s so stupid sometimes.

*

Vindication:

People who read this thing probably, well…to quote Billy Bragg:

“I know that when I leave the room,

They say ‘What’s up with him?’”

So has it been, these past few years. I suddenly flash vividly upon a moment in late 1999, standing at a bus-stop (I think one of my cars had just been destroyed) somewhere near Sony on Washington Boulevard (not the best ‘hood), at night (worse), after a screening I didn’t particularly wish to attend (it was for work), staring at the bus-stop movie-poster of a screening I’d much rather have attended (just watched it again this morning, actually — awesome) — and life, for me, sucked SO BAD!

(Notably, it was around that time that Man on the Moon came out, and I reviewed it without any professional decorum whatsoever [I'd just had a very rotten time, and some dork portraying some other dork in some Important manner just didn't sit well with me; I liked it considerably more later] — and the result was that I probably seemed vaguely nasty toward the work of someone who then became a splendid friendquaintance. Oops. Sorry.)

Anyway…

Much of my unhappiness during Those Years can be attributed to Insane Roommates and Asshole People and Evil Employers (even when they’re ostensibly treating you well, they’re still evil) — but the worst of it was my domestic life (as such).

I have reported on this before: I had the Crackhead Family living nearby — and they circled the perimeter of my apartment, in shifts (no kidding), 24-7, making it utterly fucking impossible for me to relax or feel the least bit at ease in my own expensive rental dwelling.

Sheer hell, that was.

You know, you come home from a day of struggling with some of the craziest people imaginable, and wish desperately to relax — and you can’t, because either it’s 6am-10am and Mama Crackhead is using the alley for her VERY LOUD mutant hen-party (the “easiest,” but still intolerable at 10 feet from one’s sleeping head, plus thick cigarette smoke acting as very undesirable alarm clock), or it’s 9am-11pm and Papa Crackhead (genuinely dangerous, threatened me many times for parking in “his space” [it wasn't], attempted to run me down in his Shitmobile once — while I was on crutches) is VERY LOUDLY using the alley as his personal automotive chop-shop (beyond hellish; he was also a chain-smoker), or it’s anytime between 11pm and 6am, and Crackhead, Jr. is using the alley — really — to make blatantly public drug-deals (I saw the baggies, I called the cops, the cops never once showed the hell up), and to expectorate VERY LOUDLY for HOURS outside my windows (why not complain? because he was in a local gang and made that very clear, that’s why), and — like his dear ol’ Mama ‘n’ Papa Crack — to chain-smoke the living shit out of my limited breathable atmosphere.

It was absolutely terrible.

And it’s absolutely over.

Of course, as the Universe enjoys playing its ironic hand, the Crackheads were evicted shortly after I miserably and clumsily escaped that dwelling.

Technically, they won.

But I’m finally enjoying the last laugh.

Yesterday, round Golden Hour, after having a couple of nice telephone conversations, I wandered over to a Place of Food to get some Food. In the parking lot, I encountered a former neighbor from my former dwelling. It’s been years. His hair is a lot longer. Good to see him, though. We spoke briefly, catching up, various obstacles, etc.

Then he shared The Good News.

He related the context of the eviction of the Crackheads.

In brief, Crackhead, Jr. — a walking social liability, to put it mildly — has been jailed.

He was arrested for the third time, and that was that.

My kindly former neighbor referred to the incident as “delicious.”

Oh, I wish I could have seen that!

Anyway, they’re gone, and good riddance.

I release the cumulative domestic horror of attempting to live a reasonable life amongst the dangerous and insane.

Buh-bye.

*

Come-Uppance:

Perchance to your surprise, the Come-Uppance is on me. Heh-heh.

After obtaining a satisfactory measure of Food, I strode back into the parking lot, and chose that moment to check my voice-mail. Whilst standing there, doing that, I shared mutual recognition with a female human.

We know each other from a different social circle, and I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her outside of it.

Thus, she kind of recognised me, and I kind of recognised her (she had just been to the gym — and immediately made a point of it).

We had a nice little conversation. I wasn’t really at my warmest, but I hope I was congenial enough.

The thing is, she’s an actress.

From Texas.

Amusing!

(I’m really going to have to start making fun of intelligent, kind and sincere French women who are obsessed with marriage.)

However, unlike the total shitbag actresses who made my life a burning hell last year (all the nudity and chronic I-ADORE-YOU!s in the world will never catch me out like that again; incidentally, I was a model of fidelity throughout — one of them was but a “friend”), this actress — from Texas (yee-hawww!!!) — actually has a career.

I just looked her up, and although I’m unfamiliar with most of her work (but it’s funny to see that I have reviewed — and slammed — three movies in which she appears), it turns out she’s been at it for over twenty years. There are many credits. There are obsessive fans.

I didn’t even get her name right.

So yeah, I utterly eschew both actresses and Texans — and then someone who’s both practically lands in my lap.

I moved on quickly, though.

I know so much better now.

Hope that gives you a little giggle. Gregory steps out for a few minutes and almost instantaneously collides with exactly the female archetype he does not want.

(Speaking of which, since Led Zeppelin provide most of this post’s title, I chuckle at the echo of a very obnoxious female human — all fake-blonde and tramp-stamp and VERY LOUD VOICE — who ate Indian food near me a few days ago. She had hooked some subservient male to eat with her (”with” possibly optional), and opted to tell him, VERY LOUDLY, that she recently encountered Robert Plant, of Led Zeppelin fame — ironically at the restaurant owned by one of the millionaires whom “the actress” has been actively fucking [over]. Fake-Blonde’s words, on Plant: “He was so cool! Not like a celebrity at all. He hung out with us and just talked. He’s, like, an old hippie, basically.”)

(Ick.)

And finally — almost utterly devoid of incentive — I set about the overhaul of my existence (again), which has been consuming much of these past several years.

Bon week-end.

~Gregory

Chanson du week-end: “Kaya” by Bob Marley and the Wailers

P.S. No, I do not have any pot. I am just naturally groovy. Now run along.

.

.

.

.

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03.14.08

Apu ‘n’ Troi ‘n’ Me (2008 Update #10)

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 2:42 am by Gregory

Happy Eightieth Birthday to My Aunt H.!

We spoke Thursday — about Jeopardy! and Pepperdine and the weather. It was nice.

Also on Thursday I ate some nice daal and naan and saag for luunch; then, in the evening, viewed (note: I’m admitting this) for the first time, Pather Panchali — the classic 1955 Indian film that put director Satyajit Ray on the map (and commenced his much-lauded “Apu trilogy” — a phrase probably outrageously amusing to latter-day fans of prime-time animated comedies featuring glaring racist caricatures).

The goal was a simple one: It was a hard day (most are), and my plan was to bask in the cinematic classicness, occasionally jotting notes, just letting the movie wash over me.

Frankly, I found Pather Panchali a bit boring. Its portraiture and texture are indeed impressive — but the near-total lack of plot and drive gave me the same feeling I’ve had when I’ve attempted to enjoy Vegemite, i.e.: I can eat it, and I know that it is a product respected by many people around the world, but it really doesn’t taste good enough to me to be classified as “enjoyable.”

Anyway, when the little girl died of the sniffles, I was like, all, fuck you, man.

Actually, I wasn’t at all aggressive in my attitude toward the movie, and found its depiction of village life generally visually, auditorially, aesthetically and emotionally satisfying. It just didn’t seem to be going anywhere. And then, when the movie was over, the first comment out of my elder friend was this:

“And you think you have trouble making your rent.”

Well, actually, yeah — I do. Because assholes fired me after years of dedicated and exhausting service. Messed up everything. I hardly see how that has anything to do with a bunch of movie actors pretending to be poor people!

Anyway, after many years of highly hyperbolic buildup, the first Apu movie was not the Universe-redefining film I was hoping to see. It was good. It is worth seeing. It didn’t cause my socks to budge.

And I know, I know: Now is the time that some crusty old film geek gets up his gumption in the middle of the night because he’s just finding this post five years from now, to tell me that “I’m wrong” and “I lack patience” and “I didn’t understand the beauty of it” and whatever.

Bull.

I sat through the original Solaris twice. I love Kurosawa and Bergman at their most ponderous. Most Indian films I see, I like.

There was simply too much buildup to Pather Panchali — and I strongly suspect that — just as Tracy Chapman’s first album made white folks feel less guilty about being white (remember that? owning it was like a merit-badge for racial-bridging) — watching this Apu movie makes privileged people feel like they’re “understanding” the “poor people” or something.

It’s okay. It’s worth seeing (if you can stay awake through the water-bugs). I liked the monsoon a lot. Otherwise, bit of a shrug, really. “Life is hard.” Really? Thanks.

Perhaps the next two movies will enhance the “franchise” a bit.

I think part of it was also my elder friend — who’s kind of a Boomer — making a snide comment, first thing, as soon as the lights came up. I really don’t need that. I still don’t understand why alleged “friends” get off on saying shitty things to each other. Anyway, I sat through the movie and forced myself to stay awake. Gimme a medal.

Is there anything over which is worth getting up-all worked this week? Doesn’t seem to be. I agreed with the person (another elder woman; the teens actually fled) who, upon exiting Paranoid Park, was heard to say, “Bunch of scenes in search of a movie” (that’s being kind). I don’t want to see Funny Games (partly because I’m weary of Naomi Watts already, but mainly because it’s obviously mean, stupid and vulgar). The big, bright, too-smooth CG animation that informs the umpteenth such moneymaker Horton Hears a Who really does not appeal to me (I’m the sort of person who loves the Rankin-Bass Tolkien adaptations — not all this damned noisy obnoxious crap) — and…I guess that’s it for now, movie-wise.

I finally watched — oh, wait — I’m not gonna say it. Because I know there’s someone who reads this thing who’s rapidly running out of ideas — and this movie is too cool a resource to give away to him.

Let’s see: I can say that I’ve been viewing some episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation, en route to sleeping at about 3 a.m. (What time is it really? Why do we fuck up the clocks twice a year? Stupid!) I know — there’s all this new TV stuff and whatever — but I was so outrageously busy in my many attempts to get a life throughout the late ’80s and early ’90s that I only ever viewed one episode of ST: TNG — and that was the very first one. (Of course I saw pieces elsewhere, but only one fully.) That was fun, actually — all the guys on my floor were gathered around somebody’s tiny little monitor, grooving to the new Roddenberry beat (enraged Texans take note). I didn’t understand the appeal of the bombastic bald guy, and that other guy looked like a poor Kirk-replacement, and it didn’t seem particularly inventive, to me, to replace the Vulcan on the bridge with an Android — it seemed passable, but I wasn’t hooked, and life (or lack thereof?) carried me away on my own Trek.

I am enjoying, now, seeing a little bit of what I missed, then. And I actually like the characters a lot.

The philosophies behind Star Trek are very good philosophies; I approve.

Let’s see…was anything else interesting this week?

Hardly. Well, I’ve been reading a lot — but I can’t discuss that here, because it’s research. And a friend and I are gradually evolving a script over which we’ve been hovering for months — but I can’t tell you about that yet, either (only that it’s truly awesome; you will love the movie it becomes).

Oh, and I dealt with the IRS a bit. Boy, is it ever fun listening to Tchaikovsky for nearly an hour on hold before reaching some operator who then proceeds to talk over everything you attempt to say and/or ask, en route to discovering that you apparently made a mistake six years ago, and they’d like clarification. Nothing major, and nothing recent — just the typical bullying letters and scare tactics — in service of nothing, really.

Another reason I dig Star Trek: In the future, money no longer exists. Beautiful. After World War III, humans finally decide to stop being globally ghastly, and the quest for personal profit is superceded by the allowance, to every individual, that they may seek improvement. Bravo. Let’s do that.

Personal ‘tude is vastly improved over last year, anyway — as I have fully rejected actresses as eligible partners or even dependable friends (they’re not; they’re simply not; they’re simple; they’re simps), and although I am perfectly willing to work with the dreadful beasts on a professional level (most stories require female humans in order to be told well; let’s hope that the U.S. Presidency turns into one such story), my free hours shall be spent either: A. With people who don’t suck; or B. Alone (for I have learnt, the hard way, that the most brutal onslaughts of loneliness are superior to wasting one’s time and energy on actresses).

I grin.

If much of this seems wack to you, incidentally, fret not: Most of you don’t live here, and this place really is bursting at the seams with insane people. Were I a heterosexual female, I’d be bitching non-stop about what assholes (most of) the eligible men around here certainly are. But I’m not — so I get to deal with the afternath of the assholes’ assaults upon the bitches — who (in my observations) tend to be lustfully attracted to assholes much as magnetic things are attracted to each other magnetically like magnets.

Sleepy. Not in mood for metaphors.

Anyway, let’s clarify that I’m not dealing with that anymore.

Whew.

Gregory has permanently abandoned Dipshitpalooza.

Hey, just in time for Purim, St. Patrick’s Day, Passover, Easter and April Fool’s Day.

Revolution!

Let’s see: Oh, the looming Presidency. Yeah. Well, I certainly don’t want the crazy old white guy to win. The young black guy is my second choice, but he doesn’t thrill me the way he seems to thrill some people (he’s way too Show Biz). Mainly I want the Boomer female human to win, partly because I trust her the most (of the three), and partly because I will derive personal gratification from watching a Boomer female human have to deal with the near-cataclysmic state in which the Earth and its many inhabitiants now find themselves.

Let her do some work.

It’s unlikely that I’ll add anything here over the week-end, because I’m working on two scripts, some musical efforts, plus seeking almost all of the reasons for which a human should continue to endure — but the site will get its overhaul soon enough, and blossoms will be popping all over the place.

The only other matter of significance is that my dreams are glorious again.

Someday, if you care, you can read about them.

Bon week-end.

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03.13.08

That’s What I Want

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 10:42 am by Gregory

Because I am as apt to read irrelevant online news blurbs as anyone, I note that the American five-dollar bill gets a “makeover” today (but it’s still as ugly as American money always is — why is that???):

No, really — good President, but why is the money so ugly? Examine, as but one example of superior currency, Italian money:

I mean, sure, it’s still a bit on the “mould-green w/old bearded codger” side — but — before we’re all reduced to brain-implant counter-chips and bar-code tats, there’s absolutely no reason (apart from its corrupting influence on stupider humans) that currency need be ugly.

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03.12.08

Porkins (2008 Essay #10 — as if)

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 10:42 pm by Gregory

Okay, in lieu of wrenching personal struggles and/or Hollywood insanity, here’s a doctored photo of the late William Hootkins, as “Porkins”:

Get it? Heh-heh!

Actually, a friend recently confided that one of his YouTube videos garnered (among many) the comment that he resembled the late fat genre character actor. He doesn’t, particularly (unless he’s hittin’ the non-diet beer too hard), but nonetheless I found the comment intriguing. Who was Hootkins? Why was he here among us, fat-deity-like, gracing fantasy and sci-fi movies for some of the better years of those genres?

Heck, I dunno. Fat Texan Made Good. Not much more to it, is there?

This photo isn’t particularly attractive (I found it online), but it is uniquely amusing for a variety of reasons — organic and manipulated:

- William Hootkins somehow got Gary Kurtz and — um, um, what’s his name? — George Lucas to cast him as TIE-fodder in the original Star Wars. That’s kind of funny in itself, but then to name his character “Jek Porkins” — it would be the first of many nomenclatural embarrassments (”Dooku,” anyone?) to dog the franchise.

- That look on his face — he looks like a huge, mutant baby.

- Given somebody’s Photoshop prowess, he is now brandishing a trademarked cardboard bucket filled with hacked-apart pieces of dead birds, boiled in oil specially formulated to render the dead-bird-parts extra-toxic to humans, causing said humans, over prolonged exposure, to die in agony (as, indeed, Hootkins did).

- The NASCAR tag is a brilliant touch: As a friend of mine who somehow married a major NASCAR fan defines the “sport”: “Buncha rednecks makin’ lefts.” Associating this with doomed Rebel pilots makes the reference all the funnier.

- Orange visor?

Etc.

I was always impressed that Hootkins (a Texan, no less) found his way into bit parts in some of the coolest movies ever (Star Wars, Flash Gordon, Raiders, Batman), and thus — after insulting the residents of one of the 50 states (Hint: The one with the stupidest “president” ever) via a Real Restroom Rhyme, I’ll conclude with a brief tribute to the man who (as allegedly Hootkinsesque friend pointed out), if it weren’t for Bruce Spence (Mad Max, Matrix, Lord of the Rings, Star Wars prequels), would have the coolest bit-part resume of all time (I argue that, actually, he already does — I don’t care about The Matrix — although one of its directors has become a woman, which is interesting).

Now for the Real Restroom Rhyme:

Here I sit,

Buns a-flexin’,

Waitin’ to make

Another Texan.

- as observed on a stall wall during some or another ghastly North American cross-country road-trip

And now for the Brief Hootkins Tribute:

I have friends who work in various restaurants, and one of them is a major Star Wars fan — thus he keeps a few bits of memorabilia around, lest his heroes stop by (Harrison Ford did a few times; he kept his credit card signatures; so it goes). (I wouldn’t do that, incidentally — but I have worked in restaurants — and it does distort the mind quite severely.) Anyway, one night, not that long before he died (though we’ll hope that this was coincidence), William Hootkins came in and ordered some food to go. My friend wasn’t there, but another member of the crew — who speaks very limited English — somehow recognised Hootkins — or else Hootkins proudly proclaimed “I’M IN STAR WARS!!!!” — or something. My friend’s associate presented Hootkins with a copy of Star Wars, and asked him to sign it. He then, haltingly, asked which character it was that Hootkins played.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” replied William Hootkins.

Gawd love a fat dead Texan character actor.

[And please pardon, if the rudeness of this post bothers you; I just found out that a different friend of mine likes Country music -- and, at that prospect, I am feeling a desperate and disorientating sense of grief and loss.]

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03.11.08

“We don’t like reading. Why don’t you put up pictures anymore?”

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:42 am by Gregory

Okay. Here:

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