Gregory’s Lovable Önline Gabble Garden
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.
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!
Out on me wash-line:
Leprechaun underpanties!
Weird feckin’ day, mate.
by St. Gregory, He Who Chased the Christians Out of Ireland
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Poem and Text Copyright Gregory à la ÜberCiné.com, All Rights Reserved.
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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.
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 chuckl