04.30.08

May Day!!!

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

Allo, ça va? Oui, ça va.

I have just microwaved some soy mozzarella onto a previously cheeseless mini-pizza, and I’m not entirely sure that it’s food anymore — but I’m eating it anyway.

This seems, to me, far more indicative of the life I have been experiencing than hundreds of thousands of words of factual argument.

Anyway, the point is, I found those recordings from the mid-90s. I even found the masters. Everything’s been a rolling clusterfuck for so long now, I’m a bit surprised and even more delighted at how well preserved these are.

You probably won’t like them. I’m not saying that to be modest. Unless your goal is money and/or attention, the real goal of making music is self-discovery (and discovery of self within a far more grand spectrum). These mostly fit in the “Discovery” category and not at all in the “Marketable” category. The mid-90s were hellishly pop-culturally bleak for the most part, and thus the process of recording these things was much like planting daffodils in a hurricane. But, then again, I taught myself to draw (post-childhood) on a cross-country trainride. Ever ride a train? They shake and shimmy a fair bit.

I’m going to listen to “my Iron Man song” now…

{…listening to it…for the first time in twelve years…}

…

…hm!

Well, that was unexpected.

I like it.

You know how Ed Wood made movies? For a while, I was making albums in approximately the same fashion. i.e.: Almost clueless, no proper support, no budget, no real interest from anybody, and usually in the dark.

This song is from just such an experience. I was living (marginally) in Silver Lake with a roommate — not from Hell, exactly; more like, from Squishy Underpants Cackle-Land (example: When I’d announce I was about to take a bath, he’d raise his doughy, Prozac-laden, BVD-only-clad body from his up-to-twelve-hour severely-cackling video-game marathon session and release a lethal dump strong enough to annihilate Philadelphia — in the bathroom — seconds before my bath. (In other words, he had all day to let it drop, but chose the exact moment of greatest personal umbrage.) I knew a couple of fringey musicians at the time/place (they couldn’t get a gig at Spaceland, if you’re wondering exactly how fringey), and they seemed to view the world and all potential productions as some weird hallucination — thus I was left entirely to my own devices (egg-shakers; accordion; ukelele; bodhran; duet with myself) — in a rather crazy atmosphere.

The resulting song starts out plausibly — with a style not entirely unlike my first original multitrack recording from 1991 (which was recorded in the third-level corner office at Raleigh Studios, across from Paramount’s big parking lot, which is now their big cinema theatre, and on a Sunday night; details available upon written request w/postage-paid envelope) — and then it hastily — not devolves, actually — it…let us say, it “opts for Feeling over Technique”?

I do like it, though. It is, at least, honest. (And not AT ALL “roots-rock” “honest”!)

I’ll see if I can find enough open memory to digitise it. You may well hate it. Dr. Demento would probably reject it. Plus it’s no big deal. But when everybody else in the room is going, “I WANNA SOUND LIKE STUPID-ASS PEARL JAM!” — you can bet your last penny I’ll be the one going, “What could be the most exact opposite of that?…”

Pretty cool, though: This must be from Album #4…

Yes, it is.

Sounds nutty, having “albums,” but technically, these are. Including one covers album and one live album (actual performances in front of actual people), I have seven albums!

A few songs exist on more than one album, or in “variant” versions — but Morrissey is a multi-millionaire from doing that (even though “Paint a Vulgar Picture” is precisely about how vulgar indeed that process can be! — those were the days!) — so I’m certainly not going to worry my pretty big head about it.

Hm.

There is also what sort of amounts to a comedy album. I’ve only ever done stand-up comedy once, on a dare, in college (it worked; there’s a Betamax tape somewhere) — and, generally (especially these days) I don’t really like stand-up comedy. But that’s only part of it. There’s a session from back in the mid-80s with a couple of friends, and it’s pretty amusing…after a fashion. We’ll call it eight then, in terms of albums-thus-far.

Oh…wait…there’s more.

There was an album long before any of the others. Long before adolescence!

Nine, then.

Nine albums, thus far.

Hm!

Wait!

Darn it.

TEN!

There’s a collection of covers I recorded for females who didn’t care.

Which makes it ten.

Ten albums.

Go me.

However, lest this all seem hideously self-absorbed, remember, it’s nearly archaeology for me at this point. These things have gathered years of dust (and there is a LOT of dust in L.A.).

The cool thing is — and my cinema friends may approve — many of the inspirations emerged, in fact, from Pop Cinema. My first cover was from Ben E. King (guess why) — and of course two versions of that exist (one absolutely indebted to Prince; the other significantly less melodic in the vocal; but nice try; hey, I was a teenager). Early John Landis proved an early guide. The Zucker brothers have a line in their funniest movie that became the title of my first album. Peter Weir is involved.

Etc.

My first covers (apart from TV themes) came from the aforementioned Mr. E. King; The Cure; Lou Reed (it’s a snap to cover the tone-deaf) and Jane Siberry. Many more followed. A few of them are actually Listenable. Most qualify as Interesting.

Of course, my life as a musician [guffaws into hand] hasn’t been easy! Try getting friends to give two shits for the musical process! I used to give copies to friends, in hopes of feedback (I was already giving up on “hopes of collaboration”). Literally not a word. Could it all be that bad? (That little fucker from Dublin owns houses all over the world from running around yelling shit; how hard can it be?) Possibly — possibly that bad. But it’s probably a little better than that.

For one thing, recording my own songs freed me from having to worship other people doing their songs. So I got that goin’ for me — which is nice.

For another, it’s night and day, dark and light, cold and hot — the difference between listening to music and making it; that was a good enlightenment. Especially since Pop Music is the only freedom many people in this world have.

And then there are always letdowns — usually, I am finally noticing, from short people. I played my “Raleigh” song (which is ostensibly about golf; but not really) for a “rock’n'roll” New Yorker friend-of-a-friend in college — and he snickered and thought it must have been a joke. (It is intentionally very light — but just to let you know, absurdly bombastic “passion” is something I’ve usually considered embarrassing and even sickening — whereas this was a guy who went to Paris and all he wanted to see was Jim Morrison’s grave! What fun!)

Speaking of that era, I covered a massive 60s anthem for a European friend more recently (Hint: It’s in Monterey Pop), as a birthday present, and it was very hasty but much more assertively “passionate” — and she liked it a lot (apparently more than the original; which even I don’t believe, but that’s awfully nice of her) — and later I shared it with the friend who was the “of-a-friend” in the previous equation, and he called it “a funny novelty song.” Ouch! Little fucker! (Then again, he is generally dismissive of the work of his peers; an established pattern; plus: like I care at this point.)

You know, I’ve got to find that covers album. That’s the only one that’s not presently residing in the archives. It’s got a Rolling Stones cover on it that’s — well, tastes will vary — actually good. (And the Liz Phair one is even better.)

Yet, again, although you, casual reader, probably don’t care in the slightest, and in fact I lack the “OH-MY-GOD-CHECK-OUT-MY-MYSPACE!!!!!!!!!!” kind of pushiness that seems to be the driving force behind Pop (and Persona) these days, nonetheless this small, focused fulcrum is very satisfying to me, this particular evening.

I’ve done a bunch of stuff.

Now, doing a bunch more stuff will be a breeze.

With this notion, I celebrate this holiday.

May you have a very enjoyable May as well.

(And here comes the organic carrot juice chaser…)

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Iron Man and Cat-Woman

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

I’m genuinely excited about IRON MAN. As a kid, of course I was as inundated by superheroes as most American kids tend to be (if perhaps not quite as much as in the past few years!) — however, my comics taste ran much, much more toward the purely fun stuff: Richie Rich, Star Wars knockoffs, and particularly Huey, Dewey and Louie: Junior Woodchucks. I never really “got” the tough-guy shenanigans in most superhero comics. But I did have Iron Man.

Iron Man also made a brief, “wire-work” cameo appearance in the teen comedy programme on which I, and several of my friends, worked. He showed up, inexplicably, in a fairy-tale-theatre type sketch. I loved it.

This movie, though — it really is superb. Bravo, Favreau! Right now the damned “gardeners” are directly outside my windows with their motherfucking NOISEMAKERS, and I have many concerns — and yet I’m really looking forward to completing the review and posting it in a timely manner. This is, quite notably, akin to cheerfulness. It’s not as if the Marvel Marketing Machine needs my help, but I genuinely dig this movie.

Also included: As the site rolls over from April to May, this represents the 3rd anniversary of ÜberCiné! Whooda thunk? Go me. A party is in order.

Also-also included: I’m going to dedicate this later-evening to finding and digitising my Iron Man-related song — which I wrote and recorded in 1995. I had just moved back to L.A., and was working at Golden Apple Comics on Melrose, and the wages were nothing about which to sing, but the inspiration level was burying the needle. It occurred to me to get out my four-track (and accordion, and ukelele) and do a song — sort of about Tony Stark, and sort of about Men, and sort of about Me. Haven’t thought of it in years, but lately I’ve been singing it in the shower (amazing how the words come back). Warning: This particular song is much twee-er (I fucking LOVE being my own editor! I don’t have to explain “respective” or “reveal” to anyone, either!) than anything on the mega-twee Juno soundtrack. Really. You know Nick Cave? Think: The absolute, exact opposite of that. Air Supply (speaking of Australians) are far ballsier than this song. The anti-”Iron Man”? Kinda. But also a sincere salute to the character’s vestiges of humanity.

Meanwhile, I have just returned from grocery-shopping with a friend. She’s great. Kind of funny, though: On the way back, well — let us say I was afforded insight into “how the other half thinks”. This is a person who gets enraged at the notion of me occasionally tossing a nut to a squirrel (”You’re one of THEM!!!“). I love squirrels. That ain’t going anywhere. But she prefers the nocturnal-predator kinds of creatures — bats and especially cats. I don’t dislike cats — but mainly I find them to be excessively arrogant little nuisances, with occasional, vague bursts of fleeting cuteness (much like the majority of the women I end up meeting around here; rimshot — speaking of which, the last one was into that; want her number?). Back to point: I listened. We all need our comforts; if cats comfort her, that’s fine. But it was fascinating to hear her enthusiasm over some “cat-restaurants” apparently springing up in Japan: They’re for people who can’t have cats in their apartments, or simply don’t, or whatever — but desperately desire to be around the things. Basically, you’re eating, and cats mosey over and rub their fur all over you, and “some of them will even share your tea!”

Um…

Mind: I like my friend. She’s saying that, though, and my honest reflection upon the concept is: “Fucking cat’s got its fucking ass in my fucking face while I’m fucking trying to fucking eat.” No anger, no cat-hating — just: This is a really inappropriate way to run a restaurant.

I look for the silver lining, though: Since cats love to prey upon — and horrifically TORTURE — smaller, meeker creatures (and gobble up cockroaches; cat-fanciers, think of that while you’re tongue-kissing your widdle puddikins), the odds are quite good that those restaurants are, at least, vermin-free.

Apropos of not much, I add that I liked Warner Bros.’ Catwoman movie. I reviewed it under the editing agony of a totally useless, very deceitful, control-freak schmuck (”Hello, Cleveland!”), and thus it was a very unhappy time for me — but ultimately, as with Van Helsing from the same year, I unabashedly like the movie. With the caveat: It is not the Catwoman movie that Catwoman fans would want — but on its own terms, it is stylish, interesting and amusing. Here’s a little golf-clap for Pitof.

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Remakes…why did it have to be remakes…

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

Let’s see — in a perfect world, I’d like to get to reviews of Iron Man (****1/2), Roman de gare (****1/2) and Then She Found Me (*** — or **** if you watch Colin Firth’s scenes twice and skip Bette Midler’s tedious histrionics) — but we’ll see.

Shall return to Festival of Books asap, and perchance learn to see a future again.

Meanwhile, here is a warning to me, for those rare days when I feel like I have a little spare time. Beware!

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04.28.08

IRON MAN:

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

Rules.

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Escape from Anglofemnia!

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 9:42 am by Gregory

Hiya. How’s your Monday? It’s ugly here — too hot already. I recall sitting in school with the thermostat set at about sixty-two degrees Fahrenheit, and well below zero outside, hoping against hope that nobody (particularly a girl) would touch my hands, as they felt like those of a corpse. Those days seem kind of sweet and quaint compared to here and now (although my hands are indeed warm).

Anyway, even casual readers may note that I wasted a considerable amount of last year feeling drained by “the actress” — who is, in fact, British. British works for me — or, at least, I thought it did. When the Puritanical “rebels” drove back those evil, evil Redcoats something in the psyches of all Americans and potential Americans got lost — some complexity, some cultural appreciation — and thus has the British Woman, retaining at least some of the beauty of this complexity, always pleased me most. (Alas, I liked one most of all, but while I was away and busy she accidentally got married; and divorced; and bitter.)

The actress and I never went for it. She leapt all over me initially — much like the tiny dream-dog she desperately covets (flat-out sickening) — but when cash and car were conspicuously missing, that ploy died quickly, and I was very hastily replaced by two millionaires who constantly buy her toys and literally pay for everything in her life and don’t know about each other (shh). She only fucks one of them (who is married with a new baby). The other one must be outrageously stupid or just beaten or something. I’ve met them both; and both were nervous, as these meetings were unplanned, and my presence shocked them (clearly she had been working the “exclusivity” angle on them pretty hard). Meanwhile, she continued to change clothes in front of me, and beg massages, and walk around naked, and leave the bathroom door open, and (shit) show me the nude photos of herself that her actual gay best friend took.

(In case it seems, in this post and others, that perhaps I’m playing the Puritan — nay-nay, not at all. It’s just that I don’t want to date an exhibitionist.)

In lieu of the actress, I went off and accidentally met somebody worse — actually, yesterday was, for any purposes of intimacy or honesty, the anniversary of the last day of our acquaintance (I saw her after that, but her insanity had seized control). She was an American girl (”raised on promi–” yeah, whatever) — and she was a very, very bad choice on my part: a stupider actress! I thought: Heck, she puts on an initially-plausible show, pretends to be educated and polite, maybe I’ll give the home team a try.

Buzz! Wrong!

Anyway, if you want to put a fine point on it, I am not “successful” enough to attract a woman around here (although the seniors show way too much interest), and so both of the aforementioned, wasteful paths led to the emotional catastrophe that was last year. The lesson: Some women really are mean and stupid. You don’t have to give them any benefit of doubt. All you have to do is avoid them.

Today, however, I note this video online — and although it would be quite easy to use it for further insults, I present it simply as case study: The actress (in my unfortunate experience) couldn’t assemble a sentence with both hands, and, rather than being dead, her father (complex) is on his third or fourth marriage and hiding somewhere in Spain — but otherwise, she shares an obvious affliction with the online one.

I am very happy to be free of all that bullshit.

Smart and goodly women, respect and support to thee (wherever thou art).

Incidentally, I recall a very arrogant high school girlfriend telling me in all confidence that there would never be any community or social construct like a “global village” — uhmmm…and the noted video is available to the whole world (and their comments) because…?

Please, Powers That Be: Deliver unto me a worldly and wise woman of appropriate age and qualities and coordinates; for alone, I am not meant to be.

P.S. And here’s one for the (British) ladies! (Fished-in! Rick-rolled!)

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04.27.08

Blast-Furnace Bingo (Or: “Not Particularly Hungry For Stink [But Thanks For Asking!]“)

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 9:42 pm by Gregory

All right, well, so much for the LIVE BLOGGING experiment. Proved unwieldy. Under some circumstances, it would be a snap, but considering that I went to the UCLA campus four times over the week-end, and the week-end was insanely and unpleasantly hot, and there are plenty of other things presently about which to worry — let’s say that I’ll tuck the photos and scribbled bits and pieces in their proper places in a day or three; just not up for all that formatting tonight!

Speaking of tonight, right now somewhere East of here (where a camel would drop in less than an hour), Roger Waters is doing that Dark Side of the Moon extravaganza thingie. As I’ve said before, I much prefer The Wall and especially The Final Cut (it is, I believe, as close to Soul that Prog Rock can get), and basically, if I’m ever going to partake of this Concert Experience, Roger’s gonna have to bring it to me. (Nice violinist, though.)

Hey, speaking of sexy string players, can I have a girlfriend like Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters? I mean: the whole deal? That will do.

Speaking of–nah: I’ll note that in a moment.

Oh: Why four times to UCLA? Well, they distribute tickets to ticketed events early in the morning. Thus my nine a.m. campus arrivals both days. On a brilliant roll, I didn’t realise that the bizarre Tim Curry Interviews John Landis Plus Some European Lady Who Wrote A Book About The Latter thing would be held outside, in a tent, no tickets necessary. Oops. However! — On the otherwise-pointless (if surprisingly efficient) busride, I received an unexpected and extremely interesting ethnographic experience — which I believe was much more spiritually enlightening than anything you’d get in an International House of Worship (”IHOW”?) — shall report on that, I hope, soon.

Great week-end, but indeed, the heat is terribly daunting: Especially for April. Homeless people rarely bathe; there are many, many, many homeless people here; you (as they — “they” being extremely annoying people — say) do the math.

P.U.! And I sure don’t mean Purdue University!

Fortunately, these whiffs of sheer hell-smell have only just begun — and, thus, the illusion of a civilised environment may be maintained for at least a couple more weeks.

One thing I noticed today: There IS some sort of genetic, perchance-DNA-driven reason why Whites are (give or take a Rap Mogul granted a HUGE break by The Machine) more affluent than Blacks (in this country, and very generally): It must be in the programming, something hard-wired that makes Whites greedier. I was approached by nearly a dozen homeless people today, divided about equally between Black and White. The Black people all said, “Hey man, can you spare some change?” Meanwhile, although a couple of the White people also said this, most of them asked me for “a few dollars”. Interesting!

It really is a problem, though, and without claiming any expertise in the matter (apart from being damned close to it!), I look at this particular problem much as I regard war: What we’re doing very, very, very obviously isn’t working. In the case of war, rather than sending weapons and soldiers and assorted cannon-fodder, we need to train and send diplomats, sociologists, artists, even. In the case of the homeless, we need mental-health professionals who not only know their stuff, but who have kind, compassionate hearts, to encourage not merely the re-employment of people, but their actual reintegration. It’s the only way. You got a better way?

Anyway, they are starting to smell already, and it’s only April. In fact, today I even encountered a large, smelly fellow known by most of my movie-geek friends for his relentless, stalkery, “I Wanna Be An ACTOR!” approach to “living”. But I only heard his booming, fake-British accent and was out of there like lightning.

A bar of soap to him, though; and a bar of soap to everyone! Vegan soap! No tallow!

Here: This will jerk your brain in an unexpected direction: Speaking of the decline of American civilisation, I finally watched Back to the Future Part II last night. It was a lively, packed house, there were a couple of De Loreans parked outside, and trilogy Cinematographer Dean Cundey (who also recently lensed The Holiday — which, weirdly, I kinda liked, plus it’s a really great-looking movie!) and II & III Production Designer Rick Carter were sitting (and chuckling) nearby. (Due to a technical issue, I only had time to glance furtively at the first feature, Part I — but I’ll write about that movie’s sentimental value to me another time.) And the verdict? Well: For nearly two decades, I have been under the impression that I saw Part II and didn’t like it very much. What I think actually happened was that it was on cable, my apartment-mate (why call someone a “roommate” if you’re not actually sharing a room?) was probably watching it, once again I glanced furtively, but mainly I think he just hated it and told me why (which is even weirder, as he tends to love cynical dismissals of humanity).

Seeing Back to the Future Part II on the big screen — and, really, for the first time — was, for me, a bit like meeting a friend-of-a-friend, about whom I’ve known for a long time, but whose existence was frozen in a chunk of presumption. The movie came out (a bit late, really; these geeks need to speed up their game!) in 1989 — when I was much too busy pining for Love and Real Life and even perhaps An Education to care too much about sequels which were obviously inferior to their predecessors (see, especially, Indy III — like Back II, it somewhat unfortunately swaps out much of its Delightful for Interesting).

One enjoyable thing about being a critic is reviewing something so dusty and off the current radar that it might perhaps cause actual heart-attacks in editors, and I’m happy to report that this is, albeit peripherally, such a case (minus both the editor and the heart-attack; although tomorrow is Monday…). I liked Back to the Future Part II — and also felt a certain melancholy throughout it. Not because of the subject matter (frankly, I don’t think it goes quite “dark” enough) — but because it was, in pop-culture terms, so very long ago! (As Carter and Cundey pointed out, we are closer now to “The Future” than we are to 1985!) But as a sort of Pop “hinge,” I find the cinematic text very valuable. Elijah Wood (good agent!) has a tiny role in it, as a video-game creep — and look what happened for him! As someone pointed out, the design of the Futuristic Courthouse Square pretty much set the mould for Universal CityWalk (give or take Significance, I wasn’t previously aware of that). Plus all the pop-culture referenes and the ingrainedness of the characters. I felt a strange sense of gratitude and gratification, finally “getting” where the story went next.

Two things: Even having said that, I think that the first movie is perfect in and of itself, and no sequels were needed. Plus the now-defunct “ride” at Universal was very much my favourite thing in that park (I LOVED IT!…alas). Oh, wait, three things: And Biff. I comprehend that Biff is supposed to be an unlikeable character (perhaps due to the same lethal apron-strings that gave us the killer-rapist in The Dead Zone, judging by his apparent home-life) — but I simply find the actor Thomas F. Wilson (perhaps, in this mode) incredibly unpleasant to behold. He’s icky to the point that he drains significant fun from the proceedings. He’s a bully; we get it; and may we have some more fun now?

On that point — although this is extremely old news to the nerds — it actually pained me to watch the next (or, mostly, concurrent) chapter in this “saga” — sans Crispin Glover. My goodness, I know he’s weird and sometimes creepy, but his spice in the soup of the first movie is a vital part of what makes it a Pop classic. Remove him from the equation — and the souffle falls, at least partly. (Somebody throw in a salad metaphor or something.)

It’s funny — I was discussing the movie with T. (who likes Part III — I don’t care for westerns, but I’ll give it a try! — and as he reflected upon his experiences with, and opinions of, the movie (he warned me of the Biff Factor), it occcurred to me to liken it to one of my (seriously now) All-Time Favourite Movies Ever: that being Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, from 1978. (I love it; I know; I love it.) It’s that whole: Someone Of Strong Moral Fibre Must Contend With Their Demons And Save Their Hometown kinda thing. As in (Universal’s) Sgt. Pepper, as in (Universal’s) Back to the Future Part II. Of course, during this brilliant Gestalt, it didn’t occur to me that there’s a little movie out there called It’s a Wonderful Life. Ha. Oops. Blame the heat.

Anyway, I was There for almost literally ALL of the Pop Product of the ’80s — but it is nice to partake of this “missing” piece now, and go: Oh, it’s a bit more Interesting than it is Delightful — but it’s still a good time and far from being a waste of celluloid (kidz: Wiki).

There are many other topics of far more importance than this (for instance, I called my mother today to tell her about the Festival of Books — and discovered that my “father” was bullying her — I have begged for their divorce for well over a quarter-century now — over some issue of not letting her pack the car early for their trip to New York tomorrow — resulting in her sobbing miserably — great, thanks, mega-asshole!) — but generally this medium is where I go to write — never what I’m “supposed” to write — but only what occurs to me to write in a given moment. Sorry if that sucks for you sometimes, but at least I really do “keep it real,” and I’ll get some vaguely cool stuff about the week-end up here soon.

(But first: Iron Man…)

Meanwhile, since Lists are fun — and then back to work with me! — here’s a List that occurred to me in the shower a few minutes ago (for those who still abide in “Kansas”):

THIRTEEN USEFUL THINGS GREGORY WOULD LIKE YOU TO KNOW ABOUT L.A.:

1. Don’t eat at the Whole Foods buffet; it’s much too expensive. (It’s also one of the most annoying clusterfucks I’ve ever experienced anywhere — mostly due to the bumper-car employees constantly blocking your attempts to gather food.) I know it looks tempting — all that variety and everything — but whether you prefer nourishing food or the hot, decaying muscle tissue of viciously murdered beasts, either way it’s a better deal, and more atmospheric, to go to a moderately-priced restaurant (however, in either case, your odds of hearing “Escape [The Pina Colada Song]” are absurdly high).

2. See movies in the arthouses and “neighborhood” theatres; keep them alive. Your Nuart. Your Egyptian. Your Aero. Your Laemmles. Your Whatever-It’s-Called-In-Pasadena. Your New Beverly. These establishments combine to form a vital element in the very cinematic history that most likely brought you here in the first place. If all you do is check out the often-lousy fare that hits the first-runs, you are depriving yourself of decades upon decades of brilliance (plus global and artful new releases). And some of the people you’ll meet aren’t insane — and could even become friends. Go to your local. Love your local.

3. If you meet a “girl” at a party in L.A., YOU REALLY CAN GO HOME, “GOOGLE” HER, AND FIND NUDE PHOTOS OF HER. Really and truly, I say this neither to titilate nor to tempt — but strictly to inform. Last week I went to a party (thanks, T.), and briefly chatted with a tall, smart, pretty, ostensibly appealing adult human female. (This is still considered normal — even though I just described the female that the other females love to hate.) My “nutcase-radar” went off immediately (she’s an actress; thus: NO.), but her name — her actual name — intrigued me, so the next day I tried to figure out how it was spelt, and “Googled” it. This person in whom I really wasn’t particularly interested (no joke; I have already beaten this wave’s “boss” — remember?) turned out to be a very, very busy European model who happens to prefer appearing in nude and “erotic” shots. There are hundreds of these images online! If there is a square inch of this person about which you happen to be curious, you can check it out instantly and with her full consent. Sad. To me, anyway: Sad. She was wearing stylish glasses with bright eyes behind them, and seemed cool. However: With her, the whole world “gets it,” so there’s literally less than nothing in the Potential-For-Intimacy department. Zero. Zip. Anyway, point being: Regardless of your own morals and appetites, this stupid process actually works here.

4. I’m a straight male, so I don’t have a whole lot to offer about the appeal (or lack thereof) of other males — but I can say this: In L.A., adult male humans are still expected to look and behave as if they’ve stepped right out of the mid-1950s (noting a theme here). It’s damned strange.

5. Don’t try to go East between 5:30 and 7:30 pm. Really. Just don’t. You WILL arrive two hours late, and the people waiting for you on the other side really will have no understanding whatsoever regarding the shit-fucking ghastly hell you’ve had to traverse (at nearly negative miles-per-hour) in order — sweaty, gibbering, perhaps even weeping — to reach them. This once was a city where “you can get anywhere in twenty minutes.” Those days really are gone. Don’t attempt to travel East during rush hour. Just don’t do it. Leave hella early — or don’t go.

6. Learn to distinguish people who just got here from people who have been here, at least, for a few years. It’s not a point of pride, but newbies tend to be more opportunistic, and often much more crass. They’re here to see what they can “get” — and then they have to go back to some place which may seem boring to them by comparison. They’re here, basically, to “party”. Ask yourself: Can you afford that?

7. Many (though far from most) people here make outrageous, nigh-supernatural amounts of money for being total jerkoffs. You don’t have to accept this — but it helps with regard to productivity in other areas if you get used to it and learn to ignore it, as much as possible.

8. Ride the bus; it puts things in perspective. Oh — and it almost gets you where you’re going.

9. You probably aren’t going to be a star.

10. Many people here — probably the majority — are here because they no longer understood how to fit into a more sensible environment. Including New Yorkers.

11. Go to the Hollywood Bowl; it makes it all seem worthwhile.

12. Pardon me borrowing from Not-Really-Kurt-Vonnegut, but: “Wear sunscreen.” This is Bad For Your Skin Land: Sun, Smog, Stress. Take care of your skin. You won’t get another.

13. You don’t have to put up with assholes. Many people here make their daily bread (and lifelong estate) by being assholes. If this bothers you, just keep searching until you find people who aren’t assholes. (Et bonne chance!)

Song of the Week: Oh, I dunno, darling — what would you like to hear? Oh…wait. No. No Melissa Etheridge. Because that faux-passion shit makes me sick, that’s why. What? Some fifteenth-generation carbon-copy grunge band with a KROQ single and an uncle in the industry? Shit. Here — do you think, honey, that you could just use your iPod instead?…

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04.26.08

LIVE FESTIVAL BLOGGING (2008 Update #19.a)

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

Shit almighty is it hot today.

If I were at the Coachella music festival, I’d be writing something like this:

HEY, YO! I’M ALL DOWN HERE IN DA HAPS WIT’ COACHELLA AND ITS LIKE SICK HOT YO! TEMPS B REACHIN’ DA ONE-TWENNIES B-4 7 AM, YO, ‘N’ DA INK B MELTIN’ OFF DA ASSES AL-RED-D! PRINCE 2-NITE! YO! YO YO YO! YO-YO MA! (NO, I B KIDDIN’.) FESTIVAL DEATH TOLL THUS FAR: NINE, YO!

But…very fortunately…I’m not at the Coachella music festival. I have a passing curiosity in an Epic Prince Event — but really the only reason I’d want to be there today would be to see one of my Rock Heroes, Mick Jones, play in his new band, Carbon/Silicon. It’ll happen. Sans heatstroke.

Today is also the Fangoria Convention, featuring Wicked Lake (which was made by some friends and acquaintances of mine, and premieres at the Egyptian Theatre in Hollywood tonight, at midnight. However: I never really liked Fangoria all that much as a kid (in three words: too much goop), and it’s a bit late to start now. Wish ‘em well, though.

Rounding out the Entertainment, let us also note the Hollywood Collectors Show today, in Burbank, where the temperatures are also lethal but, hey, I’ll bet they’ve got air-conditioning! A friend of mine is working this one. And hey: Keir Dullea — I’m impressed!

As for me, I’m on da…excuse me: “the” Wes’side…excuse me: “West Side” — and having a great day at The Thirteenth Annual Los Angeles Times Festival of Books!

(Note: As for the “live ‘blogging’” bit — only kinda, in a relative sense. As in, like, twice today. Prolly. But it’ll be good.)

Get this: I got up EARLY today (kind of tricky, after just guffawing all the way through a screening of Caddyshack and then having a scintillating conversation with one of the greatest living writers of satire! And I went over to UCLA, and I got in a queue that looked like this:

(More soon…)

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04.25.08

American Pop (2008 Essay #18)

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

Note: This is sort of my way of dis/despatching both the responsibility of a Friday posting and the responsibility of an Essay in one flowing flabble. There is no other word for what I’m doing here; I am coining “flabble” specifically for this occasion.

As a kid growing up in the middle of the place generally called America, mostly all I wanted to do was leave. Nobody would let me do that, so I did what most people in the middle of America do: I watched television. A lot of television. I really knew the Brady and Partridge siblings better than I knew my own (although we all ended up at King’s Island; best thing about Ohio, apart from Devo and that river that caught on fire…)

And yet: Television — I was never its slave; it was always my slave. Never did I feel compelled to view any specific shows or broadcasts. For instance, I still have only the vaguest concept of what The Rockford Files was about. I don’t dislike it — I just never bothered to find out what it was. Likewise: One Day at a Time — I thought it was a soap opera until the elder brother of the girl I thought was most attractive aggressively corrected me. I went to my first Rock Concert (Van Halen) with that same older brother, when I was in the sixth grade. I digress, but it all connects in a bit.

Carrying on briefly with my television ignorance, I knew what Quincy was, but couldn’t understand why anybody would want to watch that when they could have The Odd Couple instead. I didn’t dislike The Jeffersons, but its politics were way too broad for me, and thus I found myself more easily appreciating What’s Happening!!. (Crossed paths with Sherman Hemsley in Beverly Hills once, and have heard that he’s quite an impressive Prog Rock musician – ! – but that’s really digressing…) I also didn’t really see the point of watching Cheers or Friends — I’d much rather have real friends!

When I was working on the set of Wayne’s World, Mike Myers’ ego was just beginning to inflate to uncomfortable proportions, and he’d go around the Paramount lot, trying out his jokes on anybody who would listen. A few times, this was me. I had already given up on Saturday Night Live by that point (note: I am an Elvis Costello fan), and I really had no idea what Wayne’s World was or how I happened to be “working on it” (mainly I got lunch for extremely stressed-out people, and for my myriad errands was generally addressed with less respect than most people afford — not their dogs, but their dogs’ feces; I really had no purpose being on that movie, despite my great affection for the studio producing it; and I departed, and was not missed, before it wrapped). Myers did explain “schwing!” to me personally — which was enormously gratifying — but another time he tried out his very, very weird Bewitched “Dick Sargent? Dick York? Sergeant York?” “joke” on me — and I responded with very appropriate blankness. It’s not funny. I’m pretty sure I didn’t summon the nerve that day to tell the new emperor that he had no clothes, but my ‘tude toward Myers’ joke was much like my feeling about Bewitched itself: Lukewarm. As with many televised entertainments — I Dream of Jeannie, The Flintstones, Emergency One, etc. etc. etc. nearly to infinity — if it was on and engaging enough, I might stick with it. Or, if passive drooling didn’t serve, I’d switch it off and “go play” — with no hard feelings, just not enough epoxy to keep me glued.

What I did like was The Monkees. And the aforementioned The Partridge Family (based on The Beatles and The Cowsills, respectively). Friends having fun and making music, and a family having fun and making music (notably, with no dad) — these concepts appealed to me mightily.

I am aware that there’s a television series called American Dad — in fact, I partook of its first episode in the home of a friend from my hometown who got his start in media exactly the same way I did (via a TV show vastly ahead of its time — but that’s another essay), but when I say “American dad,” I mean an archetype — and if you’ve ever encountered this archetype, you probably know the terrible disappointment that accompanies it. When I was growing up, the presence of a “dad” generally meant that the fun would abruptly end. The “dad” would either be mean, or screw up the vibe in some way, or (often worst of all), he would attempt to “fit in” and, thus, totally embarrass everybody.

It only occurs to me at this moment that the title of this Essay is actually a paternal pun (I didn’t mean it that way). Although I like Miles Davis, I’m sort of his exact opposite in some ways, particularly in that I tend to title projects before I make them.

My own “pop” is hellishly — hellishly!!!! — addicted to television. Has been, my whole life. Likes it LOUD. Loves to flip channels. My siblings and I always had a hard time choosing gifts for him, because he never seemed to have any real-life interests.

On Saturdays, however, I’d sometimes catch him watching Soul Train. This is particularly amusing in that the guy is mildly old-school racist. He’s not Crazy-Evil-American racist or anything like that. Just more of a general asshole (and, frankly, there are plenty of people in the Midwest who make their respective races look pretty bad). Anyway, I’d walk into the “living” room (there was never much living going on in there), and I’m an audio person (which is why women with ugly voices don’t have a snowball’s chance with me), and thus it would be plainly apparent that the sound of Soul Train was a continuous stream — until two seconds after I entered the room — at which point he’d attempt to make it look like a quick, random shuffle of channels — and probably land on some fucking terrible fishing show with some redneck discussing worms or something.

“Like father. Like son. LIKE HELL!” (Heh-heh. Great tag-line.)

Fuck. If I wanted to watch Soul Train, I’d be, like, “Hey, everybody! I’m watching Soul Train!”

Actually, I borrowed an Eddie Murphy comedy cassette (one of the first two; I think it was Comedian) from a friend of mine from Actual Amish Heritage (his grandfather had committed suicide, and the family reformed — and watched a huge hell of a lot of television!), and I left it on my desk in my bedroom because I liked to go out and “ride bikes” in the afternoon with my friends. (There was no goal in this; it was merely enjoyable to move through time and space together; we were in no hurry.) When I returned, the cassette was missing.

I cannot highlight enough how much of an assault upon my trust it was to have that cassette disappear. First of all, I was a very trusting kid. The cassette was not mine, and my first thought was: “Oh my God, I lost it!” And this was followed by “Wait a minute — I know for a fact that I left it on my desk…” — which led to a horrid, paranoid feeling of Wrongness.

There was a lot of Wrongness in my house when I was growing up. There still is, but it’s dormant. I never go back there anymore. It won’t go away, and I can’t see any point in waking it up.

It turned out that my “father” (alas, he lost the right to that title years ago; and it really is entirely his own fault; and he’s such a loser that he can’t even say he’s sorry) had indeed purloined the Eddie Murphy cassette. Now, Eddie Murphy is obviously a very screwed-up man; every comedian and every comedienne is screwed-up. If they weren’t screwed-up, they’d be working in some nondescript field or at least out of the public eye. They choose to be obnoxious — and, at the time, Murphy (even more than Pryor) held the proud position of Most Obnoxious Guy.

Speaking of “positions,” when I got the cassette back, it had been listened-to up to the point where Murphy — as a gay caricature of Mr. T — growls that he’ll be disenchanted if his sodomy partner “comes too fast,” and thus he intends to “crunch up my butt cheeks and rip your dick off.”

Great.

There’s a white guy who can’t even admit that he likes Soul Train, and he has destroyed his son’s trust (on many, many, many occasions; basically chronically), and he has not only invaded the privacy of his teenage-son’s sanctum sanctorum (shitbag never learned to knock, either), but he has knowingly and willfully swiped — not even my cassette — my friend’s cassette (of which said friend’s vastly more progressive parents certainly approved, albeit with occasional raised eyebrows), and — worse — rather than taking the kind, intelligent, productive stance (”Son, it’s time you and I had a little talk about hilarious, hypothetical butt-sex”), he (warning: new adverb approaching) chickenshittedly waited for me — and scared me (Why are my things disappearing?) — to approach him (in front of the TV, natch) to ask the whereabouts of the allegedly life-destroying entertainment volume which could be obtained by anyone at any Musicland outlet.

“Real nice,” he hissed at me. He didn’t throw it at me or anything, but the return of the cassette was far from gentle.

Come to think of it, since I only protect people who are kind and sincere and trying (even a little bit), I also recall a time when I left my clock-radio playing a bit too loudly while I dared to take a shower in the evening. I was drying my hair when I overheard the alleged “father” snarl, “Turn that god-damned nigger off.” The source of offense? Ray “I Stole ‘Ghostbusters’ From Huey Lewis” Parker’s other hit: “The Other Woman.” On the radio. As if.

(They say “the apple doesn’t fall far…” — but isn’t 2,500 miles far enough? And have you ever noticed how “They” usually don’t have a clue about anything? I have a German surname and I don’t like German culture at all; let’s not start with inaccurate presumptions, thank you.)

So there. You get some idea of the guy. He’s not evil — but he is ignorant, and he genuinely enjoys making people unhappy — or, at least, attempting to make people as unhappy as he is. (The source of his unhappiness remains unknown, because he chooses to be a clueless asshole.) I haven’t spoken with him — actually, with him there is no speaking with; basically you get three syllables out (at most) and then he tramples over everything you attempt to say, and it ends up being a genuinely painful exercise in patience — in about eight and a half Earth-years now.

It’s odd: My friend from the teenage TV show (he was on it a few years ahead of me, with some other fine folks who continue to inspire me) lost his father already. He abides, sans Dad. Whereas in my situation, my “father” is technically alive and functional — but all he ever had for me was pain and stupidity.

I vividly recall asking him about entities which interested me — Papillon, Camelot, the song “Vincent” by Don McLean — and he’d just shut me down and talk over me (always about how horrible other people are; or a fart joke; he has no third ability). Sad. Sad-sad-sad.

This probably explains — no, it definitely explains — why I tend to despise boy-men who chose (and continue to choose) to be total fucking assholes. I have encountered a few of these (Entertainment attracts them). They tend to latch onto people with lives and pretend that they have lives, too — but really they are quite parasitic and horrible, and at the first opportunity to stab you, they will. I’m not sure if I’ve encounted them randomly, or if they are significant reminders of rampant assholery (as American as apple pie!), but I do know that my miserable experiences with my “father” have made it much easier to detect rotten boy-men early, and to avoid them. They wear a few different guises, but an asshole is an asshole — and only when they crash and burn and have to rebuild themselves as caring, useful human beings (if they survive) will they have a chance at redemption. Otherwise, it’s just the standard cycle of American assholery — and “God” forbid they ever have sons.

For the record — although I found a rental copy of Lust in the Dust hidden (badly) in the “living” room once — the favourite movie of my “father” is, actually, Sergeant York. Noting a flicker of an actual Interest, I swiftly purchased a copy for him, years ago. No idea if he watched it. No comment (of course). I watched it, though. I couldn’t understand how it could be highly significant to anybody, but it was okay.

Besides, I despise guns — and really would wipe them entirely from the human experience if I could; but you know that.

Returning to the topic of television and drab, pointless existence, Thursday’s “Speed Bump” newspaper comic features a bit of Synchronicity: A couple in their “living” room are sitting in front of the television, and the wife looks up from her newspaper to ask her clicker-wielding husband: “When you die, where would you like your remote’s ashes scattered?”

There it is!

I like communication very, very much; however, the passive absorption of concepts and especially ideologies — sans independent thought — really does not sit well with me.

(”Duh.”)

Returning to the topic of Synchronicity, today my nephew and I spoke about that album by The Police. He likes it, and associates it with a particular city. I am continually amazed by how young people born in the ’80s turn to the Pop of the ’80s for comfort and inspiration.

(Remind me to publish my long list of things that sucked about the ’90s sometime, incidentally.)

My nephew is awesome; he reminds me that it’s okay to like Moby.

My niece — bless her — hasn’t been back in touch since I told her my honest feelings about “Hollywood” — that moving here, at her age, may indeed spark many career opportunities (she’s outrageously talented); however, don’t expect anything like depth, or dedication (alien concepts in this place).

Yesterday, my friend T. and I observed (among many other things) that the Mann National Theatre in Westwood Village (much like most of Westwood Village itself; you should have seen it in the ’80s!) is no more. What kind of sick city demolishes a landmark like the Mann National? I love many things about L.A. — no, really, I do — but this tendency to demolish traditions just as they’re getting started is not among them.

Speaking of traditions, show-biz forms some “families,” and some families are purely show-biz. Last night I encountered David “Kung Fu” Carradine again. I like the guy. Some people are worshipful — I’m aware of that — but I just basically like the guy. He has a sensational face. I was a little kid when Kung Fu was on television. I liked it. I was mystified by it. I played “Kung Fu” with the other kids on the playground. We had no idea what we were doing. Which was perfect. We just played “Kung Fu”.

T. snapped a photo of me with John Arthur “David” Carradine, incidentally (his niece, obviously accustomed to these shenanigans, gracefully got out of the way) — but “Grasshopper” flatly stated that I should not publish it, so I won’t. What I can say is that he was hilariously gruff with me. It seemed sort of like a put-on, but more like it wasn’t. It was Weird. I enjoyed that.

Moreover, I enjoyed not being any particular fan of the guy, but just generally liking having him around. It is a bit surreal when one is a small child and observes some iconic figure doing iconic things — and then, much later, when it’s really no longer apparently significant and for no apparent reason, one finds oneself in that iconic person’s regular ol’ mortal presence: “Oh…hiya, ‘Kung Fu’. What’s da haps?”

TV. You know what I mean? (After two decades mostly here, you can multiply this vibe by thousands.)

Oddly, the recent presence of Shirley “Mrs. Partridge” Jones did not summon the same effect. I’ve met her before. I used to work in a talent agency (the encounter with Al “Grandpa Munster” Lewis — among many, many, many — was probably the most amusing), and Shirley was/is friends with the proprietor (another Bad Father figure; if on a very different plane). The ardent Conservativism of Shirley Jones actually depressed me a bit. I was hoping for more than that from Mrs. Partridge. But then — if one looks at Carousel (”I LOVE HIM BECAUSE HE ABUSES ME!!!”) — which is her fave role (!) — it doesn’t take a lot of effort to connect the dots on someone who’s had crazy issues from the start.

I really and truly have sworn off actresses (Shirley Henderson teeters on the brink; and she’s alone there), but if somebody wants to set up a dinner for me with Susan Dey — well, maybe I could be cajoled into living the one remaining TV-fantasy of which I am consciously aware.

(”Daisy Duke”, incidentally, never did a thing for me.)

Oh: You remember when Bobby kissed Millicent on The Brady Bunch, and he saw skyrockets and heard Frank De Vol’s hilarious muted-trumpet effect (and tried to discuss this heterosexual tingling with Robert Reed — which, in retrospect, proves hilarious)? No? Well, some aspects of “romance” from that, and from The Monkees, and from Happy Days (one word: “necking”) — these things had some effect, but the effect was mild.

Mainly on television I liked Lost in Space (I got to interview June Lockhart, marginally, before a packed house last December; that was fun), and The Muppet Show (various Muppet contacts have occurred for me out here), and Speed Racer (I wanted to make the movie version, damn it, damn it, damn it! — and I don’t even need the money to become a “woman”!), and sometimes American classics like I Love Lucy and The Little Rascals and of course Star Trek. Frankly, although none of this may seem revolutionary, these are the same programmes I’d watch today (and, on occasion, do).

Then as now, I never liked brutality or pointless ugliness. I liked it when Baretta would chat with “Huggy Bear,” and — oops, see? That’s an actual error. It was Starsky and Hutch. But I didn’t care about the crime plots. I liked the clothes and the funny lines. And the cockatoo.

Of course, British television is much, much, much better than American television. I still haven’t encountered any series superior to Monty Python’s Flying Circus and The Young Ones.

And none of this speaks to documentary television, or talk-shows, or myriad other uses of the medium. I don’t really watch new television; I find the constant bombardment of channel-IDs and whatever-the-hell-else much too irritating.

Oh: I liked Mork & Mindy. And Quark. And The Twilight Zone.

Back to Rock&Roll for a moment, tonight I viewed a considerable amount of Detroit Rock City. 1999 was an abysmal and very painful year for me, so somehow I missed it. Yet another friend from my teen-TV days has a small role in it, though — and in one of our sketches together he actually lip-synchs “Highway to Hell” — so how could I not be intrigued? I was surprised to find in DRC the Universal within the Specific. Ostensibly, it’s a much-too-late-in-the-game-to-matter-anymore KISS vehicle (and, as I recall from the vague, fragmented hell that was 1999 for me, critics savaged it as such) — but really it’s a vivid and very entertaining portrait of the explosive passions of youth — particularly within the very stultifying and suffocating Middle America of which I’ve been speaking. Ranging from another Detroit suburb (The Virgin Suicides — still Sofia Coppola’s best film) to crazy-ass Austin (Dazed and Confused — still Dick Linklater’s best film), this movie is purely part of that landscape. Is it “my” landscape? Only somewhat. My mother is rather old-fashioned in many ways (she was born the year after John Arthur “David” Carradine), but she approved my pre-adolescent visit to Van Halen, and after Foreigner (with Cheap Trick!), she picked up my partly contact-buzzed friend and me (this was only seventh grade, mind), and sweetly asked us if we’d had fun. It was all very respectful and respectable. (In return, I’m hoping to take her to Neil Diamond at the Hollywood Bowl this October.)

Anyway, I guess I’m saying that — unlike dramatically overwrought and thinly-veiled (if quite entertaining) cinematic treatises of Jewish-Entertainment Intelligentsia Vs. Right-Wing Dipshit Provincial (Christian) Types, such as Footloose or Detroit Rock City — my own youth was kind of stupid but (give or take an Eddie Murphy cassette) not particularly censored or censured; “father” aside (as much and as often as possible), I was pretty much allowed to rock as I pleased.

Of course, I let it be known with every word and gesture that I’d be rocking as I pleased no matter what; and then, mostly, I didn’t (because I didn’t have to).

(Incidentally, I never joined the military because joining the military is a stupid thing to do. If you have accidentally joined, I sincerely wish you well — but it’s totally the wrong direction; discipline and respect and honour come from Peace, and Peace only.)

Viewing (much of) Detroit Rock City tonight (with Lin Shaye in attendance; she is so darned cool), I was nonetheless reminded of how important — vital! crucial! — it is for young people in potentially hellishly (even abusively) restrictive environments to reach out, to express, to explore their potential. Really. Seriously. The movie wouldn’t be funny if it weren’t true. (I’d also recommend that Girls Rock! doc that came out recently, but I haven’t seen it because I can’t handle any more “GRRRLS” without puking; but see it if you can, ri-ight?)

I never really liked KISS all that much, though (even despite the great amusement of the “tongue-cam” shot during the climax). Their show never made much sense to me. Hearing the Bolan (Feld) and Bowie (Jones) and etc. on the soundtrack actually connected much more directly to my central nervous system.

One huge complaint: Just as almost everything in the ’90s sucked, so too is the inclusion of a Brian “Marilyn Manson” Warner track at the end of the credits a miserable error. I was sitting through the credits — I love New Line; I’ll sit through their credits — and then suddenly Manson’s cover of “Highway to Hell” showed up — and it reminded me that I cannot tolerate tone-deaf jerks who pretend to be musicians. It sucks SO BAD. I’m sure that there was a marketing angle, but that Warner guy really is a pointless clown. (Vincent “Alice Cooper” Furnier — please sue the dork for plagiarism and get it over with.) Back to the drawing board, Brian. Come up with something that’s truly yours — not some Madonna-like rehash of stolen odds and ends.

That aside, though, I liked the movie, and felt that it got at something genuine within a culture that is — to our 21st-century perceptions — perhaps profoundly embarrassing.

Um…and no available segue, but I notice that people are talking about the new movie with Tina Fey in it. I have absolutely no opinion about Tina Fey. Mean Girls is a solid rip-off of Heathers (right back to teen-TV again; don’t worry, LK, I love you, too — it’s just taking more time to make an official declaration), and I don’t watch SNL anymore, and really I’d rather devote my reviewing energy to reviewing Roman de gare or Then She Found Me — but…since the theme of American Women Feeling A Desperate Desire To Be Funny has been coming up a lot lately, and Fey is doing better than most in this regard, I may figure out where the hell I’m going to get seven bucks to see a matinee of Baby Mama.

But it’s always about “Me,” isn’t it? I have a great headline for the review already — and it works for positive or negative — and I just hate to see good headlines go to waste. (It’s a lot like song titles — but I’m much further behind in that regard!)

This Essay doesn’t have a conclusion; but I would like to say that the new issue of Arthur has Sparks on the cover, and a terrific article about them and their process within, and I love Sparks, and I’m very, very pleased to have encountered Ronald and Russell a couple of times, and despite a few detours into less-than-utterly-flabbergastingly-brilliant fare, they have persevered to deliver many, many gems, and to attain the status of One Of The Best Bands Of Our Lifetime.

I also love Tom Tom Club.

Chansons du week-end: “Genius of Love” by Tom Tom Club, in alternating succession with “Eaten by the Monster of Love” by Sparks.

(Fingers crossed.)

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04.24.08

This makes me sad:

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 5:42 pm by Gregory

I pick on the late, brilliant Douglas Adams sometimes, for being something of a Kurt Vonnegut wannabe (who isn’t?), but in his warm and funny ecological book Last Chance to See (with zoologist Mark Carwardine) Adams refers to this general place as “the sort of region that makes you want to burst into spontaneous applause.”

Of course, our applause will be limited, as now your SUV and my computer and your mama’s retail industry and your papa’s war machine and everybody’s fucking hamburgers are destroying the place at an accelerated rate.

What I don’t get, though, is why — in the new BBC programme based on Last Chance — the funny but quite unnecessarily ubiquitous Stephen Fry has jockeyed into being co-host. Must that guy force himself upon every British pop-cultural institution?

Give it a rest, Fry, okay? We’ve noticed you already.

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Spot the Irony:

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

Hint — It’s (heh-heh) right before the phrase, “normal service charges”:

Where do I get tickets?
Tickets for the Festival of Books 2008 will become available on Sunday, April 20, 2008 at 12 noon through Ticketmaster.com for a nominal fee of $0.75 per ticket. Tickets will also be available at select Southern California Ticketmaster locations including select Macy’s locations, Ritmo Latino, and at the Beverly Center’s information booth. These tickets are free with a $.75 service charge being both online and at participating retailers. In the interest of promoting literacy, Ticketmaster has reduced it’s normal service charges to this nominal amount.

(“In the interest of promoting literacy” no less! Gawd save L.A.)

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