07.31.08

“…and everything nice”??? (2008 “Essay” #30 – Why not?)

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

I was standing at a busy intersection Wednesday evening, waiting for the stupid light to change (TERRIBLE invention; get rid of ‘em!) so I could cross the damned street, when suddenly I heard teenage shrieks and felt something wet hit my abdomen.

(Potty-brain; read on.)

Some girls in a silver Beemer sped around the corner, LAUGHING at me in full delight of their accomplishment: They had flung some sort of sticky, smelly berry preserves at me from the car window (likely their mommy’s or daddy’s car window), and they were very proud of the act.

I, in turn, am pleased with my reflexes: As if zooming a pistol from its holster (which I would literally never do), my arm whipped my right middle finger into the precise trajectory to send them “the bird” — high and confident — as my face delivered the sentiment: “You really are pathetic losers.”

The berries — while icky — didn’t bother me.

What did bother me — albeit only slightly (it was far less trouble overall than my drive-by-cookie-ing incident, recorded elsewhere) — was and is that these ridiculously spoilt and shitty kids think that flinging berry preserves at total strangers in broad daylight is somehow a good thing to do.

(No harm done — it all rinsed off quickly and completely.)

What will not rinse off, however, is a Revised Perspective On Gender Relations. Dig:

All apparent benefits of being born female are now officially cancelled. You girls want to play like boys? You will be treated like boys. You will have to work like boys. And you will suffer the same social ills as boys.

It’s your choice, honeys.

Me, I’d much rather have been born a girl — MUCH fucking easier. Play “nice,” everybody constantly gives you things, and you can literally get away with murder.

But I’m male, so I do the male thing. Whatever.

There need be no worry about unfortunate side-effects of “the berry incident” — because jerks come in both genders. All this tells me, though, is that the future is a frontier for women who wish to live like men. Thus, I shall treat women as I treat men.

I don’t hit men, so obviously I won’t be hitting women, either.

But will I be holding doors for anybody specifically because they’re female? Picking up the dinner bill? Doing all the driving? Being the scapegoat, losing the house, and dying younger?

To hell with that noise!

To put a fine point on it: You’ve come a long way, baby; now deal with it.

“Chivalry”?

Dead.

(It was your choice. Have fun fucking the dewy, ignorant guys or sucking up to soul-spent sugar-daddies! Or your dog! Whee!)

*

Let’s see — other business:

Speaking of females, I’ve lost two female friends thus far this year (and I reeeally hope it stops there) — so I’ll be writing up some memorials soon. It’s painful.

On a happy note, I just got the photos back tonight from this year’s Labyrinth of Jareth — and they’re pretty great! I’ll post some soon.

Despite SoCal being a toilet, I’ve had some spectacular times with artists and musicians and filmmakers and creative people of all stripes — so I’ll do my best to get more of that onto the site so you may peruse the good fortune I’ve had.

I’m so deeply and profoundly disappointed in my “family” that when I think about them I want to cry. Thus the cutting away. Hope dies as years pass.

It’s back to the music for me, in the immediate future. Not being a shallow young person anymore, I’m no longer particularly impressed by pop musicians — however as a hobby, making music is great fun. This I’ll be doing. (But first I gotta get that Liz Phair cover from the mid-90s digitised and online — see? I think women are okay!)

And the prose; here it comes.

Uh…

Oh, AND:

It occurs to me, glancing over previous posts, that “Johnny Depp fucking the living shit out of Charlize Theron” — while probably excellent for bolstering browser-hits — is not a phrase I would typically use (even in a bowling alley). Thus, I apologise. Not to anyone in particular. To myself, perhaps. It is a very accurate phrase (if, perhaps, laced with hyperbole — the scene isn’t as “all that” as I’d recalled), but icky crudity, while useful in certain, limited situations, isn’t my fave way to express myself.

Thus, if indeed I’ve offended anyone besides myself, I make the rather hilarious peace-offering directly below. (I really cannot tolerate most of the shitbag-melodramatic money-spinner songs used — which makes these montages [there are at least three] all the more hilarious! To be fair, though: I do like “I Believe In Miracles” and “Let’s Get It On” — plus The Ninth Gate w/Def Leppard [in #3] may be the high point of my week!) Enjoy.

Johnny Depp Love Scenes 1 (you can figure out the links from there, I trust)

(After viewing these montages…Johnny Depp: Kinda redefines “man-whore,” don’t he?)

(Oh, AND-AND: Johnny Depp as Tim Burton’s Mad Hatter? Gosh, I hope he doesn’t fuck the living shit out of Alice!)

(ENOUGH of those guys having all the fun. It’s OUR turn to have fun.)

I think that’s enough for tonight.

Everybody: If you haven’t seen The Host yet (Korean monster movie first released in 2006), do! It’s really terrific.

Song: “Flesh Number One (Beatle Dennis)” by Robyn Hitchcock and the Egyptians

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07.30.08

I like it:

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

Thematically, it’s a bit too Damien/Anakin/Brokeback to be called wholly original,

but the storytelling at this point is, potentially, pretty great:

TRAILER: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

EXCLUSIVE! – First 3 /12 minutes of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince!

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Might As Well Jump (2008 Update #…30, is it?)

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 3:42 am by Gregory

Hi. I’ve just spent the past few hours chatting with two total non-cunts, and I am enormously appreciative of them, thank you, all hail.

(This because I wanna reserve the right to call some people “cunts” if they really and provably are — but also I am blessed with people around who are routinely wonderful.)

But I’m not long for this place.

After four years — four very unhappy years, truth be told (unless you count Entertainment Events — in which case I was usually pretty chuffed) — my rent just got raised, very significantly, for this dwelling I never particularly wanted in the first place, and where I’ve felt extremely stuck for the past, well, four years.

Let me put it in practical terms: The rent for just this place, for just the past four years, would have bought me a rather nice house in an average city. Paid in full.

Makes you think!

Regular readers will already know that I moved here because The Crackhead Family very nearly drove me to suicide in my previous dwelling, and this place was the first thing I could grab thereafter, and so, in 2004, I somehow (through tremendous personal strain) managed to move in here — and then was promptly fired by assholes of infinite diameter.

Fuck New Times and fuck “Village Voice Media” up their fucking stupid asses fucking forever, Amen.

Anyway…

Generally I tend to think of evolutions in terms of three years — but in this case we’re dealing with multiples of four. Four-times-five since the last time I was fully happy and filled with hope and ambition. Four-times-four since I gave up on L.A. (the first time) and fled to the Pac-NW. Four-times-three since I pretended to make a go of “living” here (again, but as an alleged “adult”). Four-times-one, of course, since I crash-landed in this dwelling (and was met with 100% Disappointment In Everything for the first time in my life). And, significantly, four-times-two of being…

…a Professional Cinema Critic.

Actually, in just a few days here, I’ll be celebrating (?) the NINTH anniversary of my first — well, not my first published piece, and certainly not my first published review — but…my first published review in a periodical read (allegedly) by more than 100,000 people (for which I won a fancy award that selfsame year — actually receiving it the next, shortly thereafter becoming “legit” — and salaried).

Hm…I’m pretty sure that the first one that ran was The Very Thought of You with Joe Fiennes — although it may have been The Astronaut’s Wife (it was not a good year for me personally, thus pardon if I can’t win the Trivial Pursuit version of my own existence and career path).

Anyway, yeah, that was nine years ago. In a few days. Nine years. Ago.

And eight since it really got rolling.

Pardon my French, but I kinda enjoyed watching Johnny Depp fuck the living shit out of Charlize Theron. Term papers should be written on the subject.

And I like the number ‘8′ — for if you knock it over on its side, it becomes Infinity. That’s pretty cool.

Way over half a million published words in the field, I’d say, is not unlike Infinity.

Examples:

“This Drama sure is a Triumph! It stars Cate Whatever in a Bravura Performance!”

“This Comedy is a Laff Riot! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“This Movie About Another Culture sure is Important! If you miss it, you are Scum!”

“Paul Giamatti. Amazing. Just amazing. Don’t you love him? I sure love him. He’s balding and ugly and annoying. Amazing. I sure love him.”

Etc.

Really, I think it’s a good idea for Cinema Critics (and there aren’t very many of us in the world — although Movie Hacks abound) to stay in the game even if we are fired immediately upon turning 35. After 35, a person may actually have something useful to say.

Kidz are fucking parrots.

(No, not literally.)

(Probably.)

Anyway, tonight I went to see Tropic Thunder (”Tropic” not being an adjective, thus the title makes no sense) — then, as is my wont, I stuck around to view (in the following order):

- A bunch of shitty commercials apparently preceding Journey to the Centre of the Earth (the fake “Breakfast Club” trailer-cum-JC-Penney advert made me feel terribly ill — plus there was some horrific commercial for some ghastly-looking new “Mtv” hipster drama).

- The last ten minutes of Hellboy II: The Golden Army (Barry Manilow???)

- All of X-Files: I Want to Believe.

While my various opinions of Tropic Thunder and the second X-Files movie are difficult to chart, I can say that the former contained one absolutely terrific guffaw (the rest was extremely obnoxious fuckin’ around) and the latter, while pleasingly morose, proffered no apparent reason why it should bother existing.

I was supposed to bring a crazy bitch to the former, and I’m very pleased that that didn’t work out. I really hate to disappoint — I really, really do — but no longer will I cultivate or encourage Crazy. Being alone and kinda adrift ce soir (it’s not a good city for “alone”) was still significantly better than listening to Crazy for several hours.

When I arrived at the general vicinity of Hollywood and Highland, I noticed that Corey Feldman and his sister (?) were doing a signing (?) inside the Virgin Megacentre. This I investigated. It was very routine. I walked to the base of the stage, looked at Feldman briefly, marvelled that his hair still looks about sixteen, briefly contemplated going, “Hey, Corey, you sure are an asshole!” thought better of it, and departed the shoppe.

Tropic Thunder is, to me, more of a curio than a comedy. It’s a mess, frankly. But dumb kidz will probably think it’s brilliant.

I’m a bit hung up on the concept of reviewing these movies — not because anyone cares or I feel some pressing need to blurt my opinions on films which don’t particularly matter to me — but because the absolute rating system of “Fresh” vs. “Rotten” causes me some trouble. Is Tropic Thunder “Fresh”? — Not to me, it isn’t (I think less of all the leads having seen this movie) — but the audience seemed to dig it (it was free, after all — as were the popcorn and soda), plus Ben Stiller — definitely not as funny as he thinks he is — appears to have met his objectives with the project. Thumb-Up or Thumb-Down? Fresh or Rotten? I’ve never been one for absolutes (except when people in real life intentionally slip from Fresh to Rotten), thus I wish I could say: “The Big Gag With Steve Coogan Is Sensational.” — and leave it at that. Peripherally: Is a Down’s Syndrome gag really funny? Is Tom Cruise? (not to me, not at all). Egad, guys.

The cumulative effect of these two movies — while they did admittedly form a strangely well-balanced double-feature — was that I don’t know if I fancy continuing as a Cinema Critic.

I mean, I’ll write about Cinema whenever it’s useful and/or enjoyable.

But eight years. Eight. 8. Infinity.

(Nine, even.)

Hm.

Can’t stay in the dwelling.

Don’t much enjoy the city.

Don’t wish to blow yet another Holiday Season obsessing over mediocre Oscar-Bait crap.

Hm.

Hm-hm-hm.

Oh: Very strangely, both Tropic Thunder and the second X-Files movie feature overt references to The Jeffersons (that’s pretty weird).

See?

Nice Rocket Science.

Nice Brain Surgery.

Nice Life.

Well, you’re probably sick of reading this entry, and it is kinda late (by normal-human standards), so I think I’ll draw this to a close here.

Might As Well Jump, though;

No longer much choice in the matter!

Song: The Aztec Camera version.

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07.29.08

Robyn Hitchcock: Chicago, 15 November, 2008

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 4:42 pm by Gregory

A lot of extremely stupid people (mostly actors and especially actresses) fake their age because they’re hella insecure and suck as human beings, thus they have convinced themselves that lying about the distance between themselves and death is somehow useful and/or good (which it is neither).

Me, I’m not like that.

This November, on the 15th, I’m going to accrue the passage of forty (40) Earth-years.

Almost literally nothing to show for it: No home, no family, no discernible career, and mostly bad memories of shitty people fucking me over when they could have CHOSEN to be intelligent and kind.

(You know who you are.)

Anyway…fuck it: British people are all alcoholics, American people have no clue how to dress themselves or how to speak instead of barking, people from other places seem to think that being intolerably obnoxious is somehow going to advance their stupid causes.

Whatever.

A couple of things occurred to me recently:

1. I haven’t seen/heard Robyn Hitchcock yet this year (friends, he is smarter and more talented than almost anybody working in the arts in the whole world — and that includes Yo-Yo Ma).

&

2. Most of my birthdays suck rectal pustules* — thus, this year — because it probably means that this life is approximately half over, plus my youth is almost entirely wasted now — I have decided to have A Nice Time. I’m turning 40! Come have fun with me! Please don’t smoke!**

(* To the literally three or four friends who actually show up when I ask, bless you, I love you, I don’t love you because you show up, I love you because you’re you.)

(** Chicago is now — officially — a non-smoking city. Hah-hah-hah! — you sickening smoker shitbags! FREEZE!!!)

So, yeah, apparently Robyn Hitchcock (who also occasionally sucks hot tar and carcinogens into his lungs; genius) will be performing in Chicago on my birthday this year — and, meaning no self-aggrandisement whatsoever (whenever I do that, it’s usually to mock the shit out of people who praise themselves and are serious about it) — I wanna celebrate.

Thus: Unless I happen to be making love with my Swedish-Korean wife in a straw hut in New Guinea, it is very likely that I’ll be in Chicago this 15 November — a city I don’t particularly like (it’s basically L.A. with excruciatingly terrible weather half the year — more a vicious mockery of weather than actual weather-weather), but a month I particularly do like.

Friends and loved ones are invited.

Cunts are not invited.

(This includes — and thereby excludes — my “family” — who have been useless, neglectful, mean and shitty toward me for pretty much my whole life thus far, thus I despise them and am officially commencing the process of forgetting that they ever existed. This is not Hatred — for Hatred implies Love inverted; this is Completion: I’m through being terminally disappointed in and by people who suck.)

(And Robyn puts on the best pop show I’ve ever beheld.)

Song: “When I Was Dead” by Robyn Hitchcock

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Earthqukes make excellent alarm clocks; and: G’bye, Crazy Bitch!

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

It’s always fascinating to me how Metaphor and Life intertwine.

As regular readers know, for years I’ve been tolerating Crazy Bitches — mainly because, as my lighting instructor at USC used to put it: “You do whatcha can with whatcha got!”

All morning I lay delirious as Mexican-asshole-leafblower-motherfuckers made the neighborhood a desperate hell. If I had a good job, I’d go to it. Fate has had it otherwise. Apparently I’ve been dropped into this to contend with my version of The Dark Night of the Soul. Well, I can dig it: Not being an addict or abuser, I just deal with it. Awkwardly, at times — but take everything away, I’m still here, I’m still me, on it goes.

Thus, although I can sleep quite well, I tend to prefer nighttime. For anything. Cooler, sweeter, quieter, more productive, more pleasant. It’s as much a matter of coping as a matter of preference. Early mornings suck in a huge way. I like night.

Thus it was that I was returning to semi-sleep for the bazillionth, leaf-blower-asshole-interrupted time (it really is a staggering — and consistent! — assault on the hearing apparatus) when, suddenly, The Earth Trembled.

For those who’ve never experienced it, it’s a bit like being on a bus or trailer with a bunch of people rocking it — erratically and without warning.

Not a pleasant feeling — but kind of funny in a weird way.

(Freshman year at USC, I was certain that my golfer-roommate on the lower bunk was having an extreme wank — until I noticed books flying off the shelves.)

Anyway — then I was invited to the alleged home of an alleged female friend for alleged breakfast.

I hurried over — to find a total bitch (Orange County) alleged friend of hers sitting there, blabbing, looking up earthquake info on one of the two sleek Macs bought for her by rich, stupid men.

The bitch-alleged-friend has a baby. I was asked to entertain the baby. I tried.

Then the alleged hostess — apropos of nothing — had a total meltdown. Bitch-friend left, leaving me with alleged hostess — who then started laying into me.

Having wasted twenty years of my adult life dealing with absolute bitches doing insane and hurtful things, I did what came naturally:

I said goodbye and left.

Excellent shake-up!

Things are lookin’ up!

~G!

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I favour Intelligence over Politics any day, however:

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 3:42 am by Gregory

Suddenly — despite the icky “Bono” attachment to the already insane Pitt-Jolie-Voight adopto-circus — I actually feel some modicum of compassion for the grody actress who enjoys diddling her brother.

In 2004, I was walking through Century City following a junket for the crazy-bad movie Alexander (perhaps the funniest example of Angie Voigt’s outrageously lousy “vampire” accent; see also: Zemeckis’ Beowulf), and approaching me in a crosswalk was a man who — in the dim light — appeared to be Christopher Walken. But alas! — as he drew nearer, I determined that it was Jon Voight.

Funny, that: The estranged father of Angie Jolie-Voight-Pitt-Whatever happened to be in the same hotel the same day, plugging a different movie (National Treasure).

As I passed the guy, it occurred to me to say, “Hey, I just saw your daughter. You guys talking yet?”

(I didn’t say anything because I really don’t care if they’re talking or not. Plus Jon Voight is merely the guy you call if Malcolm McDowell and Dennis Hopper are busy. I’m not impressed.)

Presently, however, a news blurb catches my attention — some excerpts from a highly inflammatory and highly ignorant piece published Monday by Voight.

This annoys me severely — mainly because it’s outrageously ignorant (Dig: Socialism is a GOOD thing — it is NOT Communism — it is NOT Fascism — it is nowhere near either! Socialism is — in its most basic and general definition — concerned with collectivism, welfare for all [Americans: Ever heard of "Health Care"?], the protection of individuals by the state against corporate tyranny, and basically being Good instead of Evil) — but also because Jon Voight’s most famous role was four decades ago, in Midnight Cowboy, wherein he played a stupid man-whore.

Apparently not much has changed. (Oh, and Jon: DEMOCRACY — AS IN “DEMOCRATIC” — IS GOOD — YOU MORON.)

Voight Warns Voters Against Obama In Newspaper Rant

29 July 2008 12:12 AM, PDT

Angelina Jolie’s actor father Jon Voight has written a scathing review of U.S. presidential hopeful Barack Obama’s campaign tactics – branding the senator “a man who falls short in every way”.

The 69-year-old veteran penned a critique of the popular politician in a piece for the Washington Times, entitled My Concerns for America, which was printed on Monday.

Voight slams the Democratic Party in the piece, accusing them of using a propaganda campaign in their bid to get Obama into the White House.

And Voight warns voters that America will become a “socialist” nation if Obama secures power, insisting the U.S. will become “weakened” if he wins the November elections.

In the article, Voight writes, “The Democrats have targeted young people, knowing how easy it is to bring forth whatever is needed to program their minds.

“Obama has grown up with the teaching of very angry, militant white and black people… (who) will gain power for their need to demoralize this country and help create a socialist America…

“If, God forbid, we live to see Mr. Obama president, we will live through a socialist era that America has not seen before, and our country will be weakened in every way.”

*

Additional comments from me:

Man-Whore Voight: You have just caused me to like pothead/attention-hound Barry “Hype” Obama more than I did previously (not much, but a bit).

Man-Whore Voight: You are an ACTOR. You are NOT a political theorist. Please shut up immediately, and feel free to go away.

Had America not discarded its Socialist party during the Great Depression, America would be a much stronger nation today! (Think about it; really think about it. Imagine what this place could be like if, for everybody, honest work merited a living wage!)

America: Wouldn’t it be nice to stop being self-obsessed, short-sighted and small-minded? The World is waiting. Do we continue to do stupid things — or do we start doing smart things?

Well?

~Gregory

P.S. Here — here’s somebody saying something sensible, for a change:

“Socialism is the belief and the hope that by proper use of government power, men can be rescued from their helplessness in the wild cycling cruelty of depression and boom.”

Theodore H. White, Fire in the Ashes: Europe in Mid-Century

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07.28.08

true story + a few flashbacks:

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

Hi. Happy Monday. Due to today requiring much work from me, this is the bloggy equivalent of a scribble on the margin of a Thai door-hanger delivery menu.

Speaking of food, this true story: Yesterday I was buying some food at a deli, and the guy in front of me asked the middle-aged employee guy what he was to be doing with his evening. (Kind of a weird question from an apparent stranger, but there it was.)

The middle-aged employee guy said this:

“Well, I’m gonna clean this, and put away that, and turn off the lights, and get on the bus, and go home and sleep. Then, God willing, tomorrow I’m gonna see the new Batman movie.”

The Universe felt extremely depressing to me for a couple of seconds there, so I had to take a couple steps back from it. The following contemplation:

The makers of The Dark Knight are selling a commodity — I’ll simply call it “inner darkness” — to people (mostly males) who don’t get to touch or express this part of their psyche in “the straight world.” This is nothing new, of course — we used to have Noir, and later slasher movies (although the best one of those, the original [and only] Psycho, seems to be a.) too funny; and b.) too close to the bone, for most repressed males to “get it.” Plus various afterbirths like The Crow and The Matrix and whatever. (Basic theme: “I am special! I am unique! I move lawlessly through the darkness, waging a war of my own specific morality and apparent free will against vile forces! CHECK ME OUT!”

Cha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-CHING!!!!

Anyway, there’s so much to think about presently that it is a bit strange how obsessed the world has become with that movie. There’s talk of it eclipsing the domestic box office ($600 mil) of Titanic. I don’t hate The Dark Knight — I just think it’s a case of anaemic storytelling buttressed by kinda shallow badassness. But at least Titanic has more than one theme going for it (and astute readers may figure these out for themselves).

Speaking of things from the past, I’ve just enjoyed (endured?) a quiet week-end. Brings clarity. Thus memories. Here are some of the show-biz ones (probably redundant), from the mid-90s:

* Having just come off doing the lead in a musical in Seattle, I return to L.A. to find that everybody here is still self-obsessed, rude and insane. In the midst of this, my “portfolio” is far from hale. I grab my own bootstraps and yank one of those rippy things off an ad for movie extras, stapled to a telephone or power-line pole. Seemingly within seconds, I am being paid to get my hair trimmed so I can appear to be a “photographer” during a crazy-ass scene at a disused tarmac at LAX, for the movie Independence Day. I am handed a pricey Nikon as my prop, and briefly consider taking it, getting back into my then-car, and going home. I don’t. I do the shot. The shot involves many “journalists” plus some military helicopters. The lucky extras get hit by large camera flight-cases blown by the choppers, or they are simply blown down themselves; and, thus, they get extra pay. I am not so lucky that day.

* Same basic gig: I am cast as an extra “Frenchman” in a Rod Stewart video shot up at Universal Studios. There are a lot of us “French villagers,” and to distinguish myself I opt for a cane and a limp. We are then commanded to run much faster than any French-village-meanderers would ever conceivably amble through such a setting. Plus there are pigeons (for the crescendo, of course). I fall for a tall gorgeous woman in “villager” attire — but over reasonably edible catering I hear her speak — and she’s a fucking idiot (surprise!). She also sincerely believes that by working on a Rod Stewart video, she’ll somehow run into Harrison Ford (?) — thus she spends the day on the lookout for Harrison Ford (?). I am most impressed by the pigeon wrangler. At the end of the very long day (basically fifteen hours later), we French villagers are each handed a hundred-dollar bill.

* Over at NBC, I somehow get myself into the (paid) studio audience for some-or-other P.O.S. “psychic phenomena” talk show. It sucks. I mean, it’s embarrassingly bad. Plus we get no costumes, no mobility, and no food. We’re being paid (barely) to sit in the audience and pretend that we care about this sub-sub-sub-X-Files “reality” talk show. At the end, the hostess stands among us, adopting a loathesomely melodramatic tone to rave up “The Unknown!…The Unexplained!…” (yadda) bullshit the show is peddling. Bored and impatient, I involuntarily make an incredibly obnoxious face directly at the camera (The face is essentially my version of Jim Carrey as The Mask going, “Oh, WOW! Isn’t this bullshit A-MA-ZINGGG!!!???“) There are a couple hundred of us in the audience, thus I figure (wrongly) that my little act of defiance will go unnoticed. Oops. Noticed. Hostess-moron comes out again, announces to all of us that the final shot looks good, but “somebody decided to make a face at the camera — and we won’t embarrass them by pointing them out — but it looks like we’re going to have to do it again.” There are groans. I focus my consciousness upon the tattoo on the back of some chick’s neck in front of me and don’t even look up for the re-shoot. Then we leave. I think we each made fifty bucks. I’m happier about my Personal Achievement for the day.

* House of Blues, Sunset, one of the private rooms where regular people are not allowed. I’ve just returned from checking my hair and complexion in the men’s lavatory — and am genuinely delighted that there is not an old black man sitting in there with a bunch of Halloween-pak “Fun Size” Butterfingers, hoping to make a buck or two off of me for handing me some paper towels (WHY is this practice a part of the allegedly “civilised” world we inhabit and share? Note: It’s. A. Toilet. A human being should not be stuck “working” in there.) Anyway, the reason that a man whose culture is being mercilessly exploited by the proprietors is NOT “working” in the toilet is because it is daytime, and there is no live music happening. Rather, I am there as a potential guest for an early version of the televised Love Line show. It’s stupid — but at least these guys are talking about something — rather than nothing — and thus I have signed off on being taped as a possible “guest” of “Dr. Drew” and (it would seem) Adam Corolla. For reasons unknown, I am handed a complimentary pair of BLACK FLYS sunglasses, which I enjoy for a couple of years after, but then, much as with my original Terminator Gargoyles (purchased in 1985, and I actually got in trouble over the cost of such quality eyewear), they sorta disappear. No matter. The point of this story is that a few of us never actually appear on the show — as is often the case, they bumped up the numbers so they wouldn’t be shorted — however, while I’m standing around inside the House of Blues for a couple of pointless hours, I get to listen to one of the guys graphically explaining to the rest of us exactly what “felching” is. Thanks!

* Talent-agency job, late ’90s: I have more stories about these years than most humans could handle, however today this one leaps up for attention: It was often my duty to photocopy documents, and thus I would venture into the extremely unpleasantly fluorescent mail-room, where the copy-machines were located. One morning, a supernaturally obnoxious co-worker I’ll call “Leon” was standing atop a stool in there, attempting to extract something from a high shelf. A female co-worker (who was kind of a dumb, “I’m into Sublime, fer sure!” type) was mildly hassling “Leon” by standing beside the stool, thus preventing him from climbing down. As I strode into this scenario, “Leon” made the following LOUD declaration to Female Co-Worker: “I will PISS ON YOU! Do you want me to PISS ON YOU?!?!? Get the FUCK out of my WAY or I will FUCKING PISS ON YOU!!!!!!!!!!” Then “Leon” unfastened his belt, unzipped his trousers, and made as to fish his ding-dong out of his underpants. Female Co-Worker fled. As did I.

So as to conclude this entry in a nice way, I would like to add that, during my years here, it’s been my pleasure to encounter, in casual contexts, a few of the people involved in the 1960s Batman television series — and these stories are simple but priceless. Someday I’ll tell them.

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07.27.08

Aguilera, Cyrus/Montana, Hiltons, Johansson, Lohan, Olsons, Spearses die in ghastly gasoline-guzzling suicide pact; world shrugs:

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:22 am by Gregory

27 Jul, 2008 8:15 a.m. GMT – - LONDON (Reuters) Hung-over fans the world around began mourning mere minutes ago at the (kinda amusing, actually) news that pop sensations Christina Aguilera, Miley Cyrus (and her nauseatingly lucrative alter-ego, Hannah Montana), the ubiquitous (yet irritating!) Hilton sisters, astoundingly terrible “singer” Scarlett Johansson, Lindsay “Fire-Crotch” Lohan, the mysterious Olson sisters, and the unfathomably repulsive Spears sisters have all died as a result of drinking gasoline — here called “petrol” — after being repeatedly refused entry to the Queen’s bed-chambre (for an alleged “breakfast date”), following a typically raucous night of swallowing every drug imaginable, swallowing every boy imaginable, and just generally being the very worst things to happen to pop culture ever (and that includes Air Supply).

From one of her mansions in Oxfordshire, Harry Potter star and increasingly tedious show-pony Emma Watson arose to her morning Pilates session and, upon learning of the mass-suicide, was heard to declare, “I am, like, so jealous! Why didn’t they invite me? Immediately after Pilates, I am going to eat an entire box of Dreft!” (The highly emotional Watson was to be restrained and kept in protective custody throughout the morning, preventing her from enterting her staff’s laundry facilities, by official decree of Harry Potter movie producer David Heyman, who apparently shouted, “Stop her! Bolivia’s not paid off, yet!”)

Authorities — shocked yet nonetheless visibly delighted by the deaths — have announced that, apparently, the skanks left no suicide note. “It wuz all very spontaneouz,” said an alleged representative of “Scotland Yard” (in a Cat-in-the-Hat novelty hat and “Phish” t-shirt), who spoke under condition of anonymity (though his friends called him “M.C. Phresh”). “I wuz hangin’ wit da gurlz, an’ be sellin’ dem drugz ‘n’ SUVz, ‘n’ fuckin’ dem, ‘n’ suddenly dey wanna go have, like, breakfas’ wit’ da Queen or sometin’. Den dey drinked gazoline. I mean, dey wuz turned away — da guardz wuz totally, like, ‘No! Begone vile harlots!’ — an’ den dey drinked gazoline. Da gurlz, I mean. Den dey died. It wuz pretty grozz.”

Although there was no physical note, a world away, in Los Angeles, California, USA, former friend of the group and daughter of “Dancing on the Ceiling” funnyman Lionel Richie, Nicole Richie — hoping to cop some vicarious buzz because motherhood is, “like, so boring” — announced in a call late Saturday night to esteemed journalist Barbara Walters that she (Richie) did indeed receive a “suicide text” — which she initially interpreted as a joke. The suicide text read as follows:

Were useles sshit

The identity of the texter among the dead pointless celebrities has not been disclosed, however the film, novelisation and videogame rights based on the text sold briskly upon confirmation of the skanks’ deaths.

Senior skank Madonna-Esther Ciccone-Penn-Leon-Ritchie-Rodriguez-Etc. could not be reached for her invaluable comment, as she is presently fulfilling her duties as keynote crotch-grabber at the Kabbalah headquarters on Planet Quodriploosh.

Oprah Winfrey, alerted to the “tragedy” (snarf!) during a lesbian foursome and “Toffifay party” deep inside her Pacific Coast ranch known as “Santa Barbara,” has announced that she’ll be dedicating two whole weeks of programming to memorial episodes based on the lives of these treasured talents.

“Shitload o’ fuckin’ coin to be made on these episodes,” murmured the talk-show queen and recent purchaser of Greenland. “Prolly even more than the one about Ellen’s dog.”

*

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(Why does online news suck so bad? ~Gregory)

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07.25.08

The Concise 2008 ÜberCiné Guide to Forthcoming Sci-Fi/Fantasy Movies for Ignorant Teenagers w/Disposable Pocket-Change!

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

Hi, Kidz. These are merely my gut reactions to these forthcoming projects — but my gut reactions are usually correct. Happy to help:

AVATAR: Probably visually neato and wayyy-overrated narratively (with the standard Cameron Love-Vs.-Technology shtick).

BATMAN sequels: If they’re not fun, I’m not going anymore. I don’t need to be lectured by nerds.

CONAN: Really? Conan? Just go back and watch the Schwarzenegger movies; they’re pretty cool.

CORALINE: I’m guessing better-than-Monkeybone-not-quite-as-good-as-Corpse-Bride.

THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL REMAKE: Not a good idea. Granted, Robert Wise’s original does feel a bit tepid by today’s standards — but it is every inch a Classic, and merits thoughtful viewing and consideration and discussion. A CG-infested remake? Ick. Can’t say I’m delighted. Oh, and: Keanu Reeves — outside of his Bill&Ted/Parenthood/goofball persona — is an unwatchably terrible actor. Yes, he is. Uh-huh. Is too. Yes, he is. You’re wrong. Is too…

DRAGON BALL Z: I’m so not quite genki enough to have a clue about this one; good luck.

DUNE: David Lynch’s Dune is the definitive Masterpiece. We don’t need a remake. Just re-release David Lynch’s Dune and let the sequels roll from there.

EMILY THE STRANGE: This demographic no longer interests me.

E.T. REMAKE STARRING ADAM SANDLER AS “E.T.”: If only.

FRIDAY THE 13th: There are some things you don’t remake. Why? Because they’re either loftily brilliant and will never be matched — or they’re simply fun Crapola undeserving of redundant celluloid/pixels. Friday the 13th (a mostly summer-camp ripoff of the Halloween concept) is a strong case of the latter. I was there for all the early ones, and it’s terribly annoying that they didn’t make it to #13 and call it a franchise, thank you, goodbye. Rebooting this — especially now — is Just Plain Dumb.

G.I. JOE: Don’t care. At all. Never did.

HELLBOY sequels: Not really my thing — and I prefer the aesthetics of the comic book to those of the movies.

HARRY POTTER sequels: Oh, I’ll be there. However, I was disappointed by the hack-job on Goblet of Fire, and even more disappointed by the “gritty” take on Order of the Phoenix. You don’t have to lighten them up to please me — but please make the final three more artful and cohesive than the previous two.

THE HOBBIT (and Whatever Else): Feels a bit been-there-(and-back-again)-done-that by this point (plus the Rankin-Bass cartoon rules) — but once again, I’ll be there; and I’m pleased that they actually landed a fat director to continue the (shudder) “franchise.”

THE (INCREDIBLE) HULK movies: Don’t care anymore. (Have been told to care, but not good at taking orders.)

INDIANA JONES sequels: I’ll be there — and I’m being very generous about it.

IRON MAN sequels: If they don’t let Favreau do ‘em, they’re CRAZY; he did a sweet job with the first!

JAMES BOND sequels: For me, after they kicked out Brosnan and hired The Blond Bozo, the Bond franchise died a pathetic death. I really don’t care about these anymore, and would vastly prefer a VHS night with From Russia With Love or The Spy Who Loved Me to this “gritty-real” new shit.

JURASSIC PARK sequels: Whatever. Just do ‘em. They’ll be kinda stupid. I’ll go.

JUSTICE LEAGUE: I expect Greatness from this. George Miller is a terrific director. Why put it off?

MAGNETO: Don’t care.

THE MUMMY sequels: Gimme some dark chocolate, and I’ll go and think, “Canada…”

NARNIA sequels: Haven’t seen the second, yet. Frankly, I’d rather just watch the VHS copies of the BBC series I’ve got sitting here.

Further PIRATES sequels: Haven’t seen the third, yet. Frankly, I’d rather just go to Disneyland and ride the ride fifteen times.

PUNISHER sequels: Totally not my thing.

ROBOCOP remake/reboot: Outstandingly terrible idea. Standing-ovation terrible idea. Petition for new Oscar for Most Terrible Idea idea. But I am happy about one aspect of it: I think Darren Aronofsky sucks even more than David Fincher does, thus I’m pleased that he’ll be wasting his time doing something so utterly pointless. Just re-release the Verhoeven film — it’s not my fave (wallowing in violence to decry violence?), but it’s a very strong work, one which certainly does not need to be remade.

SAW sequels: Even more totally not my thing.

SIN CITY sequels: I used to flip through the graphic novels and think, “Gee, this really isn’t as good as The Dark Knight Returns…”

SPEED RACER sequels: In a pig’s eye!

SPIDER-MAN sequels: They’ll happen. We’ll go. We’ll probably shrug a bit.

THE SPIRIT: ‘Bout time. May be good. But at this point, Scarlett is merely Annoyance Fuel.

STAR TREK: Kidz, you’ll probably eat this up. Me, I was there for the real thing, thus re-booting and re-casting the classic roles/performances feels quite wrong to me. Also: Since J.J. Abrams is essentially my peer (my very rich and powerful peer, but, nonetheless, my peer), I do not feel awe at his work. Mainly I ask: How does he expect to pull this off? And even more: Why?

STAR WARS: THE CLONE WARS (etc.): I’m a bit stuck here. I don’t mind answering the Piper’s call, but generally I like my Star Wars with PEOPLE in it. Cartoons? Clunky-lookin’ cartoons? Not so sure about this. Very pleased about the returning voice talent (particularly that Genius called Christopher Lee), and it’s also worth noting that one of the coolest things Star Wars has ever accomplished was that Boba Fett cartoon adventure tucked into the (I believe) utterly brilliant Star Wars Holiday Special. So there’s Hope. But could it ever be A New Hope?

SUPERMAN sequels: Embarrassingly dated character, really. Why go on? Superman Returns was all sparkle and very, very little soul. I have no appetite for more unless they actually do The Death of Superman or whatever.

*Related: CAPESHOOTERS: Now this sounds amusing. Rather like an SNL sketch writ large — but these days, what isn’t?

TERMINATOR SALVATION: Paid my dues at the third one. Don’t care about a fourth. Digging that people with actual names like “Moon Bloodgood” and “Common” are in it, though — I sure hope that “Tunafish Sandwich” and “Probable” join them in the cast!

THOR: This could be great.

TRANSFORMERS 2: First one was amusing eye-candy. Honestly — although La Boof has gotta fuck off already — I didn’t hate Transformers. Not deep, but kinda fun. But a sequel? Much as with the first one, somebody is going to have to push the DVD into my hands to get me to watch it (preferably on opening week-end; wink!).

TV Stuff Like Buffy or Firefly or Heroes or Lost or X-Files or Whatever: I don’t really watch ‘em. If you love ‘em, you already know you should go.

TWILIGHT: See: Emily the Strange (or, don’t).

WATCHMEN: I liked 300 (considering what it was: veiled gay porn), and having met Zack and his producer/wife Deborah at an early screening of footage, I found that I liked them and their attitudes. Thus, I am warmed to this project. Was never a huge fan of the Alan Moore comic book — a dorm-floor associate gave me a copy, and it took years for me to get through it — but the movie’s overall formula appears to be primed for success.

THE WIZARD OF OZ (and sequels): While I (of course) concur with many that the Baum books have never met with a faithful adaptation (not even the first one), I’m also not overjoyed at the prospect of this. Could be good, but “going McFarlane” with it is obviously a terrible idea, and after the magnificence of the original movie adaptation, I can’t say I’m looking forward to a bunch of CG shit flying around for two and a half hours.

THE WOLF MAN: No makeup necessary! Great idea! Fuck Scarlett in an elevator again!

WOLVERINE: Probably pretty fun — both for obese dorks with anger-management problems as well as females who enjoy abuse fantasies. (Not that it matters, incidentally, but Jackman is gay; thought the fanboys and fangirls might like to know. Snnkt!)

WONDER WOMAN: Could have been stellar — but why didn’t they do it twenty years ago?

Yeah…that’s enough.

I’ll be back with an extra-fancy 2008 Comic Con wrap-up in a few days. Studio executives and CEOs of parent companies: I Am Your Source.
~Gregory

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07.24.08

today

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:25 pm by Gregory

Pretty sure I haven’t used that simple title before.

(Yeah, I’m aware of the song; with “Disarm” and “Cherub Rock” it’s one of only three I like from that long-defunct band.)

Thinking about it today as I stomped through the infernal heat-glare, I believe that I’ve simply needed an evening (Merci, Mlle.) which was not Bad/Fake/ShowBiz (most are the last, many are the second, fortunately few are fully the first; rare is the All Three type — but in a week wherein I’ve viewed a naked Ben Kingsley humpin’ and pumpin’, anything is possible).

Which brings us to: Reviews. Not to enlist you, Reader, as babysitter — but I think it’ll be Thursday night/Friday morning before anything new goes up. Mostly finished are American Teen and Step Brothers, but in the midst of all this (X-Files movie, 90s baggage, etc.) I find that I’d prefer to sing “Summertime” with my toesies dipped in a cool stream than do any of this.

Cool streams do not exist here (neither, most of the year, does mud), thus today is more about Practicalities. Where to Live? With Whom? Why? Etc.

I heard “Cover Me” in a grocery store today — and couldn’t relate to it in the slightest. It’s so comically melodramatic. Some ditzy teen girl ought to cover it at this point, buy the Boss another boat.

“This whole world is rough, it’s just gettin’ rougher…” in that ridiculous, faux-grizzled growl: Brainwashing!

Life really isn’t that difficult. Here:

1. Talk smart.

2. Walk your talk.

3. Don’t be an asshole.

4. Don’t tolerate assholes.

Q.E.D.

I did make a critical self-discovery today: Although I am fond of curt, flippant dismissals of those movie juggernauts of which Consumers cannot get enough, my main way of appraising a movie — as with anything — is to let it steep in the noggin for a good while, get at some essence that isn’t blatantly obvious, and then (with Fortune smiling) write something everybody isn’t going to find boring and predictable.

Otherwise, why bother?

(I love Rotten Tomatoes, incidentally — however I do take issue with critics-of-critics who use a low “Tomatometer-Agreement” percentage as “proof” that a writer’s views are not valid. Ridiculous! I mostly cleave to the writers who actually have something to say (which often swerves from the curve)!)

Song of the Day: “Mr. Blue Sky” by E.L.O. (special request by J.A.G. — thanks; I had forgotten how much I thrived on this song as a kid!)

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