08.29.08

Days Off + Gregory 4 President!!!

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

Hi.

I’m Gregory.

And I stand at the crossroads of history.

Check! Me! Out!

Yeah, last night I accidentally heard parts of Bigmouth Barry’s speech (”in ten years I — as your new Messiah — promise to personally deliver us from Foreign Oil” — got a bridge you wanna sell us, too, pal?) blasting out of people’s windows off their domestic jumbotrons — and whatever, whatever.

Since I don’t particularly like either candidate, I have decided to run for President of the United States. My platform is simple:

1. No More Bullshit.
2. That’s it.

Can you dig it?

Also, since Isaac Hayes recently dropped, I am now assuming the mantle of “Mr. Hot Buttered Soul.” Thus, when elected, I would prefer to be referred to as “President Hot Buttered Soul.”

Thanks!

(What else can I offer? Unlike the POW-Crazy and Bigmouth, I actually have negative drive toward fame, and am not blinded by crazy ambition, power-mad, or starved for the affection of the populace. I also want all war ended immediately, and promise only one thing: Love.)

Gregory for President!

Heh.

Let’s see…

While everybody else was slurping on their televisions like addicts, I went off to see Toots and The Maytals perform live. For those who don’t know (I didn’t — as they were largely dormant through my formative years, the ’80s), Toots and The Maytals are essentially THE go-to Reggae group — and Frederick “Toots” Hibbert is actually credited with coining the term “Reggae” in the early-to-mid ’60s.

They were and are astounding.

Soul, Rock, Ska, Rock-Steady, Gospel, Jazz, African Polyrhythms, Caribbean Balladry, plus of course Reggae — this was a show as vital as seeing The Wailers with Bob Marley still around.

Rather than listening to a boring, bombastic speech, this was simply LIVING the Ideal: People of all ages, races and creeds, having a wonderful party together.

After that, I caught the second half of STOP MAKING SENSE. Words cannot express the profound impact of this movie (and album) upon me, years ago. I walked in just as “Once In A Lifetime” was ending, and really — really! — stepping in just as Tom Tom Club were beginning “Genius of Love” provided a GENIUS transition from the live real thing (w/Toots & Co.) to its celluloid counterpart (w/Tina & Chris and Steve and Wally and Lynn and…etc.)

Of course, I’ll vote for Bigmouth if there’s no better option — but we don’t need some loud, self-obsessed fame-hound shouting about “Unity” — we just need more concerts like the aforementioned!

Why talk about Unity when you can just BE Unity?

Q.E.D.

As for me, I’m excited and delighted that I’ll be having a productive week-end of catching up on various details and even finishing a project or ten.

Basically, I’ll have some new/revised reviews for you.

I’ll go back and fill in some blanks (some of them treacherous) on this “blog”-thingie.

And, as a special bonus, I’ll finally transcribe that longish short-story I wrote thirteen years ago. And, most likely, put it right here.

My research indicates that people tend to surf the web as a substitute for actual masturbation whilst in the workplace — but once the week-end (particularly a long one) comes, they want to go show off their kneecaps or whatever.

Thus, probably no Vital Updates to be found here until next week — but I’ll have some fun getting my ducks in a row.

Chanson du Week-End: “Girlfriend Is Better” by Talking Heads + “Pressure Drop” by Toots!

Permalink Comments

08.28.08

Pure ImaginAsian

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

One of the things about living in L.A. for a while is that you start to notice it’s challenging to keep up with the creative enterprises of your friends. In particular, tonight I am recommending that you visit the Los Angeles (there’s one in New York, too — but don’t drive that far!) ImaginAsian Centre…

…for tonight is the last night you can catch the stellar TEN NIGHTS OF DREAM(S) on the big screen there!

Go!

Gooooo!!!

I saw it last week, and it’s one of the best things I’ve seen this year — ten “chapters” of dreams coalescing into a Pure Cinema experience — and I highly recommend it. Here’s the cut’n'paste link:

http://www.theimaginasian.com/la/comingsoon.php

This, of course, must serve — 4 da mo’ — as my recommendation in lieu of review. Just landed a copy late last night (Domo!) and I’d like to view it again prior to Official Critical Appraisal.

Here’s the thing, too — I still don’t have access to any sort of changes to my site — and a couple of people who have volunteered to “web-wizard” for me have, I dunno, fallen beneath the wheels or something.

Thus, reviews — in keeping with my summer sked — are presently somewhat loose affairs, appearing here. But soon enough, it’ll go official again.

I have a new ‘tude about it all, too. (Rubs hands together with sinister glee.)

Here are some of the recommended works I’ll soon be covering:

TEN NIGHTS OF DREAM(S) – available via Cinema Epoch

A THOUSAND YEARS OF GOOD PRAYERS – by Wayne Wang (best new movie I’ve seen this year)

PROMETHEUS TRIUMPHANT: A FUGUE IN THE KEY OF FLESH – by Jim Towns and Mike McKown

ONE DAY LIKE RAIN – by Paul Todisco

And maybe — maybe — I’ll still get around to addressing the vital themes meticulously interwoven through STEP BROTHERS (but don’t count on it)

Simon LeBon reviews books occasionally. I wonder: Have I written enough reviews now that I get to cross over and become a global pop sensation and fashion icon?

Hm.

ImaginAsian — GO! TONIGHT!

~G

Permalink Comments

NOT-OK, COMPUTER (2008 Update #36)

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 7:42 am by Gregory

Electronics have always been generally good with me, and like any modern Earthling, I’ve had my share of gadgets since birth (or shortly thereafter). I was usually encouraged to avoid enjoyment thereof as much as possible (to me, a tape-recorder or stereo should be USED — as creatively as possible); but Electronics ‘n’ me, we go back quite a ways.

Then Computers happened. (I really didn’t mean for this Update to be so formal, but let’s see if we can rush through it.) I somehow landed a Commodore 64 in high school — and sold it slightly prematurely after university. It was a stupid machine (word-processing basically sucked rhino), but kind of cool (the last time I was “current” with videogames, I was playing Double Dragon on that thing — I beat it, too).

It’s been mostly Macs for me since then. PCs are okay — but I find them clunky and ugly. Macs have always been elegant. I miss the days of the Mac Plus. I got a greyscale Mac laptop after that, and paid probably somewhere near a thousand dollars to some cretins with a “Mac” shop (it wasn’t) on Sunset, to keep “repairing” it (it took the teen younger brother of the clueless owner to ascertain that the machine had a cracked motherboard — and essentially couldn’t be repaired).

I type to you now on a 2001 iBook. It’s still excellent — however its platform is only supported by approximately 1/3 of online applications (thus, no photos here — it won’t upload them).

If I had to name my most consistent counterpart thus far in the 21st century, it would be this computer currently being tickled by my fingertips.

Now that’s scary!

But true!

(Egad.)

Through many, many, many (apparent) Ups and Downs, this machine has served me well, and has even risen from the potential scrapheap a couple of times to add more heroic service (and, frankly, enjoyment) to its already impressive CV.

Thanks, iBook! For being a Friend!

(This is why I can feel some empathy — no, make that sympathy — when I walk into some cheezy cafe or fast-food place and see these people obsessing over their laptops w/free wi-fi — been there, been there.)

This week, however, the Machines have it in for me: Basically, apart from my Dear Friend here, all electronic communication devices are presently failing me. This ranges from cell-phone to computers to familiar ATMs. They clearly wish for me to be unhappy.

It has, admittedly, been stressful.

Here’s the thing, though:

Yesterday — with the dead ‘phone (mobile) and all — there wasn’t much I could do, productively speaking, in the modern world. I was weary anyway (I get residual weariness two days after drinking, even a minute amount — in this case, 2/3 of a glass of red wine), so I decided to sleep. And Sleep I did! It was GREAT! NO TELEPHONE! HA!

I had the most beautiful dreams — culminating in an ecstatic episode deserving its own showcase elsewhere.

Electric Dreams?

NOT! AT! ALL!

Elsewhere in the week, I have been struggling to solve some issues with some software which doesn’t work, then doesn’t work, and then doesn’t work some more. Some of this while the aforementioned cell-phone was ostentatiously dying.

The process certainly gave me cause to realise how scarily addicted most of us are to this crap (and I don’t even do TV).

Once again, I’m not a Luddite — but the stiltedness of our lives on this electronic junk does make me worry.

Thus, this week — in addition to a full practical Overhaul (I need to make my life feel acceptably pleasant again — not a non-stop bout of paranoia over funds) — apparently I’m stuck in Systems Management, too.

Whee.

The Democratic National Convention kicks into high gear today, and I still feel strong disappointment that I don’t really like either of the candidates afforded us by our paltry two-party system. But this does reveal to me a personal tendency — that I’m more apt to criticise the Home Team (about which, at least, I care) than to waste precious life fretting over the Opponent (it makes me feel ill just to contemplate the existence of that crazy old guy).

Similarly have I criticised Radiohead of late. They play tonight at the Santa Barbara Bowl. I wish I could go. I’ve firmly decided that They are Us (my generation), and thus they’re hardly doing anything I personally find surprising — but they are the Home Team, thus I should probably be more supportive (maybe there’s still time for Sigur Ros or whatever…).

The guys who make The Onion are also (to me) the Home Team — and really I should thank them, because they cover the Know-It-All-White-Guy jokes and Pop-media obsession so well that usually I don’t have to — and presently I give a “shout out” to them because last night — as I sat in a diner, enshrouded by syrupy ’70s FM ballads (c’mere, Carly — gimme that horse-sized mouth!) — The Onion did something newspapers simply never do: It made me laugh out loud several times.

Most of the current issue is mediocre, however the lead story: “Obama Modifies ‘Yes We Can’ Message To Exclude Area Loser” — is one of the funniest things I’ve read on pulp in ages. Excerpt:

“The speech entitled ‘A More Perfect Union Minus Nate Walsh’ was 26 minutes long and contained the words ‘change’ 12 times, ‘hope’ 16 times, and ‘Nate,’ in conjunction with the phrase, ‘with the exception of,’ 34 times.”

(I like it when Smart meets Funny.)

Anyway, I have many cares riding on me right now, thus, in the spirit of Electronic Media (and parody), let’s make with a quick Self-Interview and be off!

HEY, GREGORY, WHICH DO YOU LIKE BETTER: IRON MAN or THE DARK KNIGHT?

Oh, IRON MAN, totally. It hints at perversion while still delivering full-on Entertainment. I didn’t have a single ounce of fun watching THE DARK KNIGHT — but I will say this: Christian Bale’s Batman sure is lookin’…”Serious”…on the front of that FRUIT ROLL-UPS box!

WHAT’S THE BEST CONCERT YOU’VE ATTENDED, THUS FAR, THIS CALENDAR YEAR?

That’s tricky, because some of the best outings were almost-concerts or strange mutations of performances (mostly involving Eric Idle) — but I can tell you the best shows I stupidly didn’t attend: The Cure at the Hollywood Bowl and Billy Joel at Shea Stadium. As for the best of my pickin’s, the nicest night out thus far was RobertPlantAlisonKraussT-BoneBurnett at the Greek w/friends — and the best performance (he was AWESOME) was Billy Bragg, solo, at El Rey.

HEY, GREGORY, WHAT’S SOMETHING YOU DESPISE?

Hey, Interviewer, I’m pleased that you ask! I despise “club-card supermarkets.” Fuck that shit. Stick a fucking price on the fucking food, and leave it the fuck at that! Don’t force me to join your gay-Nazi little “club” just to get a reasonable price on orange juice!

YOU CONSTANTLY ENCOUNTER “FAMOUS” PEOPLE. WHO’S THE STANDOUT THIS YEAR?

Oh, Mel Brooks, absolutely. I love that guy.

ARE YOU HAPPY?

Not really, no.

WHY NOT?

Well, I’ll tell ya: Since I was a child, I’ve nurtured this hope that I could have a loving Life-partner (we also know this as a “girlfriend”) who ISN’T about money or material gain or other icky and bad reasons to have a relationship. It would appear that I have missed this opportunity — and now it’s becoming crucial for me to make a “good living” — or else die. The thing is, most adult females around here REALLY DO judge a fellow by his shoes, his car (T.S.O.L. there, dude!), his line of credit, etc. Whereas most remaining eligible adult females not in insane urban regions (and there aren’t many of them left — of either entity) seem to judge a fellow by whether or not he’s willing to allow her to be a nasty slob and/or ruin his life with her fucked-up family. Thus, yes — since I was believing in and wanting True Love from the ground up — this is sort of a difficult chapter for me. But being forced to give up hope has helped tremendously.

WHAT’S SOMETHING ELSE YOU DESPISE?

Easy, pal. Actually, I don’t despise all that much (it wastes a lot of energy). The fat old repulsive bald piece of shit currently stomping away directly above my head — yeah, I theoretically despise him (but I don’t “know him as a person” — nor wish to). I guess I can safely say that I despise it when my friends relentlessly aim for the low end of humanity in conversing with me. Their ugly talk brings me down. I don’t despise them, but I despise that. If you’re going to force me to be your therapist, start paying me.

KIRK OR SPOCK?

Spock.

REALLY?

Leonard Nimoy is ultimately even more hilarious than William Shatner. Plus I just like Spock. I have a coffee mug with Spock on it, sitting right here on my desk.

PERHAPS THIS IS WHY YOU DON’T HAVE THIS — WHAT DO YOU CALL IT? — “GIRLFRIEND”?

I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, and suggest that Spock would make a fine President. If there were a Vulcan party, I’d join it.

WOULD IT HELP THE POLITICAL PROCESS TO SHUN ONE’S EMOTIONS?

Well, let’s not forget that Spock is half human. Plus he’s a brilliant tactician and negotiator. And profoundly sincere. As such, I think he’d make an excellent leader — being able to feel and comprehend emotion without (usually) being thrown off course by it, whilst making Logical choices for the good of — you guessed it — the Many.

WOULD MILEY CYRUS MAKE A GOOD PRESIDENT?

I know nothing of Miley Cyrus except when her CDs are hawked at me in the checkout queue. To me, she is an irrelevant child, undeserving of her current station. It’ll be interesting to watch her battle drugs in a few years, though.

IF YOU COULD BE ANYWHERE IN THE WHOLE WORLD RIGHT NOW, WHERE WOULD THAT BE?

In bed with my wife.

FIN.

Bonus Round (bust out the carbonated beverages!):

Thirteen More Utterances That Are Fun To BELCH (Classic Rock Edition):

13. “Manfred Mann’s Earth Band”

12. “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road”

11. “They stab it with their steely knives but they just can’t kill the Beast” (extra-challenging!)

10. the entire brass arrangement of “Tusk” (super-challenging! [make sure you have personal health insurance])

9. the chorus of “Dog and Butterfly”

8. “Got-ta, got-ta, got-ta, got-ta KEEP ON ROLL-EE-IN’!” (REO Speedwagon) (you are hereby challenged to attempt this Belch with a straight face)

7. “WAR! What is it good for?* Absolutely NOTHING!” (Belch it again!) [*Rhetorical question.]

6. The entirety of “Subterranean Homesick Blues” (mandatory preparation: no less than ten Big Gulps [insurance also mandatory])

5. “Born to be Wi-i-i-i-ild” (deceptively simple, this one)

4. “Smo-o-oke on the Water” (”…and Fire in the Sky-y!”)

3. “I’m gonna give you every inch of my love, Gonna give you my love” (then the “orgasmic” part; hee-larious!)

2. “Big Brother & the Holding Company” (this proves very amusing when loudly BELCHED at a new acquaintance in lieu of your actual name)

1. “In-Obama-Da-Vida”

~G

Permalink Comments

08.27.08

Vegory (2008 Essay #36)

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

Hi.

This post concerns my Moderate Vegan lifestyle and some of the reaons behind it. However, since years of experience have shown me that people who enjoy swallowing tortured and murdered animals suffer from even more impoverished listening skills than religious nuts when it comes to plain and simple logic, I’m not going to preach (some may say it is, but I gave that up years ago), and I’m not going to substantiate my claims with robust reams of research plus footnotes. If something I write here intrigues you, “Google” it — then maybe it’ll have more meaning and validity for you.

I’m also going to pepper this Essay with apparently random observations — because Life simply doesn’t function in a vacuum — and since I’m really not standing on a soapbox, a mostly congenial, conversational tone best suits this treatise.

Last night some friends invited me over for dinner, and they barbecued some shrimp, and I like these friends a lot, and all three of them clearly would have preferred it if I hadn’t had to be the weirdo and not eat the shrimp — but honestly, after several years of not eating animals (more on this below), I look at shrimp and go: “Oh — aquatic bugs; I’d rather not put those in my mouth.”

I was raised in a severely meat-addicted part of the world (where more animal flesh per person is consumed, possibly, than anywhere else on Earth — and it’s considered a source of “strength” and “freedom” or something very weird jammed into the regional collective unconscious) — and, although, basking in the light of Common Sense, shifting my diet to a cruelty- and stupidity-free one was actually rather easy and genuinely fun and satisfying — I nonetheless had to “process” out the habits and patterning of my ill-informed upbringing, in order to make the smart switch. I well recall one afternoon somewhere in Encino, several years ago, during this “processing,” wherein I found myself hungry and near some sort of vaguely classy pasta place. I had the illusion of money that day (a very American condition, that: the illusion of money), and so I decided to go in and eat. What did I choose? Some sort of pasta with lobster in it.

That was the last time I ate any lobster: once again, an aquatic bug (and a rather icky one, at that — total bottom-feeder, lives off muck and refuse). I remember sitting there — honing my prototype version of sitting in restaurants alone and feeling vaguely like life is passing me by (these days: perfected) — and going, “Hm…this lobster-pasta tastes somewhat good…but if I think about it, even for an instant, I realise that I am chewing up the muscle tissue of a boiled-alive underwater insect (of sorts) — and I’m feeling increasingly weird about chewing up this dead bug from the bottom of the ocean whilst sitting in this strange restaurant in Encino.”

Did I finish the lobster-pasta? No. I ate enough of it to feel vaguely nourished, but in the end Logic won out: There was absolutely no defensible reason to be sitting there chewing animal chunks. None.

That was slightly before I went Vegetarian — and then, for several years, full Vegan (which, I must admit, I enjoyed the most!) — but first let’s return to last night.

My friends are great. They could sit around tugging the veins and nerve-branches from living, bleating calves with their teeth and I’d still like them (although of course I’d rather we do something else). Which reminds me: Another thing the carnage-addicted tend to say whenever a Veg of any sort chimes in is: “Oh, you’re MILITANT — you probably want to KILL ALL THE HUMANS!” — or whatever. And…no: It’s actually nothing like that whatsoever, being Veg, and you’re incredibly fucking stupid if you “think” that way. Fuck off, dipshit.

Many, many, many people make their money via the torture and murder of animals (ironically, NOT the little predators they tongue-kiss and with whom they share their beds — I ask: WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE?), and thus I do not expect most people to welcome my views here this evening, or to be kind in their responses (if any). But really, this is just about trying to find ways to do things which are not entirely stupid and wrong. Go visit a slaughterhouse: Try telling me there’s anything good about that experience. Yeah, that’s why those places are on such proud display in public sectors.

But, you know, back to the Friends: Maybe they’ll read this — I don’t know. But it’s really not about them (I don’t divulge the personal stuff). I was just enjoying their company and realising that — as with Race — it’s often tedious to have to discuss Diet. (I’ve been Veg so long now that it really doesn’t occur to me that it’s interesting; it just Is.)

In the midst of our evening, we beheld the recent DNC speech by Michelle Obama — and honestly I found the presentation excessively slick and charmless — like some really bad game-show. First of all, that stage looks like something from a crazy-ass science fiction movie, and then the speech itself was — well — extremely boring, to me. Michelle Obama is a slick and professional speaker, and, like her husband, she knows how to keep punching the Passion button whilst carefully avoiding the Substance button (a practice which irks me immensely). You know the fucking shit: “CHANGE!” and “I LOVE THIS COUNTRY!” and “FAMILY!” and then they trot out the kids and to cover the Cute sales-pitch — and whatever. Of course I’d rather have these people in office than the crazy old guy’s dangerous madness — but it does disappoint me that they insist on being so motherfucking cheezy-ass about their sales pitches. “Hey, honey! Look at ME! I’m in KANSAS CITY having dinner with WHITE PEOPLE! Not just that: A White FAMILY! Check Me OUT!!!! White FAMILY over here!!!!”

I just look at it, and it looks like a fucking parody of reality — nothing like the down-to-earth practicality I desire in politics.

(If Bigmouth Barry and Maudlin Michelle could just — I dunno — show some old red-eyed snapshots of themselves sucking on a big fat spliff, or fighting in the laundry room, or something HUMAN — I’d be much quicker to embrace them. But maybe the MEAT-MAD MIDDLE AMERICANS wouldn’t?!?)

Anyway, there was a lot of television — and although my friends do television excellently (I caught exactly enough of the Beijing Olympics without having to watch too much — just a little flip, a little splash, then Jimmy Page and some flava-o’-da-week vocal milquetoast with phat kneecaps), I must admit that, having dropped TV addiction entirely, I find it taxing to attempt to participate in a conversation with a TV (even a nice one) barking at us. It’s very weird, to me.

Friends, if you are reading this — I just need to sort through this media madness: I’m quite an awkward person, myself — and no criticism of your fine selves is intended.

Later, some former junkie (is there such a thing as “former” when it comes to being a junkie?) on the Travel Channel went to Egypt and kept wolfing down meat — in particular a goat or sheep or something we got to watch some travelling bedouin dudes slaughter and skin and bake in a sand-enshrouded tomb-barbecue. This was remarkably icky. My thought was: “Dudes, change your religion to something sensible, and just eat PUSSY at night instead of straining to force goat entrails through your entrails!”

Presumptuous? Hey, so’s everybody else. And it’s my “blog.”

Anyway, at some other (heavily edited) part of his trip, the sarcastic junkie travel guy ate in a Kusheri (various spellings) restaurant — which involved food much more to my liking and requirements: Basically it was vegetarian Indian cuisine — lentils, rice, chickpeas, garlic — with the added oomph of pasta. The junkie guy could only bring himself to praise the red onions on top (he’s definitely a hard-core carnivore — it’s usually interesting when their hearts suddenly pop on them) — and then he dissed the dish by saying (from the comfort of the added voice-over) that it “sits on your stomach like a stack of quarters.” Um…WHAT, asshole? (It’s truly annoying to watch some guy shove five pounds of burnt muscle tissue down his throat, and then have to hear him quip about lentils.)

Part of this evening’s Essay is brought to you via a letter-to-the-editor I read today — which was an intelligent and heartfelt plea to people to wise up at least a little bit about their hog-like, Earth-rupturing diets. The writer’s main point was that World Water Week recently concluded in Stockholm (an intelligent place if ever I’ve seen one), and basically that meat-eaters indirectly use up 4,000 gallons of water per day (one of the VERY heavy tolls of FACTORY FARMING — look it up!), whereas Vegans (on average) use up, indirectly, “only” 300 gallons of water per day.

This is EXTREMELY important information, if we are to hope to present our children, and their children, and their children’s children, with a planet worth inhabiting.

Go look. Do the research. Pull your head out of the dessicated dirt.

And is this why I’M a Veg? Well, that’s part of it. We’ll get to it. (Although — please note — this casual, off-the-cuff Essay is in no way intended to be comprehensive — not even about my own habits.)

Mainly the reason I mention the letter is that the editor of the paper decided to get “cute” and make a joke out of it (editors are often clueless). They stuck a tacky headline above it: “Eat a burger, skip a shower.” I find this outrageously offensive. This aloof piggishness. Somebody sticks out their neck to say something beneficial (if, to some, challenging) to the very, very, very cynical populace — and instead of simply welcoming the useful information, the editor has to piss on it a bit.

There’s no dogma to this perspective, no preaching, no holier-than-thou-ness: It’s just TOTAL COMMON SENSE. FACTORY FARMING IS DESTROYING THE PLANET. VERY, VERY QUICKLY. GO LOOK!

Okay?

Factory farming is also a rotten, soulless, horrid thing to do — perhaps not as bad as warfare and certainly not as bad as the torture and murder of humans — but what the cynics fail (miserably) to see here is The Big Picture: One Earth — One Living Organism — and WE HAVE THE PRIVILEGE OF TENDING THIS ORGANISM!

Why are we doing such a FUCKING SHITTY JOB OF IT????

I would like to know.

Oh, yeah — damn, I already know:

Greed.

Greed and stupidity.

Q.E.D. on that.

Hey, here is a short list of some famous vegetarians. Aren’t they cool:

Joan Baez; Leonardo da Vinci; Paul McCartney; Benjamin Franklin; Grace Slick, Mohandas Gandhi; Alicia Silverstone; Louisa May Alcott; Whoopi Goldberg; Tanita Tikaram; “Weird Al” Yankovic (saw him at India’s Oven once); Mick Jagger; Emilio Estevez; William Shatner (allegedly); Joanna Lumley; the babes of ABBA; yer New Wave legends from The Cure, Depeche Mode, Joe Jackson, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Smiths, etc; more “dark” babes like Nina Hagen, Polly Jean Harvey and Lene Lovich; “Mark Twain”; Billie Jean King; and heck, apparently even “Hannibal the Cannibal” himself, Anthony Hopkins. (And this is not to mention such musical greats as Steven Seagal and Rikki Rockett!)

At this point, I can feel the cynics sneering: “Yeah…and HITLER!”

Whatever. If you’d like to attempt to draw a parallel between Hitler and the terrifying fascist/genocidal schemes of, say, Alicia Silverstone, I’d be delighted to accept a comp ticket to your amusing little performance.

(Most people tend to cite Albert Einstein — but given how instrumental he was in teaching us how to kill many thousands of people with a single shot, I’m not so sure that he was an entirely benevolent soul.)

Anyway, what do the people on the short list above (many long lists are available if you “Google” “famous vegetarians”) have in common?

They’re all luminaries — for one reason or another.

Luminaries illuminate.

And what about me?

Well, it occurs to me that I may have cited my “transition” (Ooh!) to a Veg life previously — and perchance incorrectly — as occurring/being chosen sometime in 1990. “Time” and I often disagree with each other, so this evening I’d like to set that record straight:

Although I was toying with Veg living in earlier years (and never in my life particularly enjoyed eating animal tissue — my fave animal food was probably a “dip-egg” in the morning — and I never ate the whites [fatty substances on toast being the primary objective), my actual Choice to become Vegetarian occurred in 1991 -- which means that, right around now, I'm celebrating SEVENTEEN YEARS of being a Vegetarian (and, more accurately, a Moderate Vegan -- and more on this soon).

I recall well the evening -- but first this flashback:

I used to go shopping with my "dad" -- and it was usually an unhappy experience for me. He always presumed the worst of me (which was like a chronic illness it has taken me years and much arduous effort to shake -- if even I fully have) -- and thus he'd buy me the shittiest K-Mart shoes ("You're just gonna wear 'em out anyway.") and crappy jeans, and basically he'd do anything possible to make me feel like shit -- a plan with which -- until my teen years -- I complied.

Grocery shopping was never much different. My "parents" alternated at this (essentially despising one another and having no ability to communicate together for longer than four or five syllables), but going to the supermarket with my mother was always slightly less dire. She'd embarrass the living shit out of me, of course, say in the cereal aisle when I'd desperately want some product for which she didn't happen to be carrying a god-damned coupon -- and she'd screech to PUT IT BACK and NO, YOU CAN'T HAVE THAT and whatever (Note to parents: I'd have responded much better to a kind and quiet word and a reasonable explanation).

But shopping with "Dad" was worse. He's kind of a dumb guy, with a mean sense of "humor," and never did I feel any of the sense of comradeship I'd hoped would materialise naturally between (alleged) "father" and (in biological terms only, if that) son.

For some reason, presently I am remembering one paternal trip to the supermarket, wherein -- fully ignorant of any diet outside the Midwestern American one (which is basically: Crap) -- I made some comment about wanting more vegetables or less bacon or not wanting to eat meat, or something like that. In response, "Dad" said, "You're not becoming a VEGETARIAN, are you?"

Text on a screen does not convey the tone, so think of it like this: It was as if he stopped, with a stunned look on his face, and very accusingly said, "You're gonna suck donkey dicks in Cleveland? I have no son!"

That was when I was maybe thirteen -- several years before any serious consideration of a Veg life had even occurred to me (teens in the Midwest at that time -- and perhaps now -- subsisted primarily on Little Caesar's).

Hm.

Flash forward a bit, to the summer of 1991, and I'm working on 'Wayne's World' at Paramount, and I'm living with an otherwise intelligent guy who gets shockingly moody and won't talk with me, and I'm dating a very nice woman who has a fuckload more money than I do -- and, one night, I decide to make dinner at "home" (Silver Lake, alas, never really felt like Home).

The plan was to make Spaghetti Bolognese. I went over to whichever supermarket it was over there by Rockaway Records, and I started procuring ingredients: pasta, tomatoes, oregano, basil, olive oil...

...and I got to the stinky butcher section, and it occurred to me:

Hey, I don't need to put meat in this for it to taste good and fill me up!

Thus, I went "home" and didn't. I didn't buy any meat, and I didn't add any meat, and the resulting Marinara was delicious, and it complemented the cheap-ass spaghetti rather nicely.

I didn't buy or eat meat anymore after that.

That was seventeen years ago.

Happy Veg Anniversary to me!

Have there been obstacles? Well, of course.

I recall giving both of my sisters copies of John Robbins' excellent book, Diet for a New America -- and they both returned them to me, unread. (Mainly they seemed bewildered that cows have to give birth to keep secreting milk; well, DUH.)

That book is extremely informative, and I highly recommend and endorse it. It's dogma-free, and although society (even American society) has evolved slightly since its initial publication, it's still a very compassionate, intelligent and healthy eye-opener. Great book!

When word got around that I had become a Vegetarian -- plus of course, during the first year, I was rather vocal about it -- I had to contend with more jabs than expected. Sometimes there were overt insults, but even more hurtful were the defensive exclamations, such as "I'm gonna have a STEAK!!!" loudly growled by my brother-in-law one night when we all went out to dinner at a "fancy, set-down" (sic) restaurant.

Hey, that's nice. Have your steak. What are you actually trying to say?

Why are Vegetarians threatening to people? It'd be hilarious if it weren't sad.

Back then I had a copy of Bob Geldo(r)f's 'The Vegetarians of Love' -- and, alas, it wasn't as good as 'Deep in the Heart of Nowhere.' (which is to say nothing of the Boomtown Rats' albums, which were and are better than anything).

I recall one of my early British Woman experiences, whilst working at Paramount -- some LOUD little blonde with a cherry-red MR2 who was working as an "associate producer" in Mace Neufeld's office -- and I saw her almost every day, and ran errands for her, and she had that "I'm very lost but refuse to admit it" gaze in her eye that many SoCal British women (and maybe all British women?) have -- and I recall one lonely Friday night (I often had to stay late) when we were the only two left in the office, and I gradually eased down her panties, and --

Still reading? Cool.

Actually, I found her very annoying, and never even considered her "knickers" until this very moment (for a joke) -- but that night she was quite vivacious, and told me she'd worked really hard all week (I haven't heard of her since), and she was going to GO OUT AND GET A BIG JUICY STEAK!!!!!!!!!!

Recently turned Veg (although she didn't know this -- I knew better than to discuss my orientation at the workplace!), I was mildly annoyed by her exclamation -- but mainly I mention it here out of puzzlement:

That freakish "meat = power" bullshit. ("We didn't eat WHEAT! We ate MEAT!!!!" - Sean Connery, in ZARDOZ). I find it completely strange. I mean, I get the "flesh and blood" thing (maybe Britbitch was anaemic or something; try an iron supplement, genius) -- but the really weird "meat as aphrodisiac" thing I really do not comprehend at all.

You know what I mean: Like in -- what was it, True Romance, maybe (some Tarantinerd-related project) -- where there's carnage and gunfire and murder and sex and a hamburger -- and of course, the hamburger is made all the tastier by the luridness and violence around it.

WEIRD!

You know, to me, an aphrodisiac is, like, a hot snatch slapping against my nose; fuck the hamburger (please, not literally).

Dancing as a sex-substitute, this I comprehend (a lot of dancers are socially inept losers, but the analogy works) -- but a tortured and murdered animal's muscle tissue really makes no sense to me as a sex-substitute.

Perhaps I was just born Nice (which is perhaps why I generally don't feel that I belong in Los Angeles).

Duckies? Lambsies? Piggies? You really want to torture, murder and eat these lovely creatures?

Then you're the weirdo.

Incidentally, I am fully aware that I'm hammering the point here -- but since I rarely make any sort of public statement about these issues, I feel I'd rather err on the side of excess.

Plot-turn: Am I a hypocrite? No. I'd say not. Of course I'm human and make mistakes and whatever, however I really do strive to be conscientious in my methods of Living. Like: Not owning a car -- I LOVE not owning a car! (Each year, I relish the diminishing of my "carbon footprint".) Or: Supporting sick (mostly corporate) causes -- like deforestation, overfishing, warfare, hyper-consumerism -- I simply don't.

I recycle. I buy things in secondhand stores. I strive to support companies who at least give Shit #1 about this World and its People (and aren't merely total "Greenwash" jokes such as, as but one example, General Electric).

Don't DO things that are rotten, toxic and harmful. Where's the riddle?

In terms of my Veg lifestyle, I have found it to be challenging (particularly in America -- and, surprisingly, particularly in Southern California -- a giant Burger Joint if ever there was one) to "fit in" -- which is to say, to allow socialising to be about socialising (regardless of the various creeds and philosophies of those involved) -- rather than to have socialising become about My Diet And How Fascinating That Is (Wow!).

This is, actually, why I went from being a "strict" (ridiculous term -- it's like calling total freedom "strict") Vegan to (my own term) Moderate Vegan -- to ease the socialising, to reduce the pressure, and to be able to eat in a wider variety of places and circumstances!

("Hey, we're making pancakes! Oh -- but you can't eat them, CAN you?" -- I got very weary of hearing such things.)

Of COURSE I would prefer whole grain, Vegan pancakes (Egg Replacer is a hell of a product!) -- but since most people don't do that, I'll eat the "regular" pancakes -- and focus on the Humanity at hand.

There's also the challenge of being hounded. Last week I was at a big movie party, with lots of catering, and I decided to eat some macaroni and cheese (notably, this was from a BBQ place specialising in lots of dead animal tissue rotting off the bone). To me, the mac'n'cheese is rather innocuous -- especially compared to the dead meat. Is it Vegan? Nope! (I really like Vegan mac'n'cheese, though.) And this is where the "Moderate" part of Moderate Vegan kicks in: I wanted the mac'n'cheese, so I ate some ("comfort-food," right ladies?)

Immediately, my uppity friend leaned in: "MACARONI AND CHEESE?!?!" As if. Hello. He did that at an awards banquet a few years ago, too (the one I probably shouldn't have attended): I buttered my roll. "BUTTER?!?!" AS! IF! It's not like there's a butter-substitute on the table. Eat a little, y'know? Try not to line the aorta with fifty layers of plaque -- but whatever.

Absolutism is a problem, too.

Hey: If I want to stuff a dolphin into my mouth, chew it up while it bleeds to death, mix it with some Neopolitan ice cream then spit it at a kosher Rabbi, you know what you know what you know what? I will! (Odds: Zero. Particularly because Rabbis have always been nice to me. But still, to make the point.)

Speaking of Rabbis -- well, that's almost "rabbits" -- and some people eat rabbits -- which I think is purely heinous. A "fast-food rabbit joint" opened in a neighboring town when I was a kid, and we went there, and (like any uppity kid) I ate some, to prove how "adventurous" I was -- but, honestly, I direly wish I hadn't -- and I truly and deeply apologise to every rabbit on Earth for my faux pas.

See? I don't mind digging out the dirt, in service of avoiding hypocrisy.

Have I eaten meat in the past seventeen years?

No. None. To my knowledge (unless it was very carefully concealed in tiny chunks in soup or under something else I happened to be eating): A full and rousing NO on that score.

One can be very, very, very, very, very healthy without eating any meat. No chicken. No cow. No shoe-leather. No dead animal.

Where I vent the potential hypocrisy at its most "controversial" is: Salmon.

I have eaten salmon during these past seventeen years.

Yes, I know: Salmon is not a vegetable.

Salmon -- as the PETA people will tell you -- have EYES.

("I never eat anything with eyes." - a Vegetarian saying)

I simply did some research, and from Scandinavia to Asia, it became clear that fatty fish (such as salmon) are generally "good for you." Good for heart, muscle, brain, etc. Lots of those Omegas and so forth. Plus some weird friend from Washington State sent me a box of smoked wild salmon for the winter holidays one year -- so I shared it with my "parents" (this seemed, to me, the Correct way to eat an animal [if there is any such thing] — there was Tradition involved, and Nature, and Respect (no farmed fish were these) — and I had been a part of that environment, so I figured — after much internal struggle (really) that it would be all right to partake — a bit.

Then again, I’ve also been insulted in ugly ways (particularly by women) for refusing to eat other fish — keeping my intake (when applicable) strictly to salmon.

There’s a “food of life” kind of aspect to salmon. I’m not sure what it is, but it instinctively feels kind of okay to me.

That said, I’ve wondered over the past week whether or not I should go for some sushi — salmon only, of course — and (as with the “underwater bugs”) the notion really hasn’t held adequate appeal for me to go out and actually do it.

Thus, dispersing with all hypocrisy, that is where I have toed the line: Salmon. Not tuna. I don’t eat tuna. I don’t eat swordfish. I certainly don’t eat shark or any ridiculously exotic, endangered “delicacies”. I have eaten some salmon. I’m okay with the taste, incidentally (although I vastly prefer it baked to raw) — but could do away with it altogether with no personal hardship. (There’s always tofu, seaweed and flax oil.)

Minor gross-out: Those of you who eat (and sometimes revel in the eating of) flesh: Try this smell-test. The next time you eat a steak, the next day (or, likelier, three days later), when you take the rough dump, smell that dump. Really fuckin’ rancid, huh? (Giving rise to that snide line: “What crawled up your ass and died?” Good evening, Mr. Gere.) Then, once your system has fought to rid itself of the rotting carcass, try eating some pasta, tofu, legumes, leafy greens, maybe Tofurky. Then crap it out, and smell it. Basically, it smells like a bakery on a slightly off day!

Heh!

Perchance the cynics pipe up again: “Yeah, but eating meat is NATURAL because people have ALWAYS done it!”

Bull. We’re apes, man. Apes don’t eat animals (unless perhaps some bug rides in on the papaya).

Frankly, I’d love to get to the bottom of why murdering and eating animals is so desperately important to human beings. (I get the whole “tribal totem, closer to Nature” thing — but the factory farming of today holds NONE of that — it’s essentially nothing more than a cruel mockery of it!)

Let’s see — should I plumb the depths of potential hypocrisy any further?

Well, milk from animals is ENTIRELY intended for the offspring of those animals — and NOT AT ALL for humans (particularly post-adolescent humans) — thus I find this practice (particularly extremely disgusting things like “goat cheese”) very weird indeed.

And sometimes I consume “dairy”. I’d really rather not — but it’s in a hell of a lot of stuff. Chocolate cake? Better Vegan — but far more rare that way. Just this evening I bought some soy crisps (I like ‘em), and I accidentally grabbed the Sour Cream and Onion ones instead of the preferred Sea Salt ones. The result? I’m snacking on them presently — but sparingly and not enthusiastically (sour cream, upon reflection, is kinda nasty). I wish I had the Vegan ones.

Occasionally I have also eaten eggs. I don’t make much of a big deal about it — it’s probably that “dip-egg” child in me seeking comfort in a cruel world. But moreover, it’s the protein — apparently the easiest of all the proteins for a human to digest (give or take a huge wad of cholesterol). I always feel a little “wrong” when I’ve had eggs — and my mouth tastes a bit yucky and you just know the bathroom’s gonna bear some sulfur action in a day or so (plus eggs give me a mild headache sometimes) — but it’s this struggle — to make sure I’m getting adequate nourishment.

I mean, weasels love to eat eggs — and they’re generally svelte and strong.

Still: I’d really rather not.

My fully Vegan years (five of them — not even leather shoes, and I donated my leather bomber jacket to the Bosnian relief effort) were unhappy ones emotionally (I tend to desire women who love shitting on me; fortunately, not literally [yet? eek]) — however they were VERY healthy and strong years for me physically. I was Adventurous. I literally Climbed Mountains. I was thin and strong and energetic all the time. Veganism been very good to me, mon.

So why not return to that? Well, perhaps, perhaps.

Frankly, I’d love to. But here? In lieu of Intelligent Partner (and especially because most of my friends love to HAMMER down the beastflesh), it actually feels “valiant” to me (pardon the ooginess of that term) to sustain even a Moderate Vegan diet. (I dine with one friend fairly frequently, and he basically shoves anything green off his plate and onto mine, and he eats pretty much only meat and carbohydrates — this makes it a lot more difficult to say things like, “Wanna come over and share a lentil loaf?”

Actually, my lentil loaf blows minds. I should make it again.

To sum up, then — here are some of the reasons I have been (and am) at various stages Vegetarian, Vegan and Moderate Vegan:

- It’s healthy. (Most physicians concur: Healthier!)

- Cruelty to animals is unjust and turns us into monsters.

- Factory farming is not only in very poor taste — it’s actually hellishly damaging and dangerous to the wellbeing of the entire planet.

- One feels lighter when one’s guts are not filled with rotting flesh.

- EVERY nutritional requirement of humans (and, truthfully, dogs) can be met from vegetable sources (including B12 — the trickiest one — and this is worth researching).

- Eating animals is about as “sexy” as smoking.

- “How do you get enough protein?” is ONLY a question engendered by a perverted nutritional environment — as the corporations choose how you’re going to eat, it SEEMS like meat is the only choice out there — but this is entirely an illusion. (Hint: Skip the shitbag fast-food place and find a mom’n'pop Asian eatery.)

- Animal products contain lots of cholesterol; whereas 99.99% of vegetable products don’t.

- Meat makes your breath stink.

- Not being personally responsible for many, many, many unnecessary deaths actually feels pretty great.

- One word: “Tofurky.” (The future is Now.)

There’s a ramble, anyway. I never talked up my Veg perspective under the roof of my (shitty) previous employers (where most people were too busy being terrifyingly alcoholic to touch upon the concept of diet) — but as I’m very much a free agent now (and likely to stay that way), I don’t mind telling you — even if you’re French (and I know this is a major point of pride over there) — that I’m much happier and easier-going when I’m not playing butcher (even indirectly) to innocent and beautiful creatures.

The casual side of me says: Try it for a couple of years!

The pushier side of me says: Quit being a fucking know-nothing zombie and LOOK INTO IT!

Hey — One Planet: Is it gonna be hideous?

Or Beautiful?

~G

Permalink Comments

08.26.08

Communication Shakedown

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 3:03 pm by Gregory

Hi.

The Machines hate me today — they usually do, because I know their evil plans for Humanity (Cars hate me a lot); the difference is that today I don’t have telephone usage (even that little shit has bailed on me; probably ultimately for the best).

Thus, if you’re somebody I know who needs to reach me, go ahead and email — most recent incarnation thereof will be quickest.

But why does everything always have to be quick?…

Permalink Comments

08.25.08

Overhaulica (2008 Update #36)

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

Hey, cool — it’s almost Monday evening and I survived.

Did you survive?

First off, I’d like to thank those who were concerned about my wellbeing, following the recent Radiohead semi-appraisal. I needed to figure it out. I did. No biggie. Ta.

Several factors converged to build the fleeting obsession: Friends almost half my age raving about the band (particularly in concert); friends my age raving about the band playing recently in Chicago; the fact that I never really wanted to give the band the time of day (something actively prevented me from buying or even listening to their music — it was like going, “Enough of this ’90s SHIT already! Let me GO!!!”); and the hype surrounding their current tour, particularly as they land locally, presently.

All the blab about their “smaller carbon footprint” or whatever — that’s merely boring hypocrisy. Do they make good music, or not?

As it turns out, I have reached a conclusion: Radiohead are OK. (How’s that for a sentence? In both senses of the word.) Their formula is nakedly apparent to me, and thus I feel like a very, very neutral listener (nice whinge; neato loop; whatever) — but they seem to do OK work. Younger people worship them. Younger people weren’t saturated with the same inspirations Radiohead actively steal to cobble together their soundscapes — as I was. They do a nice job of it, but here’s the finale:

I’d be delighted to go tonight — with a date or friends — but there’s no way these guys are worth the exhausting trek across “town” alone (especially during rush hour), thus, to put a very fine point on it:

HEY, RADIOHEAD! YOU JUST HAVEN’T EARNED IT YET, BABY!

(See ya on YouTube.)

Oh, and: Rolling Stone has become a hype-sick caricature of its former glory (long since spent), and during a bit of a surf I happened upon a cover selling T[h]om Yorke, w/caption: “The Future Belongs to Radiohead.”

Uh…more like the past, Wenner. If these guys learned anything from “Elvis Costello” and “Bono,” it’s to scoop up everything you like about Pop, rearrange it, and then sell to sleeping consumers it as if it’s your original creation (which it isn’t).

My approach to Radiohead is going to be this: I’m going to coerce T[h]om Yorke to give *me* money.

Heh.

Hav fun 2nite, kidz!

Et moi?

In some strange gesture of grownupness, I have been invited to a dinner gathering among peers, and have accepted. It’ll be nice. We’re all smart.

Oh, this is funny: I went to a movie Saturday night, and this kinda scary-lookin’ guy lurched toward me at the popcorn counter, and commended me on my hair, which is a bit longer than his — because “his old man told him he’s gotta cut it, he looks like some old rocker from the ’60s, and he’s like, ‘Yeah, what’s wrong with that?’ and you ever been to the Rainbow Room, man? Yeah? Pretty great, huh? I used to go there every night in the late ’80s. I used to sell quaaludes in the parking lot! You know, quaaludes! I call it ‘the drunk pill,’ ’cause you take one and it’s like you’re drunk!…” Etc.

I backed away cautiously.

Gee-zow!

It’s hilarious to me, how quick people are to judge books by their covers.

Hm.

Oh, hey, a cheap segue, but I’ll take it: That Book from last year? Remember that? Almost done. Again. The middle of last year was so utterly horrific for me emotionally that I really couldn’t give the story the grace it merits. So I put it aside. Then I got it out again. Now it’s going very well indeed.

Thus, it woulda been released last year, but let us say: “fourth quarter, 2008″ — one album, one book, one compendium, one very special publication, and the commencement of my first feature film.

This is what you get, when you dump (and dump on) a creative, non-addictive fellow for years on end. You get Progress. (The alternative involves lots of flies.)

In many ways, things have sucked — but hey: Live slow, show up late, do what you love, and leave a handsome body of work.

Voila: Le Goal.

Chanson: “Welcome to the Working Week” by “Elvis Costello”

Permalink Comments

08.24.08

Radiohead Reflections (2008 Update #35 Addendum ‘B’ and Final)

Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 8:42 pm by Gregory

Okay, I finally located the copy of ‘Hail to the Thief’ my friend C. pirated for me four years (FOUR!?!? YEARS?!?!) ago (thanks), and he added some songs from ‘OK Computer,’ thus — finally (despite the utter lack of other records in their whopping seven-record canon) — I feel informed enough to opine — a bit — about this hype-phenom-band called Radiohead.

As I listened — twice — to ‘Hail’ plus selections from ‘OK,’ the following Actual Thoughts went through my mind (in no particular order):

- “Blur are better than this.”

- “Why does every song sound like an awkward remix of ‘Creep’?” (similar chords/tempo plus same whingey-arse vocal)

- “I simultaneously like this okay (OK?) and don’t care about it in the slightest.”

- “Oasis is almost better than this (but not quite).”

- “At least this is five-hundred bazillion times better than fuckin’ Coldplay (not that that’s any challenge).”

(…and speaking of those soundalike simps…)

- “Aha! So this is where they dumped all the ‘Zooropa’ outtakes!”

- “Oh, but — that tiny, unexpected minor ornamentation…hm…it was actually kind of nice.”

And so on (but not much).

Anyway, since I’m taking this whole “T[h]om Yorke is Gawd” thing a bit personally this week-end (when it seems like everybody else is yapping about one obsession, one must take some notice, and respond), the primary consideration that kept running through my mind was:

- “Hey, fuck it, *I* used to write morose, attitudinal Dirge-Pop all the time, and record a lot of it, sometimes singing in whingey-arse falsetto — and I’d give the tapes to friends — some of whom are now significantly invested in the Radiohead Religion — and if they even listened to them, they certainly never breathed a word about it back to me.”

Plus:

- “And why the hell didn’t my friends want to sit around morosely wanking like these guys, and get hella rich from it? Huh? Well?”

Not to mention:

- “Geez, this guy is ten times the pussy Morrissey was.”

Which — most likely — is why chixdiggit. Q.E.D.

Attention, Pretty and Smart and Single Woman Who Happens To Be Reading This: Get us two Garden Box tickets for Monday night, and agree to pick me up and drive us both ways, and pay for fuel and parking, and buy me a six-dollar bottled water, and YOU — yes, YOU — can go see Radiohead!

(I’ll tape it and make you a copy.)

~G

(Tuning-in to Rodney tonight — perchance to glean some insider insight…)

Permalink Comments

The Name Of This Song By Talking Heads Is “Radio Head” (A Dilemma Solved/2008 Update #35 Addendum ‘A’):

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

Hm…well, since nobody likes me*, I didn’t get the call for those free Radiohead tickets I so fully deserve (Garden Boxes or Pool Circle, incidentally; ta).

(* Joke.**)

(** Or is it???)

But I made a lovely new friend this summer, and she can go with her friend — and get in! — if they only TRY (as I informed her), and thus — unlike that stupid, forgettable AIR “concert” I splurged for a few years ago (the things we do for being lured) — I really don’t mind not putting out any effort whatsoever to see Radiohead tonight.

Reasons:

1. T[h]om Yorke is my age. Although Yorke’s been visited with a pile-driving arseload of luck thus far (facial deformity, nifty accent, obvious desperation for attention, shameless tweeness, friends who actually want to DO something together [apart from drink, watch TV, grow older, and die] — plus hype-cultivating management, gobs of money, nice home, smart wife, children), his Pop inspirations (”sources”) are pretty much the same ones I was dealt (in high-school-art-department terms, this was “SmithsCureREM” — plus add the obvious Queen, Costello, Neil Young — although I never liked The Pixies or Sonic Youth — and, also unlike Yorke, I don’t pretend to have a clue about jazz or electronica). Thus, basically, I glance at Yorke and go: “Oh, I probably should have done more of…whatever that is.” Oops. But it also means he interests me far, far less than he apparently interests others. Plus he can’t read music, whereas I can.

2. Hype. I was in an overpriced “natural” food market (is wanton slaughter “natural”?) earlier today, and — well, you know how teen girls talk — a teen girl was squealing to her friend her excitement (”Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!!!”) that she got a ticket to Radiohead yesterday for “like, thirty bucks.” (This was followed by the standard, “You have NO IDEA! You can’t GET these tickets!” line.) I was sincerely attempting to figure out how to mix soy-protein, “pizza” flavour, fresh spinach and maybe something not-too-sweet chocolatey afterward, and thus merely glanced over and caught a bit of her LOUD Radiohead rave — but this proved adequate to illustrate the Hype involved in the tour. All Pop involves Hype — but it’s all less fun when you can smell it coming.

(Plus — this show is obviously much more for her marketing demographic than for mine.)

3. That same girl (or several people exactly like her) will record many segments of tonight’s concert via cell-phone or similar appliance — and then I can simply taste-test the results on YouTube in the morning (if I get the Technical Difficulties repaired).

4. Almost every single show at the Hollywood Bowl is exactly the same. You go for the Entertainment (which is often exceptional) — but the Venue trumps everything; thus, all one need do is attend ONE show at the Hollywood Bowl completely sober, and remember all the nuances (the vague sense of history, the traffic jams, the dour security staff, the traffic jams, the pretty night air, the traffic jams, the fookin’ hyooge crowd and the traffic jams) and then project this Evening Out At The Bowl template over whichever artist(s) you wish you were seeing. Complimented by near-instant YouTube reportage, this process is highly effective (and much cheaper than paying for a date you don’t like!)

5. Rosanna Arquette (the person responsible for inspiring Toto’s “Rosanna” — now playing in supermarket near you!) was standing around in a cinema lobby once, having delivered her recent (and kinda cool) documentary, ALL WE ARE SAYING (basically a groupie’s-eye view of several Pop stars we wish we could be) — and she was waiting for her kids or something, so I decided to ask her a question. The question had to do with my feeling completely adrift in the Pop world since all that hideous ’90s diarrhea ruined everything (I sincerely wish I could go back and erase Cobain, Tarantino, “Mudhoney,” Reznerd, whatever [it's all pointless sludge to me] — but I didn’t mention this specifically). Since Arquette not only interviewed but actually boinked the hapless Peter Gabriel (who has put out some of the finest Pop and put on some of the best live shows I’ve ever seen and heard), I thought: Well, she’s the one to ask. So I asked: “Who’s making the most interesting music these days?” (Or something like that.)

“Radiohead,” replied Rosannna Arquette, with a religious glint in her eye. “Definitely Radiohead. They’re the best there is these days.” (Or something like that.)

But…see…Rosanna Arquette is: A. An exhibitionist; B. An actress (we quibble with terms); C. A groupie; and D. Kind of a numskull — thus, what gets her blood pumpin’ may prove bland to me (a refined person of substance with a brilliant mind). Heh.

Ah, that’s enough.

Oh, wait — one more:

6. A friend of mine is playing a small club tonight — and although I really don’t feel like going anywhere, if I do go anywhere, it’ll be there.

-

And besides, nobody wants to go with me.

Chanson du soir: “Radio Head” by Talking Heads

Have a nice nite!

http://lefsetz.com/wordpress/index.php/archives/2008/04/15/radioheadticketmaster/

Permalink Comments

08.23.08

Free Radiohead Tickets!… (2008 Update #35 & other half)

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

…are being requested by me, right now, for real; please comply if you happen to have two of them you don’t particularly need.

Why?

Honestly, I barely know their work (I vastly prefer Richard Cheese’s version of “Creep”) — however I do know a visitor to this strange land — she comes from far, far away — and she very, very much wants to go see Radiohead.

Oh, that’s right: She has a friend coming to visit her, too. And you know how it is: You put somebody on your +1 list and suddenly they’ve got to bring all their +1s, and etc.

So make it THREE. I’ll put this plainly:

Whoever you are, please give me THREE TICKETS to Radiohead at the Hollywood Bowl this Sunday OR Monday night, no strings attached, and I’ll do something nice for you in return eventually.

Please use the telephone to contact me with the THREE FREE TICKETS TO RADIOHEAD you have for me.

Thanks!

(I’m willing to go check out the mass-hysteria over that sleepy-eyed weird guy and his band. I’ll probably enjoy David Byrne’s new show of his collaborations with Brian Eno significantly more — but hey: When in Radioheadland, do as the Radioheadlanders do.)

THREE FREE TICKETS TO RADIOHEAD. CALL ME IMMEDIATELY. THANKS.

Erm…

As it turns out TEN NIGHTS OF DREAMS is a really excellent movie — Pure Cinema! Ten Thumbs Up! — and I highly recommend viewing it at least twice. My state of Site and Reviews being what it is, I’m not sure I’ll be able to churn a proper rave quickly enough for its limited run — but go. It’s stellar.

Conversations ran the gamut at the after-party (which was lovely), and as it is often my prerogative here to report self-discoveries, I shall do so (if briefly):

When it comes to Film (you know how Serious people’s faces turn when they employ that defining term), I am something of a lightweight. Or — more appropriately — I often opt out of being Vast. There were a few years when I tried — but seeing every movie simply isn’t important to me. For my own satisfaction, my instincts are almost always 100% correct (I shouldn’t, for example, have bothered with Elegy), and although I’m not quite a moron-man caricature who only knows how to watch Anchorman over and over again (haven’t actually seen but a few minutes of it), I nonetheless freely admit that revisiting familiar films often pleases me more than rolling the dice on new shit.

More precisely, although new discoveries can be grand (and, alas, often, aren’t), purely for pleasure I am wont to embrace the familiar, and to savour its subtleties.

It’s a bit about the ego, too: Severely ego-driven people, I have noticed, often wish to go out and “meet the whole world” (or, more accurately: to force the whole world to meet them!) — and it’s hardly as if I’m ego-free (some is needed for healthy balance), but — especially in hella-transient SoCal — I tend to seek the comforts of familiar souls, and to build stories with them over “time” — rather than spreading everything so thin that it no longer has any meaning or resonance (and this same philosophy applies, generally, to movie viewing).

Oh: I delight in socialising — including the rare and wonderful Listening aspect — and simultaneously I must admit that the drill of “Have You Seen This?” and “Have You Seen That?” is something I find a tad exhausting. This may be due, in part, to spending the entirety of my thirties going to movies and writing about them (usually under great duress; really; really-really) — but it’s also something of my nature: I really don’t care to be encylopaedic (although I always loved Pierce Brosnan cracking Cinema-trivial on Remington Steele; I totally don’t care about ‘24′ — I like Remington Steele). Actresses really barely register with me (I usually forget their names if I learn them at all), and it takes quite a visionary to get my attention in the field.

I wouldn’t say what I feel about this is quite…guilt…but I do indeed feel a bit awkward at times when somebody starts raving up their fave recent Netflixes or whatever — and I not only don’t know the movies they’re describing, sometimes (not always) I really don’t care if I ever see them.

“Tough-guy movies,” for instance, is an ideal example of this. I shrug. Or: “’70s movies, man!” (”Everything” — *yawn* — “sucked after the ’70s!!!!!!!” Etc. You’ve heard it.)

I just don’t know what to say; some pretty great movies have been made in every decade, actually. (And many of them don’t even involve people bludgeoning each other — one of the major staples of ’70s cinema.)

Hm.

Turning the topic slightly back toward familiarity, I guess it’s a lot like Pop Music: I tend to set a gold standard, and then, if other things don’t measure up, why bother? (In the case of Pop, has anything even come close to rivalling Queen, The Smiths, Kate Bush, Prince at his peak? Nope!)

I could also go into how this phenomenon may have something to do with my desperate desire to share love with a partner — and how, the more I want it, the lonelier my life becomes — and so I’m sort of dragging my feet in the Pop Culture world, waiting for Somebody so we can both dig into the new offerings together (to quote Piglet: “It’s so much friendlier with two.” I don’t crave sausage, though — so the trick is going to involve finding an intelligent and tolerable woman who is not driven entirely by Appetite [Good! Luck! To! Me!])

I think I’m sleepy.

Erm…

Oh, the other thing: It occurred to me tonight — and I was in delightful company in an elegant and enjoyable setting — that I am often self-deprecating to a fault. I don’t like bragging, and I have just about negative “macho” in me — thus I find that I tend to downplay my achievements (and hopes), and perhaps this disappoints my friends and associates — who (perhaps — I am guessing) not only wish that I could celebrate more of the potential of my own existence (which would probably be more fun for them, when I’m around), but also may feel slighted in their own pursuits by my middling attitude toward the Universe in general (blame my “parents”; I sure do).

I like a lot of people — and have faith in them — but it’s simultaneously true that I don’t really trust anything or anyone anymore. Skyscraper, meet earthquake. Romance, meet asshole. Friends, meet laziness. Family, meet oblivion. Career, meet total soullessness.

I just feel like, hey, all of this could vanish in half an instant; why bother getting all worked up over it?

But this probably grinds the gears for some people.

Sorry about that.

My heart is indeed whimsical — however it is monitored very closely by a mind which thrives on consistency and practicality. Show me that something is worth the effort — and then I’ll warm up and start getting excited.

I’m rambling terribly now, however this feels like the thematic home-stretch: It’s not that I don’t perceive Beauty — I love Beauty! — it’s just that I’m predisposed to perceive the fragile links of folly and weakness (tonight a very congenial fellow told me how much he loves Scarface — and it took a little restraint on my part not to scream to the heavens above: “WHY!?!? WHY DO PEOPLE NEVER SURPRISE ME WITH THEIR TASTES AND OPINIONS!?!?!?!?!?!?!”), and although this practice probably annoys some, to me it feels like a way of being Loving: To notice when we’re in danger of being boring, predictable monkeys. (”Scarface my idol” (sic) – a kid I heard on the street once — for fuck’s sake!)

I don’t require constant novelty — far from it — but I do enjoy it when people surprise me (at least occasionally) with Original Thought.

Which is not to complain — not at all; I had a great time ce soir! — but again to beg the pardon of those who deserve their pardon begged — for my semi-consistent tendency to look a Gift-Life in the Ass.

I love people, I love stories, I love movies, I love art. There’s a bit of Soul in this, a dash of Spirit in that. And…movies…I suppose I think of them now as emotional calling-cards: Attempts to express that which is not conventiently and/or practically expressed back into this world without frame-rates, this world we actually physically inhabit.

I like playing the opinion games (with non-assholes; with assholes it’s completely unbearable) — but I also dread absolutes. Almost everything is a mixed bag. What’s the real intent? Sometimes it’s more fun to cut through the art and reveal the motive.

Something about Emotional Truth — I know that this is a common draw, but I go to movies in order to experience Feelings. They needn’t always be happy or fun Feelings — they need only be True. (Which, alas, may transform into a terrible mess of semantics, as, for example: many would perceive a short, ugly, irritatingly smug bald guy crying and fucking in harrowingly extreme close-up as “True” — whereas I merely see a pipsqueak egotist wasting my evening.)

To me, anyway, apart from the True, the rest is secondary.

Now…

Please call me immediately with THREE FREE TICKETS TO SEE RADIOHEAD AT THE HOLLYWOOD BOWL. (Thanks. It’s not like I have surplus cash to hand out to rock stars and greedy promoters presently.)

Permalink Comments

08.22.08

Appetite for Destruction (2008 Update #35 1/2)

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

Hiya.

Fret not; I still endorse and embrace and exult in my unfinished little essay about how everything I love is gone and now I proceed bleakly into a lifeless void — but there hasn’t been “time” to write about it yet (when Joan Baez joins Peter & Gordon onstage, I am there).

Radiohead? Who? I’m trying to care; I really am…

Anyway, also on the pop-music front (and what is pop music, if not a front?), today’s title-line is swiped from defunct hard-rock band Guns & Roses (whom I never liked). I know, I know. Hey, I’m not judging you about it — but I saw those teen girls who were my peers wearing that t-shirt with the raped/wrecked girl and “Guns & Roses Was Here” on the back, and there was simply no metaphorical resonance to it: It was pure ugliness. No amount of Hair-Bear “shredding” or old-lady-in-flaming-panties-style screeching or Davy Jones-esque “dancing” could make me care after that.

Useful title, though.

In lieu of writing anything of value today (although I’d like to thank Jack Black for his performance in Tropic Thunder for cementing for me the notion that I don’t care to write any more or anymore about peers who get rich and get to make babies and put them in nice houses just because they jerk off onscreen constantly; John Belushi was funny; you’re not), here’s just a simple little list:

DEAR “GOD” (OR WHATEVER), PLEASE DESTROY THE FOLLOWING ITEMS:

1. “Walking On Broken Glass” by Annie Lennox (all copies, plus the master) (I am not joking about this.)

And…that’s it, actually. Do that, and I’ll suddenly become Happy.

I mean, obviously if “God” could see fit to rid the world of disease and famine and warfare and Ellen’s stupid little dance, that would help also. (Bit obvious, though.)

My list could have continued with things like:

2. High Fructose Corn Syrup (and all products containing this poison)

3. SUVs and their drivers

4. Texting

5. Texting SUV drivers

etc.

However, as it is Friday here in America and there’s really very little hope for any of us, today my only demand of “God” is that “he” please destroy Annie Lennox’ “Walking On Broken Glass” immediately (and erase all memory of it, for it is Evil).

THANKS, “GOD”!

Lurv,

~G

Chanson du week-end: “What’s New Pussycat?” (no comma) by Thom — whoops! — Tom Jones

P.S. If you’re in SoCal tonight or this week, check out dreamy omnibus picture TEN NIGHTS OF DREAMS at the ImaginAsian Center, Los Angeles (251 S. Main Street, Downtown), brought to you via Nikkatsu Studios and Cinema Epoch!

Permalink Comments