09.30.08

Ol’ Blue Eyes Is Dead (2008 Update #43)

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

A few months ago, I attended a screening of — man, I really can’t presently remember the name! (This is not memory-loss; it’s being not particularly interested — which is precisely why I can almost never remember the names of actresses.) Um…ummm…

It’s that really long movie about Israel, with Paul Newman in it.

Not joking. Really don’t remember the title.

[Brief meditation upon title...]

Nope! “Shoah” keeps getting in the way!

Gonna hafta Google:

Okay…”Newman Israel epic” yielded it: “Exodus” Of course. But the Bob Marley song claims precedence on that title in my psyche.

Anyway, I went. I didn’t really feel like seeing a movie that particular night — let alone a really long one — but I went. And it was crowded! And it was pretty good (not exactly “Skidoo” — as far as Preminger goes)…but I was actually a bit bored by it, too.

There were a lot of old Jewish people there that night — and they were digging it. (Merry Rosh Hashanah, btw; please hire me.) I felt a bit awkward, sneaking out at the intermission and deciding, once outside, that I was enjoying being outside so much I didn’t really feel like going back in. But then I thought: Well, even though some people did actually stare at me as I walked away, it’s not as if I sit around watching movies about the Vatican or the [crazy-ass celebrity "religion"] Hotel, either.

Besides: I don’t believe in a “Holy Land”; it’s all Holy (except for Ohio and Texas and Germany).

Sometime I’ll go back and watch the second half of Exodus. (I’ve never seen all of Roots or Twin Peaks, either; I’m no completist.)

Anyway-anyway, Paul Newman is the primary star of Exodus, and he’s pretty good in it, actually — and as of last Friday he’s dead.

I search my feelings, as it were, for What Paul Newman’s Death Means To Me — and, alas, there’s not much on the surface. I liked him, I found him amiable, but it’s not as though I ever rushed out (to cinema or video store) to see his movies.

I grew to like what he was doing in Exodus, because he played it against the grain a bit, with a somewhat uncomfortable, mildly antagonistic tone. I like movies — even ones about Strong Spiritual Ideals — in which the characters are complex and sometimes even troublesome. Makes it feel real.

Unless, of course, I don’t CARE about a movie feeling “real” (why this is the primary goal of most artisans in the field is genuinely mysterious to me — want “Real”??? Go OUTSIDE! It’s extremely REAL out there! Who needs a movie for that?!?)

Anyway-anyway-anyway…

You ever go jogging? If so, you know how, sometimes, there’s a slight incline ahead, and it would be much easier to turn around and go back — but you go on, and you test yourself against the incline, and it’s uncomfortable — but you do it?

That was me with the first part of Exodus. I didn’t hate it — in fact, I liked it okay — but it wasn’t gratifying, and it felt like work.

I kept looking at Paul Newman on that big screen, and going: “There’s a big, famous movie star. What’s his deal?”

In absolute honesty, I am most fond of his salsa and snack-crisp items. (Since their net profits go to charity, this makes the purchase even nicer.)

I was at the Indy 500 one year — my driver’s tyre flew off and killed somebody (he still came in third) — and Paul Newman was there. But I don’t think I saw him. Maybe far away, in the grandstand, briefly waving or something.

My first observance of Paul Newman was when I was a little kid, and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was on television. I was sleepy, so I asked my sister to tell me how it ended (she had seen it before). She told me — and then I stayed up and watched it anyway (about which snippy she got).

The concept of “spoilers” has never been too big with me. (Back then, I’m pretty sure there was no widely-accepted word for the issue.) Actually, it bugs me a lot when movie-dorks piss their panties because even an innocuous middle-act detail gets discussed before they’ve salivated over their personal opportunity to sit in the (tape-measured!) EXACT centre of the cinema (with a Movie Dildo up their Movie-Dork anus) for their ritualistic act of popping that particular movie’s cherry for their nasty little selves.

But I think I may digress ever so slightly.

Of course, as long as a movie isn’t punishingly stupid, I don’t usually want its major twists or ending “spoiled” for me, either — but I’m much mellower than most — plus it’s actually beneficial to Wiki some movies’ plots and discard them without actually having to view them.

Unless they’re good.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid I recall as being pretty good. Haven’t seen it since then (shortly thereafter, it was eclipsed by The Love Boat and Fantasy Island) — but, as with most actors, Newman and Redford didn’t stick in my craw as Legends. They just seemed pretty cool. I liked how they died in freeze-frame at the end.

Haw! SPOILED!

Never saw the prequel.

Weren’t they in The Sting, too? Yes, I suppose they were. “The Entertainer” was (of course) the first thing I learnt to play on the piano (thanks, DB! — actually called him up and we talked today!) I don’t really remember The Sting, either. I remember them touching their noses. Robert Shaw was in it. I like Robert Shaw.

But Paul Newman…searching…searching…

Something about a (that diminutive dickhead for whom the twice-as-tall Katie Holmes plays beard) movie…with Newman…and Warren Zevon getting some new royalty cheques for “Werewolves of London”…I didn’t actually see that one.

Trader Vic’s closed! How about that! In 2003, I recall that same diminutive dickhead and Nicole Kidman taking a booth near me, immediately after her American Cinematheque tribute next door — at the hotel bearing the same name as that amateur porn actress.

Oh: My hair has never been perfect. And the only “Pina Colada” I like is the candy.

Another recently-deceased Midwestern movie icon — Sydney Pollack — literally ran into me that night.

Hm.

Paul Newman…man, I don’t mean to insult him or his family or fans…he just never particularly registered with me.

Oh, and I realise that Frank Sinatra first dubbed himself Ol’ Blue Eyes — but I like his daughter better.

Man…what is The Definitive Paul Newman movie? Is there one? Is it Cool Hand Luke? (Haven’t seen that, either.)

I got annoyed, actually, when all those alleged “Screenplay Gurus” kept banging on about how Butch Cassidy and The Sting and Chinatown and — well, basically anything Robert Towne ever crapped out of his ass — was/is The Ultimate Screenplay. I’d rather watch Doctor Who. Fuck your Ultimate Screenplay.

There was SO much pretense about movies in the early ’70s, too — still is — which is why I may respect or even appreciate them — but I rarely enjoy them.

It’s not that I dislike Great Cinema (by anyone’s definition; which varies; a lot). It’s just that I dislike the pretense.

Hm.

Okay, I’m gonna Wiki Paul Newman. Hold on a sec…
…
…
…

All right:

I guess that the major Newman Years were represented by the movies starting with ‘H’ — such as The Hustler (1961), Hud (1963), Harper (1966), and Hombre (1967). Haven’t seen any of ‘em. Not worried about it.

My fave with Newman in it was probably The Towering Inferno.

At the insistence of a film school friend whose iffy car I was babysitting, I drove us to see Cars in Westwood. I found it entertaining, but did not actually like it, as I have revised my perceptions to make the anthropomorphising and otherwise “humanising” of cars to be repugnant. Cars are poisonous deathtraps. Using them to convey a sense of community or (gag!) romance really is disgusting.

But Paul Newman was in it — so a lot of people liked it.

I wanted to write a double-feature review about Cars and Steve Buscemi’s Lonesome Jim (which is not to say his penis; probably) — which I saw with the same friend (Hi, RK) — but I grew weary of contemplating how weird-ass and/or mucho-arrogant guys in movies get The Greatest Gal In Town to be their girlfriend. Liv Tyler? As if!

I liked Lonesome Jim, though. Why not NetFlix it 2-nite?

Oh, yeah — Hudsucker Proxy. That was pretty good. Underappreciated (though no classic).

Did Paul Newman ever do anything weird? Like, an Anthony Perkins role, or even a Steve Buscemi role? Something that wasn’t dry and straightforward?

As a kid, I’d glance at the posters for Paul Newman’s courtroom dramas, and I’d just go: “Nope.”

I wonder what Paul Newman meant to people.

Obviously I didn’t see Road to Perdition.

Well, anyway:

Paul Newman seemed like a nice guy. I’m sorry that Cinema lost an icon.

I shall continue to purchase his snack products.

(I notice that they’ve just jumped on the soy-crisp bandwagon; those things must be mega-cheap to make. Good thing I like ‘em. Maybe I’ll just sit around eating ‘em until I have some real nice boobs of my own to fondle.)

Read something today about some Swiss chef being shut down by the law for attempting to include human breast milk in his salad dressings and creamy soups and whatnot.

Only if it’s fresh, man. Only if it’s fresh.

Y’know, I think the reason I want boobs around me so much — nice ones; not yucky ones — is because they have an immediate calming effect. I’ve been noticing lately — and this is really a topic of concern for me — that I’ve been living in a state of near-constant stress for the past several years. This cannot be good.

Bring boobs to me. Women, come press your boobs against my head while I’m eating, or whatever. Put a boob in each ear as I attempt to sleep until, at least, 10 a.m. I thank you.

What else…oh, I have a job interview in a few hours. Egad. In the Valley. Egad-egad. In L.A., for me, there are only two viable options: 1.) Stay put and let everything come to me; or 2.) Go to the airport and flee the region entirely.

I got up this morning (smattering of applause), went outside (ditto), and the FIRST FUCKING THING I saw (and heard — oh, did I ever) was one of those Mexican guys in baseball caps BLARING across the pavement with his damnable leaf-blower.

I just cursed directly at him. His back was turned, and there’s no way he could have heard Paul Newman approaching him in a Formula 1 — let alone me creatively cursing him — but it’s just, like, fuck off already, you stupid assholes. Go AWAY.

It’s not racism, it’s not class-ism, it’s not even a personal affront to the costume of the occupation — it’s just: Those things SUCK. STOP. USING. THEM. FOREVER.

Ug.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed Michael Taylor’s recent review of The Dark Knight. He and I have enjoyed many, many hours of creativity and critical appraisal over the years, and when he offered his prose, I was delighted to accept!

As for my own prose, it’s interesting; as most other aspects of Life feel that they’re falling away (not everything — just…well, a whole lot of it), the writing, at least, becomes Purer. Less mired in The Everyday.

Again, it weirds me out — people desperately attempting to make their movies and books feel “Real”. It’s a MOVIE. It’s a BOOK. The Very Last Thing It Is Is “Real”!

Perhaps this is why I’m puzzled by Paul Newman. Standing around being “Real” (like Richard Gere, too — someone who very profoundly bores me onscreen) — I simply don’t understand the attraction.

Perhaps it’s a reversal of the clever adage: “Don’t just do something; stand there!” (I prefer it when people Do Something, I suppose. Call me old-fashioned.)

Right, I’m going to go finish watching a Connery-era Bond movie in glorious widescreen VHS now (incidentally, NP, if you read this, thank you for the Kevin McCarthy movie; he’s pretty cool — and 94 and still working!!) — and then get up (much too early), shave, eat yellow things, and put on a blazer for my delightful busride.

May your proverbial busrides be delightful, too (unless I despise you).

Oh: Paul Newman is from Cleveland. This may explain something! (I detest Cleveland.)

Ronnie James Dio is from New Hampshire. Who knew? (He’s not from Hell?)

We Rock.

Oh, and: I heard Mela’s voice tonight. Twice. But don’t think I’m losing it; I called her telephone number, hoping to reach some loved ones. Her voice is still the outgoing message. It is extremely strange — time-warping! — to feel the surge of memories from that voice — and to know that they are, indeed, over.

Song of the Week: “A Skull, A Suitcase, and a Long Red Bottle of Wine” by Robyn Hitchcock

sample lyric:

“You love your woman,
But you just…
…don’t love…
…her dog;
Which means you get a skull,
A suitcase,
And a long red bottle of wine…”

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09.29.08

THE DARK KNIGHT: A Guest Review by Michael Taylor

Posted in ÜberCiné Reviews! at 3:42 am by Gregory

Hello, everyone. Please welcome the first non-me review I’m publishing — which will be transferred soon to the main site. (Eulogies — the in-progress one and another one — will be completed soon as well. And then…well, in six syllables: “Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes!”) Now dig some Michael Taylor! Slainte, Gregory

~

DARK KNIGHT OF THE SOUL

by Michael Taylor 

(*** out of ****) 

It is easy to understand why the second installment of Christopher Nolan’s Batman saga has become the pop culture sensation of the summer and one of the highest-grossing films of all time. It is a cinematic tour de force, distinguished by pulse-pounding action scenes, intelligent dialogue, gorgeous IMAX cityscapes, a top-notch cast and an unforgettable performance by the late Heath Hedger as the Joker. Unfortunately, it also has some lapses in basic storytelling which undermine its coherence and reduce its emotional impact. 

The Dark Knight is a superhero movie that rarely feels like a superhero movie. It lacks the fantasy elements prevalent in films like Tim Burton’s 1989 Batman or Sam Raimi’s Spiderman trilogy. There are no gothic cityscapes, penguin armies or radioactive spiders. Instead, we get the bone-white cement and green glass of modern-day Chicago (doubling as Gotham City) and a cast of characters right out of Law and Order.   

Some critics have called The Dark Knight a crime epic, and it is indeed heavily indebted to that brand of cinema, especially Michael Mann’s 1995 masterpiece Heat. But it’s more than just a cop and robbers story. It also bears a strong resemblance to urban dramas like Sydney Lumet’s Night Falls on Manhattan. Its political preoccupations are very prominent and explored with a surprising degree of depth. As a result the film feels fresh. Nolan’s subversion of genre expectations occasionally creates uncomfortable shifts in tone. We are sometimes uncertain what is allowed in this brave new world of pulp realism. However, for the most part, Nolan succeeds in keeping the film grounded in the real world while allowing us the pleasure of watching a man with bat wings soar above a darkened skyline. 

The plot is convoluted, but can be broken down into a few major movements. Batman (Christian Bale) and police Lt. Jim Gordon (Gary Oldman) team up with Gotham City’s new district attorney, Harvey Dent (Aaron Eckhart), to rid Gotham City of a crime syndicate that is corrupting its civic institutions from the inside out. They succeed, but a new menace arises. The Joker, a self-described “agent of chaos,” begins to terrorize the city with kidnappings and bombings. The film’s final act chronicles the war between the Joker and the forces of law and order –- a war that has fateful consequences for Bruce Wayne, Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes (Maggie Gyllenhaal), an assistant prosecutor whose affections are divided between them. 

The Dark Knight has a uniformly terrific cast.  Christian Bale is strong in the title role, although his ability to convey nuance is compromised once Bruce Wayne steps inside the Bat-suit and begins speaking in the gruff, guttural tones of Batman. Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman exude wisdom and charm as Alfred the butler and Wayne Enterprises R&D chief Lucius Fox, respectively. Aaron Eckhart brings surprising depth to the part of Harvey Dent, which on paper was no doubt the least interesting of the major roles. And Maggie Gyllenhaal provides a welcome feminine presence in an otherwise masculine melodrama, striking just the right balance between toughness and vulnerability. But the man who steals the show is Heath Ledger.  

From the moment Ledger steps onscreen with his greasepaint-smeared face, marred features and unsettling mannerisms, we cannot take our eyes off him. The key to Ledger’s performance is that he doesn’t play the Joker as human. He doesn’t attempt to make him sympathetic or even anti-heroic. In Ledger’s portrayal, the Joker is a combination of Loki and Mephistopheles. He is both playful and deadly serious in setting up elaborate moral tests for Batman, Dent and the citizens of Gotham City. He says to Batman in a moment of dark humor: “You complete me”. But the opposite is true. The Joker is the mystery of evil that allows the decisions of the film’s human characters to have meaning. By precipitating moral crises, the Joker strips away the pretense of goodness to see if there is any real goodness underneath.  

Watching Ledger’s performance, I was reminded of Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire. In that 1951 classic, Vivien Leigh, Kim Hunter and Karl Malden all follow the acting conventions of the time. But Brando achieves a startling naturalism using the then-pioneering technique of Method acting. He dominates every scene in which he appears, and not through an Al Pacino style display of scenery-chewing. Rather, he gives the uncanny impression of a presence or a soul that is larger and more alive than anyone around him. Ledger conveys the same transcendent awareness. Nothing surprises him and nothing shocks him. Whenever he is onscreen, all of the other characters are grasping to catch up with him. Anyone who attempts to take the initiative discovers that his actions were anticipated and woven into the web of the Joker’s schemes. Even more disturbing, Ledger makes us feel that the Joker is seeing straight into the heart of everyone he targets. Nothing can be concealed from him. When he puts his knife into the corner of someone’s mouth, it is not only the flesh that is exposed.  

Emotionally, The Dark Knight is a “narrow” film. Almost every scene is designed to do one of two things: provoke thought or elicit fear. The movie does both of those things very well. The screenplay is packed full of ideas. And Nolan is a master at creating a sense of genuine menace. Within its narrow focus, the movie is gripping. But it never truly coheres. At times, it comes across as a meditation on the predicament of the U.S. in the age of terror. It is rife with 9/11 imagery, and the brutal and intrusive means Batman is forced to use to defeat the Joker are unmistakably linked to the secret wiretapping and interrogation techniques employed in the war on terror. Sometimes these political concerns seem central to the story. At other times, they are overshadowed by the philosophical or even theological implications of viewing the Joker as the personification of chaos or as a satanic figure plotting to destroy the souls of men. In the end we are left with a grab-bag of themes and ideas. Is The Dark Knight advocating that we accept some loss of our physical security for the sake of our civil liberties and our humanity? Is it counseling us to make peace with life’s uncertainty and give up the illusion of control? Is it making an argument for the necessity of the “beautiful lie” to sustain hope in a world without real meaning? Is it presenting Batman as a sort of Christ figure?  

Compounding this confusion in themes is the film’s frequent failure to dramatize its ideas effectively. Its themes do not always arise naturally from the storyline. Instead, these themes are often imposed upon the story in an artificial manner. At some of the most significant moments in the story, I was scratching my head and asking, “Now why is he doing that again?” For example, many of Batman’s associates become disturbed by his methods, and Batman himself begins to question whether the ends justify his means. But these worries seem frankly academic. After all, Gotham City is being terrorized by a psychotic killer with almost magical powers, and Bruce Wayne is plainly acting out of the best motives. We can appreciate the theoretical concerns about one man having too much power, etc., but we don’t ever feel the moral hazard. Consequently, the dramatic decisions that arise from this unease – and they are dramatic – seem all out of proportion to the cause. 

I also had the pervasive suspicion that I was being set up. I didn’t feel I was watching real people making real decisions. Instead, the characters were merely doing the things that the screenplay required them to do. Turning the characters into symbols or concepts robs them of the humanity that would have made them easier to identify with. Maggie Gyllenhaal manages to generate some sympathy as Rachel Dawes, maybe because she’s a woman, maybe because her romantic dilemma feels real. But she is the exception that proves the rule. Harvey Dent in particular undergoes a dramatic transformation that is difficult to believe. None of this is the fault of the actors. They do well with what they’re given. But the screenplay is too eager to make its points and sometimes leaves the actors hanging. 

It is a credit to Nolan’s direction that The Dark Knight is so engaging even with these flaws. It offers so many bravura moments and memorable lines that the audience doesn’t realize what it is missing. And what is that? For me, it was mood and character. I wanted some respite from the constant menace, some relief from the onslaught of big ideas. I wanted more of the inner lives of the characters: imagination, desire, despair, hope, tenderness, obsession, rage, melancholy. Nolan is a skilled director who knows how to make his audience think and how to punch them in the gut. But the best filmmakers know how to use sound and images to create and sustain a mood that evokes the inner state of the characters and makes the audience feel what the characters are feeling. If Nolan can broaden his range to include this extra dimension, he may have a masterpiece in him. The Dark Knight is not that masterpiece, but it is a great leap forward from its predecessor Batman Begins, and it towers above most summer blockbusters in its moral seriousness and epic ambitions.

© 2008 Michael Taylor, published by ÜberCiné

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09.28.08

Wear Your Love Like Heaven: A Eulogy for Mela (2008 Essay #40)

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

Many magical moments waft through my mind and heart as I recline this misty Pacific night to contemplate and appreciate my friend Mela, who no longer walks this Earth she loved so enormously that no words (not even mine! [she'd like that; she liked me writing, compared me to Mark Twain!]) could ever do the feeling justice.

To begin with just one reflection, I recall sitting on her staircase with her, one sweetly partly-cloudy afternoon — carpeted it was, soft, elegant, bedecked with crystals and statues and all sorts of gorgeous things, always with the finest hints of incense imbuing her rooms with a sense of wonder — and we spoke casually, and gently, and I recall looking at this woman, Mela, and thinking silently behind my words: “She is so outrageously beautiful; I am sitting here, speaking one-on-one with one of the most beautiful women in the whole world; and she is my friend! And I am her friend!” There was an eroticism about those moments because all moments about Mela entailed eroticism. And yet, moreover, I felt this pronounced sense of Honour, and Goodness, and (she’d like this, too) Light. It was just a day, an afternoon, somewhere in the Pacific Northwest, and it was perhaps (let’s just say) 1994? (It could just as easily have been 1992, or ‘93, or ‘95…) But those details don’t matter so much in this recollection; what does matter is that, if we Humans are the stuff of Vibration, of Resonance, then that day I felt especially honoured that my Resonance was allowed a casual spell in the midst of such a grand and inspiring — and sensationally Resonating! — Lady!

I miss Mela a lot, especially now that she is gone (she was released from her physical Form on 22 June, 2008 — I really still can’t believe it), and friends, there is no way any tribute to her could fit into a “blog” posting — however, it does weigh heavily on me that she is gone, and knowing her as I did, I am certain that she would not wish her memory to weigh heavily on anyone. Mela was many entities to many people, but above all she personified Lightness. Bless her.

I write then, this evening, to release Mela. From this angle. Not to forget her — I could never do that! — and also not to deify her with only fuzzy, soft-focus, New Agey recollections. That was often the sort of worldview she preferred — or so it seemed from my limited perspective — but it behooves me to remember and release Mela tonight my way — for Her and for Me.

Which is hardly to say that Mela and I had a consistent, one-on-one relationship! Rather, it is impossible to reflect on Mela without including the various Spirits and very Corporeal Forms of her many, many, many, many, MANY friends and loved ones. Indeed, friends, I was never Mela’s lover, or anything like that — but I loved her, and many loved her, and many love her still, and tonight I join them. Since they all still walk this Earth, though, and since it would be unfair to them to cite personal memories involving them without their consent, I shall go right ahead and cite a few personal memories (!) — except, as is my wont, I shall only note the existence and participation of each individual by means of either an initial or an abbreviation. This seems Fair.

Oh: And please don’t expect a fully cogent or even elegantly stream-of-consciousness-y river of Events in my recollections here; such a task is simply too much to ask of me — like gathering all the pollen of a massive field of flowers and arranging it via ROYGBIV hues on the flapping wings of a butterfly. Terrible metaphor, maybe, but nonetheless accurate! Mela’s life was an explosion of Colour and Joy and Music and Wonder and Vibrancy — and relative to her near-60 years, I experienced a precious but relatively small portion of it. Many others can fill in the rest. What I can do is share a bit of the Experience — Beautiful and Human — I was fortunate enough to share in the midst of this stunning and revolutionary person.

First of all, there is the West Coast. Or — as many jealous conservatives call it — the Left Coast. This was the terrain of Mela. The Experience would not have been the same had she inhabited South Africa, or Denmark, or Korea. Mela was a California Girl who became a California Woman — and, later, a Pacific Northwest Woman.

I suppose that it would be okay to mention that she was known to fly one thousand miles to the south — to get her hair done by her trusted SoCal stylist. Sounds like a jab, perhaps, mentioning this (my reverence for Mela does not preclude lapses of honesty) — but really this is simply who she was, in her “time” and place. Mela was a model in her younger years (I’m still astounded that she graced the cover of a popular ’70s FM rock album), and while her dedication to Form — hers and, later, the Forms of houses (she became an accomplished decorator) — frequently felt to me like shallow vanity (remember, I am from the Midwest — where people fret over their looks as much as anywhere, but are generally less successful in remedying them), it should be noted that any cynicism from me about her obsession with physical Beauty is probably more to do with my own fiercely vacillating interest in the subject, and less to do with her near-mastery of it.

My second choice of headline for this posting was, “She Walks In Beauty” — which was a poem oft-recited (with varying accuracy) in Mela’s presence; and a Truer statement could hardly be made. Mela was obsessed with Beauty — and she did Beauty like nobody I’ve ever met before or since. However — and this is significant — Mela also inhabited The Real World; and, thus, a whole lot of Not-Beautiful Americana often surrounded her. She did her best to dodge or festoon or diminish it — but that Not-Beauty was always there at the fringes (she lived her many last years very near to a loud, heavily trafficked road), and Mela walked in that, too. So I cite the poem’s title because it is True — and I don’t employ it as Overlying Theme because there was, of course, much more to the story.

In fact, my first choice for headline was “She Just Wasn’t Made For These Times” — to me, an even Truer appraisal of the magnificence of Mela’s worldview — plus, being a California Girl, there was something pivotal about employing a song from Brian Wilson’s creative peak to crystallise that which made Mela so remarkably unusual: The Beach Girl Totally Out Of Context, if you will. But Mela never struck me as a Beach Boys fan, per se (by the time I first met her, in 1991, she was on to much huger concepts) — plus I just re-read those Brian Wilson lyrics online — and Mela, though quite capable of anger and outrage, simply wasn’t one to be dour.

Mela was a Virgo.

Here, let me tell you something somewhat shocking: During the years I saw and experienced Mela the most (1991-1995; though I visited later), I WASN’T REALLY CAPABLE OF RECEIVING HER MASSIVE RESERVOIRS OF LOVE, BEAUTY AND ACCEPTANCE! This is not to call Mela a “goddess” — many did (and do), and frankly calling a Human a “god” or “goddess” just pisses me off, because let’s face it: we’re not — however (and this a great big HOWEVER), Mela let me in, and loved me, and fed me (details to come!), and showed me such sweet and delightful hospitality as I have never known anywhere else, ever. And I didn’t reject it — nay-nay, not even a boy reared on original punk rock (I sometimes carried The Clash in my heart for “protection” against hippie bullshit) could be stupid enough to miss the luscious Beauty on offer in Mela’s world (and, to those who shared it, we really were merely living in it). But I did have issues with accepting her gifts fully, as they were intended. She pushed me, let’s say — and once in a while I pushed her back (a bit) — and just as one’s reflections of a former lover may embellish the wonders and downplay the horrors, my current reflections of my friend — Our Friend! — Mela, may involve the struggle of separating the Glory from the Story. I can’t really provide you with full measure of either, here, tonight — but I can say that Mela and I most certainly did not always see eye-to-eye, and although we concurred on the Big Picture, we just as often encountered stumbling blocks in communicating it.

As but one example, when Mela would have parties and gatherings — and they were stellar, really gorgeous affairs, always to the inspiration and illumination of all involved — often I would find that my “bullshit detector” (thank you, Clash: “Garageland”) would go off — and rather than offending my/our beautiful hostess, I would put on my boots (sometimes there was deep snow) and tromp outside into the fields, and take a long walk by myself. Why?

Well, looking back, it was probably a Boomer/Gen-X thing. I’m almost forty now — around the age Mela was when I first met her — and it still exhausts me, all the Boomer Bullshit cluttering up the world and making it nearly impossible for the next generation (i.e.: me/us) to land a reasonable living and a happy existence. So was Mela a Boomer wolf? Naw. Nothing like that. She was generous! But when a Boomer New Ager throws a big bash, odds are there is going to be a lot of weird, loosey-goosey New Age talk sucking up all the oxygen. Chiropractors would show up — I hate chiropractors — and they’d run around “adjusting” everybody. Spiritual mediums. Gay African men apparently wearing ornate tablecloths. Etc. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the people (my loathing of chiropractors is more a general distaste for unnecessary physical silliness at great expense; how ’bout a backrub, hon?) — it was more that Mela attracted huge waves of all sorts of colourful and, indeed, spiritually intense (shall we let slip with an “arrogant” or two?) people. And sometimes it was too much for me. (Bullshit Detector: “WARNING! WARNING!…”) So I’d go outside and get lost for a while (which, to me — communing with the outrageous Beauty of a starry winter night in the snowfields — felt more like what all their “deep” words and “passionate” gestures could never quite transcribe, inside, in the gorgeous warm house).

And sometimes I stayed in. You see, as a critic (though Mela didn’t approve of my review of The End of the Affair — which I wrote ridiculously hurriedly while my “life” was exploding all around me in the most harrowing and unpleasant ways), I have honed my ability to seek the weakest aspects of a work FIRST, and to hammer them — even if I like or love that work. I’m not a hard-ass, and I’m not usually a meanie — but mere pans and blowjobs don’t appeal to me (as a writer, LOL). I seek the flaws in what I love, just as I seek what’s good about something I dislove (that really ought to be a word). And so it goes with discussing The World of Mela: I may as well have hit “Hyperspace” and landed in Zimbabwe or Narnia — I went up there on my own, and in many ways my experiences were those of an alien — a much more cynical alien than I am now.

I have Mela, in large part, to thank for being able to see beyond the cynicism, incidentally. (Which is ironic — for she could be viciously cynical [mainly toward planetary destruction and its bringers] — but Beauty, for Mela, always won.)

So, yeah, when everybody was running around spewing New Age goo (I have never seen so many crystals — anywhere — in my whole life), I underwent extremely strong feelings telling me to bolt — to get the hell out of there, to go play Galaga at 7-11 (actually, it was Spy Hunter at the laundromat on the nearby Native American reservation — the sit-down model, yo!) — in short, to do anything but get sucked into the silliness — but sometimes I loved it, too. Sometimes I stayed in. I ate my bizarrely-spiced tofu and drank my homemade chai (this was considerably prior to chai becoming the adult, “thophithticated” equivalent of Hershey’s Quik it is now) and marvelled — marvelled! — at the Beauty around me.

The Beauty which Mela summoned.

We were all searching, see. Note the years: Grunge had effectively separated me from my peers — they loved it; I found it really deeply disgusting and offensive — and them crazy Boomers — well, even the vestiges of their alleged Summer of Love were pretty much evaporated by that point. (Notably, Mela was actually at the Rolling Stones concert at Altamont; she was Light, but no mere piece of fluff.) We were searching. Somehow we came together.

(Hm…how do I do this? I really find it complicated…which it was, it was…)

Well, why not? A BRIEF CHRONOLOGY:

Summer, 1991: I quit my fourth-tier P.A.-ship on WAYNE’S WORLD at Paramount (nepotism had provided for the exec producer’s son, and the director’s daughter, and even Randy Newman’s son — but not so much for underpaid, slaving me), and the very next morning boarded a plane for the PacNW with my friend MD, whom I was dating. She was separated, and searching, too. L.A. gets to people. Sane people, anyway. After my tumultous university years, Silver Lake smog-madness and rough romps through Paramount and CAA, I was desperate for a change. So was MD. She wanted to move to the PacNW — maybe, possibly. I just needed air — and had no idea how to move to Ireland (then my ideal). So we flew. Next thing I knew, we were being picked up at the airport in a grey Volvo by Mela. She took us to the home she shared with her husband, F. Amazingly (to me), they had been inhabitants of Silver Lake, years earlier — and I’m pretty sure that’s where they met.

The visit was, for me, extraordinary. I had never been to the PacNW before — and especially not with a pretty and smart accomplice, staying in the most excellent home of such resolutely Resonant people. It was like a Dream. We ate, we danced, we walked, we played with horses, we visited astounding friends such as JB and her man R, and we even went to an environmental summit at a movie studio in Vancouver, where Ed Begley, Jr. was the Master of Ceremonies (it pleases me to see that he’s still doing this sort of thing). “He walks his talk!” declared Mela, with a giggle, of Begley. Like much slang phraseology at the time (”thong”; “Internet”) this was New. It was such great fun. My date and I even encountered Christopher Reeve — who was up there shooting a movie (he was “roughed-up” in fatigues and faux-mud makeup) — and they were old friends, and she immediately turned ALL of her attention to Superman — and just as I wasn’t strong enough to stand alone then, I certainly wasn’t strong enough to stand there for long as my date’s eyes danced all over The Man of Steel (he really was ridiculously handsome) — so I bailed for a few minutes — but we all got over it, and it was a lovely experience.

During that trip, I decided I’d probably move up there — at least for a while. I had some half-formed notions (James Spader’s bacherlor-house in Sex, Lies and Videotape?) of “getting a place of my own” and staking out an existence in what was, for me, a New Frontier. Of course, nothing worked out even remotely like this (these stories could go on for at least the rest of 2008) — however Mela — with F — hosted me, us, made me feel like there was a Soul to the region. They were remarkably different people, it turns out, but at that time they were a Unit — and their Unit inspired me greatly.

Frankly, without spending the whole night on it, they were kind of like my Anti-Parents!

Yeah — Summer ‘91, I met Mela — and I discovered Beauty in America. Surprise!

Spring, 1992: I moved back up there — this time alone. MD and I had helped and healed and sometimes hurt each other, but it was time for me to go on alone, and nowhere in L.A. did I seem to belong (goodness…so much has changed…not). I ended up moving into a large house in the deep woods, about a forty-five minute drive from the magical home of Mela & F. Except…it wasn’t so magical anymore. I mean, it was…but that Unit — that Union — had shifted…dramatically. It is not my story to tell, however from my close if limited perspective (they were still the centre of my universe up there), the gradual dissolution of their Union was, for me, mildly harrowing. Perspectives change, and sometimes even people change (though, it has been my experience to note, very, VERY rarely) — but for Mela & F to become simply Mela…and F — this was shocking. I’d go there and much moodiness would dent the veneer of Spiritual Bliss I had experienced the previous year.

MD came to visit, and we’d delight in one another’s company (she’s a magical gal herself) — and one morning in the woods I even received a call from Australia (!) — from the girl I had thought, a couple of years prior, I was most likely going to marry (nothing else made any sense at all; I still don’t have any clue how she got the number!) — oh, and WR called a few times from my old hometown, because her mother probably put her up to it (her mother thought we’d be a great match; where the hell was she in eighth grade when I had a boner for her daughter all day long?) — and of course I attempted to date appropriately-aged women in the area (readers may reflect upon my staccato experiences with the Indian-British girl whom the American border guards abused with unveiled racism; she really did smell terrible, though) — and so on. But mainly I had recently detached from MD — we’d see each other occasionally, when she’d visit Mela — and I was stuggling like holy hell to make a go of “Life” in the Real World — which — working in a big, loud record store owned by greedy-ass Boomers — was, in fact, rather challenging, and didn’t exactly leave much room for being all gooey-ass New Agey on the side.

It was a weird balancing act.

As of Spring, 1992, I really lived there, though (these days it really seems like a Dream — the conifers, the clearcuts, all of it) — and, as I said, Mela (and, still beside her, F) was the major core about which I orbited. They had Money and Local Prestige and were wont to Luxuriate Spontaneously — and I was working my ass off, and feeling like I’d never catch up — but they were, nonetheless, my People, my Friends. I not only Loved them; I Needed them.

And they were breaking apart. It took years — and, again, it is not my story to tell — but to put it simply: Others intervened. They sought Love and Partnership in ways utterly bewildering (very civilised, and affectionate; just bewildering) to my much, much, much more “conservative” Midwestern expectations (where people generally get married, stop loving, and plan their retirement and funeral arrangements). Their marriage was effectively over, but the house they shared — that Beautiful house! — was still ROARING with Life!

This was even more confusing for me than the initial Hippy-Dippy jazz.

From my angle, also, Mela –and– F kinda ruled the region. They were like local royalty. People knew and respected them, and when they showed up — even later, individually — they brought a sort of Glamour with them.

Kind of fascinating (to me): During all this “time” — from my near-proposing-to-Aussie-girlfriend-who-became-despicable-Feminazi-lawyer to my admission of defeat and retreat from the PacNW back to the comfy pleasures of SoCal (big-time sarcasm), the television series Northern Exposure was airing, and being a hit. While it did not precisely mirror my experiences, I must say that I connected with it — to the point that it became, by 1993, semi-mandatory weekly-viewing — kind of a bridge between my SoCal experiences and my PacNW ones. I relate to ALL of its characters — and one night I even listened to Tom Waits’ “Martha” over and over again as I drove through a huge blizzard, alone, tears pouring down my cheeks (it’s a fucking great song!), in my bitchin’ ‘70 Mustang, to Roslyn, WA (the exterior location for “Cicely, Alaska”) — where The Brick is a real pub, and where they really tuned in Northern Exposure on Monday nights (was it?) for the locals.

To conclude that digression: I got the lead in a musical play in Seattle in 1995 (a vampire role; I was trying to impress one of the surrogate lovers of F — who toyed with my affections quite painfully for three years; and who never bothered to see the play [though, happily, Mela and MD and friend/not-friend N did: I could have devoured them all that night, they were so unrelentingly Beautiful]) — and this, plus a Shakespeare class I was attending, led to a casting call for Northern Exposure — and I actually got cast! As a featured extra! (Still need to investigate Season Six for my Moment!)

But that year, that miraculous programme died. The producers and CBS execs clearly didn’t know what to do with it, and they thought that merely subbing a new nebbish would cover for the peculiar departure of the old nebbish (one of my sisters suggested replacing the nebbish-doctor with a female doctor from Nairobi — anything! different!) — and it didn’t work, and it got flip-flopped all over the week…and it died.

Literally the day I was driving out of the region — I was struggling pretty badly financially (it’s mostly retirees and California rich-asses who can actually stay comfy up there; and the locals really hate the latter), and had very nearly taken a job as a midnight cabbie for bullshit money (the company owner — who operated out of a run-down trailer — promised me “about $200″ “A night?!” “Per week.”) — which was the catalyst (in addition to smelly hippies who soured my view of the region something awful; but they won’t fit here) for my leaving and returning to an …Into The Fire experience with the crazy-ass Prozac-commercial-actor co-occupant back in Silver Lake — THAT was the day that the Northern Exposure production offices were closing permanently and offering an AUCTION of various costumes and properties, open to the public!

But it was a couple of hours out of my way — and the ‘70 Mustang (like the vampire role, mainly another attempt to impress the silly bitch who’d been stringing me along) had been giving me exposive trouble (fuel kept leaking into the exhaust system — then detonating beneath the back seat!) — so I somehow talked myself out of going to that Northern Exposure auction. You know how Guilt and Brokeness can keep you from doing something special, something maybe not vital but definitely once-in-a-lifetime, which really means something to you? It was like that. I was very stressed out, and decided that I needed to drive those 1,000 miles Mela would routinely fly for her haircuts — and I needed to drive them alone (on the way up, I listened to the Mind’s Eye production of The Lord of the Rings the whole way — only later discovering that the BBC version is far superior, alas — but thanks to MD; I think we went Dutch on it) — and that was that.

Oregon was terrifying. The car kept exploding…

And that…and Weed…those are other stories. (Weed, CA, incidentally.)

There are subtle Mela connections, though — but first please allow me to conclude this brief chronology:

1993-1995 saw gradual increases in my love and appreciation for — and occasional alienation from — Mela (& Co.). It really is not a stretch to call that “time” Magical. Maybe this entire entry should be about that chapter. But one writes what one can. I visited often. I brought friends a couple of times (both beginning with ‘D’ — one a crazy Left Coaster; one a not-crazy Midwesterner — both thought Mela was the weirdest person they’d ever met — we stayed over).

There was Music — always (as the kidz say) Music. Now THIS could really go on for a month or two — just attempting to put any of it into words. Let’s have it suffice that Mela — in addition to worshipping The Goddess — worshipped Music. F is a musician. Intervening, there was Da. — also a musician. (Da. used to drive me fucking crazy — he’s as arrogant as he is brilliant — but boy did we have some fun times. One night — Mela was CONSTANTLY in the process [Canadians taught her to pronounce that with a long 'O'] of rearranging everything all over her impressively overdecorated home — she decided that the lamps in one particularly gorgeous, sunken room needed moving about. “LAMP!” I would cry. “LAMP!!” Da. would respond. Like two aliens getting accustomed to Earth-words. It was awesome. And once again, there is no “time” or space to get into all the intricacies of the “supporting characters” — but Da. is definitely a character! And a kind of genius. Pretentious in a way that doesn’t quite make you hate him. I miss him. I wonder if he’s still in Winnipeg…)

And then came De. There was much, much, much confusion and heartbreak and especially PrOcessing in that house while my own life was being buffeted about by Grunge and pauper’s wages — but when Mela found De., she was in love beyond measure (I drove her up to Vancouver once, and the whole time she raved of “being in love”). Somehow, he and F got along, too. Of course, I wasn’t there for all of it. But they were all so beautiful and talented.

I still haven’t expressed my love and condolences to De. I must!

Oh, there is so much here…

De. really became Mela’s Partner. Everything shifted. Music was always a part of the house — but it was De.’s raison d’etre. (I had never seen a man play violin and harmonica simultaneously before — and gorgeously.) I could stay up all night just attempting to name all the string instruments De. loves to play.

Uh…and let us say that Mela and De. liked to…um…”accentuate the positive” sometimes, too. My “goddess,” I never thought I’d laugh so hard as the night I pulled in with crazy D from SoCal (who already thought the whole trip was nutso; this was in 1995) — and De. emerged from a session of…”accentuation” with Mela…striding down the distantly aforementioned carpeted stairs to the truly extraordinary Kitchen (greatest Kitchen I have ever known) — um…totally naked. I turned…and D turned…and we were just planning on, you know, a midnight snack or something — and there was Magical De. with his long flowing hair and Pan’s goatee, giving us a free show of Magical, Mystical, Musical Member. (LOL!!!) It simply didn’t occur to him that we might find this weird. When the thought finally showed up (it seemed to arrive via “Media Mail”), he slowly brought his outrageously Musical hands together to conceal his package — of which, of course, we had already seen quite enough. But it was pretty great — as memories go.

Come to think of it, nudity was never much of a big deal in Mela’s house.

During those years, we’d gather, at Mela’s behest, for Solstice and Equinox rituals, too. Mind, these didn’t involve any nudity — but were sort of an amalgamation of New Agey concepts, East Indian spirituality, and traditional Native American rituals — kind of free-form but also kind of enlightened: We’d celebrate the changing of the seasons, speak of what we had inside us, and then feast. Oh, here we go:

Mela was a gourmet vegan cook. Mind, I went vegetarian before even meeting Mela — but once we met, I perceived a mild sort of competition. Not between us as cooks or chefs — no, there was no contest: I liked to eat garlic mochi with soy-butter and that was good enough for me. Mela, on the other hand, would TOUR THE WORLD through her cooking — again, a topic which could fill many, many entries, and still come up inconclusive in terms of the Magic (this time, culinary) she wrought. She was a Genius in this regard. And the “competition”? — well, sometimes we played a bit of More Vegan Than Thou. I always won — because I was poor and had donated my leather jacket to the Bosnian relief fund, and could live without Lindor balls (which Mela loved). But in terms of scope, Mela was the Super Genius Vegan.

Alas, much as I’d like to, I cannot go on all night with this, so please allow me to touch upon the final chronological memory of that brilliant (if sometimes tribulation-laden) Chapter of my life — with Mela in it — from 1992-1995:

I couldn’t make it work. I just couldn’t. I thought I’d be able to make a Life in the PacNW — but the frictions were too strong (somewhere between the Grunge and the Hippies, I found the environment intermittently abrasive) — and after being invited for interviews and rejected multiple times at the local newspaper, and after DELIVERING the local newspaper (out of my car — my first car, the Silver Escort wagon — on the Res.), and mopping up all manner of shit at the Humane Society, and listening to too much shit (not all of it shit — but a lot of it) at the Boomer-ass record store, and then being very nearly reduced to Slave Cabbie — I threw in the towel — and announced that I’d be leaving the region.

Mela took this kind of hard. Not terribly hard (I don’t suppose): She had De. and many good friends (I wonder how C is doing), and although financial matters weren’t exactly being her friend, either (her spending abilities massively eclipsed my own, the poor dear), she wasn’t going anywhere.

Mela offered to throw me a going-away party — and I accepted.

A few friends showed up, and the dishes were lighter than at her massive Feasts, but oh, it touched me, it really did. It was for Me! Mela threw a party to celebrate my existence, and to wish me well (as I ventured back to a place that the local Hippies call “Babylon” — they really do!)

That night. Oh…it was moving. It was probably kind of low-key for Mela & Co. — some casual benedictions, some curry-rice dishes, some delicious food and drink all around — plus the transitions between/among her and F and De. and all were still transitioning — and I really felt that I had lost my chance at Home and Love (the kind of moron-artist called J; in ‘95 I had finally realised that she’s an unconscionable user) — and it was bittersweet, as departures tend to be.

But Mela honoured me — even when all it would bring her would be my prolonged absence. (Hold your jokes.)

I sure wish I had taken some photos that night, or some video. It was very special.

Then I hit the road, and the road most aggressively hit back, and here I am, still, in “Babylon” (heh!).

ASSORTED MEMORIES:

To Be Continued…

(This software won’t let me write any more here!)

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09.26.08

Women and Why I Have Given Up Hope

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

Although some behavioural evidence suggests that — even now, in our nearly completely self-obsessed, fully appetite-driven, frightfully Cyborgian age — a barest modicum of distinction and separation perseveres between the human genders (of which there are precisely TWO*), I feel it is fair to both you and me to establish that I rarely perceive things this way anyway; and whether this is due to inhabiting, protractedly, an alleged “city” (rolling catastrophe) of more than ten million mostly-unhinged humans (see: Media), or due to some inherent strength or deficiency on my part, this is hard to know, and even harder to prove. But I can say what I see: I see (and, usually, greet) individuals and small packs of humans with a reasonable degree of warmth (as long as they’re not confirmed assholes), and I perceive them all (even the assholes) thusly: As Spirits which have assumed — very possibly randomly and even perhaps against their wills — Form. While some general patterns can be said to go along with some Forms (young black guys really are the loudest people on the bus; fat women really are vindictive; know-it-all white guys really “blog” too much), it’s rarely of much interest or significance to me whether someone is lightly or darkly pigmented, tall or short, thin or wide, or (the #1 determiner of Character in this alleged “city”) has a nice car. I really don’t care about those things, and they only cross my mind (along with religion and politics and other tedious obstructions to Living) when somebody chooses to raise a stink about them (which, alas, is often; too often).

Thus, when it comes to gender, I remain consistent in this mode of perception: For its employment is especially fluid in America, where it is now nearly impossible — by behaviour, mind — to distinguish males from females (this could have something to do with Idiocy trumping Sex; just as, to consider de Toqueville, Class trumps Race). Meanwhile — despite, for the sake of conversation, not really caring which plumbing somebody got at birth via luck-of-the-draw — I continue to be astounded as females claim more and more power and autonomy and The Right To Be Jerks Just Like Guys Are — and yet, concurrently, their penchant for Do These Jeans Make Me Look Fat? only intensifies (and sharply). What gives? In the first person: You want to be in control of absolutely everything — AND, on random occasions, you’d like to become “vulnerable” in terms of (decidedly generous) ass-size appraisal? How is a straight and straightforward male human to respond to such constant and relentless contradictory messages?

Well, this straight and straightforward male isn’t bothering to try anymore.

(*Tinkerers may have their rights, but as in plumbing there are Innies and there are Outies, so in gender-philosophy there is Yin and there is Yang; I speak here of universally-established poles, absolutes — not of sloppy Thai-surgery homebrews.)

Also note: We, as humans, have a tendency to dismiss Concepts at the first blush of a Convenient Definition — but kindly don’t do that here; for in this case, I speak (write) not of obvious “handles” such as bitterness or detachment; for I am neither bitter nor detached!

Rather, in simplest terms, my perspective is more a case of: This is TOTAL bullshit; I’m taking my balls and going home.

(”Home”? Well — perhaps in some other ramble…)

The skinny (even for those who aren’t): I really do perceive first the Spirit — and then am gradually led to notice its various manifestations, ornamentations and trappings (first-person hint, to many relevant cases: you are much more preoccupied with your ass than I am). Naturally, this general Spiritual awareness translates equally between women and men (who, as aforementioned, have become increasingly difficult to tell apart) — and as a straight, straightforward male human, I seek (these days often dutifully, wearily) a straight, straightforward female human (if such a creation exists; doubt it); HOWEVER (and this is pivotal), I’m much too smart to fall in with cheap refrigerator-magnet and coffee-mug snipes about the alleged “opposite” sex in GENERAL, just because my personal attempts to find and co-create a happy union have been, on the whole, fucking miserable.

To put upon it a fine point: No sexism is here offered, implied, or to be inferred.

Of course, in general, it is annoying (to say the least) to have to put up with female humans granting themselves ENORMOUS (and ridiculous!) social and material entitlements (often of a very rude nature) just because they have to bleed out of the crotch once a month (Boo-hoo. You also, statistically, get to live longer, and the kids and neighbours like you better.) while they cite “facts” from some vaguely-remembered undergrad class led by an ugly lesbian with halitosis, concerning how “oppressed” their sex has (allegedly) been since the dawn of “time” (or whatver) — naturally, by those dastardly Men (fun fallout; lucky me).

But I tend to be lenient toward the allegedly “fair” sex, if for no better reason than this: Men (excluding me and several of my friends; we sure didn’t fucking cause this shitstorm!) ARE largely responsible for the Earth and its Children being pushed — shoved! — constantly! — to the brink of Doom; and while Women have most certainly been (at least) part-time assholes since that ol’ dawn of “time” (and, glancing around these days, they certainly haven’t lost their touch!), it IS certain that MEN make war, MEN enslave, MEN corrupt, MEN destroy, and MEN spend most of their “time” and energy striving to make Earth a shrieking, sweltering, miserable Hell.

Doubt me? Go pick up the vestiges of a newspaper.

Any newspaper; from any era.

It’s all very unpleasant.

In the midst of this, however, I simply see People as People. Usually, in a place like this, it’s more like an ill-mannered Wad of People (often annoying the living shit out of everybody else by their stunning lack of consideration) — but Women? And Men?

Not much difference, to me, in the Big Picture.

I afford these pompous introductory notions as a necessary foundation — Go for it, Women! Save the World! I would’ve TOTALLY voted for Hillary! — for the gist of this posting, which is this:

Women — via direct interaction (and lack thereof) — have caused me to give up Hope.

No melodrama. No diary of a madman. (I wouldn’t even run around shooting my ex-wife’s cats like Ozzy got to do — and get away with it!) Nay-nay. As a species, Humans are all the same to me, and as a sub-species (if you will; most do), Women are probably the best shot we’ve got at not completely destroying the only Home we have.

I believe this (although, in future citations, please feel free to remove the “Ozzy” bit).

And…

Although I may like this cashier, and that scientist, and the volunteer-woman at the library, and my former teachers, and — indeed — Female Humans in general…

…I nonetheless must admit defeat — and retreat — in attempting to survive in the immediate midst of Women.

It is TERRIBLE.

(As the kidz text: “WTF?”)

Where to begin?

Oh, yeah — I already did.

Where to conclude?

“Hi! I think you’re pretty but I also think you’re smart, and here’s some nice flowers, and let’s have a walk, and I’ll pay for dinner, and here’s some warmth and affection but not too much, and yes, of course, I am supportive of you and your dreams and goals. Hello? HELLO?…”

Failure.

“Oh, hello. You’ve been staring at me obsessively all night. Yep — only a couple of encounters and your clothes are already all over the floor. And…what? You’re my Girlfriend? You Love me? You Adore me? Okay! What do you need? Want me to listen to your crazy-ass blather all fucking day and night? Sure! I get vagina out of the deal? Awesome! Maybe someday you’ll grow up. Heck, I’m banking on it. Oh — but I did the wrong thing, didn’t I? I liked you back. Hey, where’dya go?”

Failure.

“Um, you like my jokes and I’ll attempt to tolerate your violent anger-management issues and — what? — you have relatives in the Klan? G’BYE!!!!”

Failure.

“Oh, cool, you’re hugging me constantly and you want me to come over and spend time with you and hang out and act like life is okay (which it isn’t) — oh…and in the couple of days since we met you’ve already starting fucking TWO millionaires in order to pay for your rent and car? Shit. I guess I’ll attempt to deal with you — instead of facing total loneliness and isolation every day — and, hey, I seem to be getting some direly amusing “blog” entries out of your hateful and deceitful little existence…but…this sucks. You suck. You really and truly SUCK! Laters. No…NOT laters!”

Failure.

And so on.

(My teens and twenties weren’t any good, either.)

Apropos of little, I am tempted here (and, thus, I shall) to throw in that old dating philosophy which first reared its ugly head (or, headed its ugly rear) back in early adolescence (or possibly even prior to that), in school, being:

She will NOT be interested in you UNLESS you’re already seeing/dating/”going with” somebody else (esp. if you appear to be the slightest bit happy); then, BINGO: She’s interested!

*Yawn*

Fuckin’ games.

But this isn’t intended to be some cruddy little advice column rife with intolerable cutesy-isms. Back to point:

Sisters. I have ‘em. Do they do me any good? Nope! None! Nada! They’re older. They should care. It would be nice if they actually DOTED on me once in a while — but I don’t even get reasonable communication — let alone generosity, constructive comments, support in general. As sisters, as siblings, as “family” (Ha.), they suck. Q.E.D.

Mother. I have one. I’m nice to her whenver possible — but it’s always depressing for me, no matter what is done or said. She’s a simpleton at heart. I thrive in concert with smart people. It’s a terrible struggle with her. She — like her alleged “husband” — actually GETS OFF on being stupid!

This is not a petulant youth speaking, either. I turn forty soon. This is: “Wait! Mom! Why are you getting dumber?!”

(I don’t mind telling my readers how suicide-inspiringly-depressing it is to be shoved crudely and coldly out into the world by a “father” who hates everybody and everything and knows nothing about anything and is terribly proud of it, and his loveless, joyless “wife” whose listening skills [I've been crushing my skull on that wall for decades] are easily surpassed by those of even the thickest brick. He sleeps — as he has for many years — on a pathetic vinyl sofa in the basement. She sleeps — as she has for nearly as many years — IN MY OLD BEDROOM. [Read into that whatever you like; it is correct; it's certainly not my choice.] Theirs is the Domestic Cold War which KILLS my spirit every time I acknowledge it. And does this element increase my Hope in Women? Well — of course it doesn’t! I’ve never experienced any real domestic happiness!)

“Get out there, Gregory! Go succeed! Go get ‘em! While WE SIT HERE LIKE FUCKING RETARDS WITH OUR THUMBS UP OUR STUPID ASSES, KNOWING NOTHING OF THE WORLD AND SIZING UP OUR GRAVESITES FOR FORCED-LACK OF ANYTHING BETTER TO DO.”

Gee, thanks.

If I ever seem like I should be having more fun than I am — there’s your reason.

And then what? Am I supposed to saddle up with some heifer bitch and invite them to the wedding and pretend that everything is roses? Pshaw!

Obviously, this thematic train has flown from its tracks — but part of every breakthrough is open appraisal. This is a report of what’s actually there. It has made me sad my whole life, and it continues to make me sad.

The difference, now, is that I don’t care to run around being a weird, sarcastic jerkoff — due to the natural inabilities of youth in defining and solving domestic problems.

Perhaps I’m being a cliche for writing about this — but I really think I’d be a much worse cliche for “skating” nonchalantly through the reactionary craziness (see: Media) — most likely to no good end (see: Media).

It does bother me, though — that something so simple as offering a reasonable amount of love and support — and living as though life were worth living — has eluded my “parents” for my entire life. I can’t have a wedding. I can’t say, “This is my girlfriend, and we’re engaged!” For some reason, I don’t get to do these things (I brought one serious bid “home”; they NEVER LEARNED HER NAME) — which, frankly, were the nearest and dearest dreams to me.

It wouldn’t have been generic, either. I loathe the concept of marriage for its own sake. At the same time, I have tried with a few (a scant few) Female Humans — and it all ended in Failure — but just a few simple steps:

1. Don’t be an asshole.
2. Don’t yell at me.
3. Communicate so that I know what you need.
4. Try, occasionally, to look Female.

And I’m pretty easy company! (Maybe this is also the problem: Most Female Humans I encounter enjoy stress and strain and the desperation of being forced to prove themselves. I make few such demands. Daddy sure shoved them into some interesting sex-traps, though.)

So, yeah, on the Romantic front (that fleeting drug), I count my years, thus far, as Failure. I wanted to be happily and sincerely married, with a home and children, by now (or significantly earlier!). With somebody I actually wanted. Not glamour but not burlap, either. Just something Good. Didn’t happen. Couldn’t make it happen. Tried. Tired. Fuck it.

Part of the problem, also, is that Female Humans — probably because their Daddies mostly either literally or at least figuratively screwed them (or so goes their ongoing, lame-ass, cover-everything excuse) — are desperate to be perceived as Special — which is not to say Retarded (although that happens, especially out here), but to say Unique.

Yo! Female Humans! I really hate to break this to you: YOU’RE NOT UNIQUE!

I mean, yeah — different colour eyes, varied cup-sizes, this one likes painting, that one likes roller-blading, whatever. But (I’m trying to say this nicely) True Love is like Friendship — it can grow with anybody, if the partners so choose.

Thus: You’re not Special. And at this point, it has become utterly impossible for me to pretend that you are.

Daddy didn’t dote on you. I know that. Boo-hoo. Grow up. Quit lying to everybody. Quit lying especially to me. You asshole.

This is how Romance has gone for me.

It’s…it’s…it’s…

…stupid.

Y’know: You’re a Female Human. You want to Eat Nice Things. And do Yoga. (BIG *yawn*) And Cuddle the Pointless Cat. And Show Everybody Your Neato Clothes. And whatever. And I’m bored. Next.

Oops.

No ‘Next’.

Oh, well.

And I’m not gay, either: There goes all that potential show-biz money!

Shit.

I introduced the concept of this posting a couple of days ago, and although there have been intermittent stresses, the span since then has been mostly clear for contemplation. Thus, I write here this evening — perhaps gracelessly, but in full possession of my senses. I’m not suggesting that Life Sucks or Women Are Evil or I’d Rather Be Watching Television. Nothing insane like that.

Just…appraising the situation for what it is.

I close with the recent catalysts:

Recently a married Female Human friend of mine said — in all seriousness — the following, to me: “In [foreign country] women are allowed to hit men, but men are not allowed to hit the women!” (”BullSHIT,” came my reply. I don’t advocate anybody hitting anybody — but I’m also not advocating one gender being allowed carte blanche on violence [which comes in many forms].)

Around the same time, another allegedly happily-married Female Human friend was heard to say, “If we ever split up, I am totally taking him to the cleaners. I am getting the house.” (Hey — how cheery! And inspiring! Makes me wanna run right out and STAY SINGLE FOREVER!!!)

On Thursday, my mother called with one of her “quick” phone-calls (”This is just a QUICK CALL…”) — which means, “I am going to say a bunch of stuff at you, ignore everything you say, and get off the phone as QUICKly as possible.” After she said her stuff at me, I was alerted that, once again, she and her Cold War fake-spouse are going away FOR A WEEK to go help one of my sisters move (i.e.: heavy lifting — a demand I’d never make on her) — and I said, “Could you please call me tonight? I can call you back. But there are a few things I need to tell you.” “POSSIBLY,” came her reply (this means: “I won’t.”) “No — just, like, a couple of minutes tonight. I need to discuss a few things with you before you go.” “MAYBE…WE’LL SEE…IF I HAVE TIME…” And, of course, there was no call — but she’s sure as shit shlepping a bunch of my sister’s crap all over who-knows-where — and WHY? Because my sister had the Spiritual foresight TO BE BORN FEMALE — and all you gotta do is be born female, and have some kids, and YOU’LL ALWAYS GET HELP.

(Bleh.)

That same day — and I often find my mother’s vacantly smiley lack of interest pulverisingly depressing — I thought I was going to make it through mostly unscathed. Get some work done, get some things tided up, maybe even feel modestly good about myself (which — as a single male in the shitstorm — takes concentrated effort). But no:

“The actress” calls. I have already put paid (or, rather: “Let the millionaire-morons pay!”) to her and her crazy-ass existence. She is younger and prettier than the wretched whore from Missouri from last year — plus she actually has potential — but that train left the station and exploded, and I am truly delighted that I was not on it.

Then she calls. Of course, I do not answer. Smart!

Actual Voice-Mail transcript:

“Gregory, it’s [name], and I miss you…again…and I wanted to…know if I could take a picture of your apartment, and send it in to Oprah Winfrey. I think it would be a really, um, good opportunity, and they organise people’s homes, that’s what they do, and I know you’d be a compelling…face, and I think it would be really good. So. Anyway, give me a call, or…okay, bye.”

There were various other communiques throughout the week — which did nothing to raise my spirits and everything to crush them — but I suppose if I am learning anything from these trials it is this:

Abandon all Hope!

It’s weird: I didn’t ever plan on living “Life” like some tiny detail in a Morrissey song — but, on that note, I suppose I shall close here, and sincerely:

Song: “There Is A Place In Hell For Me And My Friends” by Morrissey.

P.S. Hey, Women! Want an End to War? A World of Beauty? Here’s the deal: STOP BEHAVING LIKE THE VERY WORST ASPECTS OF MEN! When your man gets home — if you already have a man — treat him like royalty. Give him a cause to believe in Beauty. Then — and here’s the payoff (it’s all about the payoff, isn’t it, “ladies”?) — HE WILL GO BACK OUT INTO THE WORLD WITH A DESIRE TO CREATE MORE BEAUTY. Everybody wins — and all you have to do is not be an asshole. Capisce?

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09.24.08

Advance Praise for CHOKE

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

“Smart, funny, gutsy and relentlessly human. Bravo!”
-Gregory

(Now, if “time” allows [which it probably won't], I’ll sculpt a review around that DVD-box-ready — and sincere — rave.)

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09.23.08

Thirteen Troubling Phrases (a.k.a. “Filler”)

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

Hi. CHOKE is pretty good, whereas GHOST TOWN is merely passable. Neil LaBute movies are irrelevant. I still haven’t seen MAMMA MIA! Going to skip Oscar season this year.

Simultaneously contemplating my departed friends whilst looking ahead with near-paralysing doubt and doing menial tasks which would embarrass a teenager.

Since not in mood to say smart things, am going to opt for smart-ass things. Voila:

THIRTEEN TROUBLING PHRASES:

13. “Family-Style Restaurant”

12. “Madonna World Tour”

11. “Ain’t It Cool”

10. “Priceline Bargain Itinerary”

9. “Cadillac Escalade”

8. “It’s Okay He Doesn’t Bite”

7. “Steven Spielberg’s Not-Endearing Penchant For Relentless Spin And Nepotism-esque Boosterism Presents: The Shia LaBoeuf Lifetime Retrospective” (…unless it’s within the next couple of years!)

6. “Directed By Rob Schneider”

5. “Oh! — You Don’t Have To Wear One If You Don’t Want To!”

4. Anything involving “Passion” and/or “Obsession” (vomit.)

3. “That’s Not The Way My First Two Husbands And My Five Sons Do It”

2. “German Film Festival”

1. “2008 U.S. Presidential Election”

*

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09.21.08

Fall On Me (2008 Surrogate Update #42)

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

I just wrote a really long post about how Summer is finally fucking over, and I mostly hated it (again), and goodBYE to the year’s stupidest season, plus a plethora of cultural, emotional and societal details, and the stupid computer, apropos of nothing, just ate it in its entirety, and there is no way I’m going to sit here right now and type the whole thing over again (which is a shame; I liked it), and so, in a sucker-punch to Summer just as it has frequently sucker-punched me, I offer tonight only this core theme:

I AM SO UTTERLY RELIEVED THAT THEY’RE NOT ALL CALIFORNIA GIRLS.

This post also would have been novel, as I was going to use it to experiment with leaving the Comments option open (for the first time; for, unfortunately, I really do know what assholes many people are) — which would have been Daring, considering that the post was filled not only with jagged opinions and experiences, but also featured a sort of psychological trap for which I’d have welcomed feedback and general input…however, that’s all been eaten by the damned machine (not “for the better” in that I believe in open expression for everyone [except for outrageously stupid people]; but possibly for the better in not laying myself out for target-practice), and so that isn’t going to happen.

As Autumn is My Season, and you are now abiding in My Season, I will say this: Ain’t gonna play no more dumb games, and crazy people can fuck right the hell off.

Before I continue with much writing here, I really would like to attend to the matter of eulogising both B.B. and M.M., who were my friends, and who died this year. I don’t wish to bog down my living friends and acquaintances, however it feels wrong to carry on with “Ooh, check out my SCREENPLAY!!!” and “Hey, everybody, look at MEEEEEEEEE!!!” without first expressing my sincere appreciation for these two women — who (as far as I know) never crossed paths, but whose unique respective presences contributed significantly to my enlightenment and continued existence.

Let’s see…anything else?

Oh, yeah:

FUCK SUMMER!

Chanson de l’Automne: “Falling Leaves” by Robyn Hitchcock

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09.20.08

Our Man Godfrey

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

The interview with director Godfrey Reggio felt, to me, as though it went reasonably well. It’s kinda hard to tell, in a theatre full of know-it-all white guys (who are known to loathe anyone who gets closer to their idol than they do) — but overall the event seemed happy and inspiring. And not everybody was white. Or a guy.

The reverence for Reggio, however, is perfectly understandable: Not only was he (is he) a pioneer in the field of Cinema (mainly by being a true maverick; which means taking risks), AND a very bombastic yet entertaining thinker and speaker, he’s also extremely well-named (especially for a former monk). Let us examine:

The first part of his name is ‘GOD’ — which is probably self-explanatory.

The second part of his name is ‘FREY’ — which is the name of God on the lips of Eagles fans, old-school Miami Vice nerds and aficionados of shitty FM/supermarket rock, the world around.

And the third and fourth parts of his name, respectively, include ‘REG’ — which obviously emerges from the Latin root for “royal” — plus ‘GIO,’ which, conveniently, rhymes with “Dio” (which, for Metal enthusiasts, is often synonymous with ‘God’).

Plus, as aforementioned, Godfrey Reggio is taller than God.

And he says lots of smart things about the Earth, its Inhabitants, and especially Rampant Consumerism.

And he talks kind of like Snagglepuss.

It was awesome.

(w/thanks to GM, GD, NP & TK)

http://www.qatsi.org

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ENTERTAINMENT NEWS: Me vs. Beck & Cronenberg

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

Los Angeles presents many Opportunities for Paid Entertainment, and tonight I’m one of them.

Well…

You can go see Beck at the Hollywood Bowl (if that’s something you and your strange generation would find pleasing).

You can go check out “The Fly: The Opera” — which I’d call the stupidest idea ever (it was Cronenberg’s — and of him I grew weary even before his astounding cameo in “Jason X”), except that, usually, I’d give the music of Howard Shore a *** to ***1/2 out of *****; plus it’s arguably the weirdest entertainment available tonight.

Or you can come see ME!

Bwah-hah!

Pardon the puffed-up pageantry. What’s really happening is this:

Godfrey Reggio — director of the QATSI trilogy (KOYAANISQATSI, POWAQQATSI and NAQOYQATSI), as well as a really nice animal movie I saw for the first time last night called ANIMA MUNDI — will be making his second appearance this week-end for the beloved American Cinematheque, to discuss the second two films, POWAQ ‘n’ NAQOY.

I’ll be interviewing him.

He’s not like most directors; he is outrageously tall.

It’s worth attending.

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09.18.08

Day Off Day

Posted in Uncategorized at 3:42 pm by Gregory

Today I find myself bursting with blisteringly negative commentary about just about everything — and while it’s true that sometimes the goaders and therapists with their “let it all out, honey” pseudo-philosophies may have a fraction of a point in their approach, I note as well that attempting to lay it all out today is much too exhausting a prospect — even for me, and I’m quite impressive in this regard (telling the Truth has destroyed most of my relationships thus far — Americans and especially alcoholics and pet-fanciers cannot abide Truth).

Also: Attempting to sort through this hurriedly is kind of like telling a depressed person to, “Get up! Life ain’t so bad!” For them — and this may surprise retarded/religious people, republicans, and sports fans — life IS so bad. It DOES NOT MATTER what YOU think about their life; to them, it SUCKS — and only from this perspective may you (or anybody) be able to offer them help, or some option of helping themselves.

Somewhat related: I often think of gayness as a lame cop-out from striving to succeed in the straight world (let’s face it: It’s a LOT easier to go to some gay club and slurp some stranger’s dong through a hole in the wall than to create domestic harmony with a person of the opposite plumbing — even if they don’t happen to be a selfish, screeching bitch); and yet, nonetheless — despite the nausea I feel at the notion of two little grooms on a wedding cake — I grant: A. That gay people have the right to be gay if that’s what floats their boats (this doesn’t mean I have to watch); and especially B. That, in many cases (certainly not all — there are angry poseurs in every walk of life), gay people couldn’t be “cured” if they wanted to be (and of course, they largely don’t want to be: Hello, Mr. Clooney.). It comes down to dealing with them — as anybody — as individuals with specific needs and stupidities, and not as statistics with an accompanying instruction manual.

In my case — feeling neither gay nor depressed — it’s about getting up every afternoon and going, “Damn, this is almost entirely stupid and horrible; why do I have to keep going through this hideous pointlessness?” Then I mope-walk.

Had a “conversation” with my “mother” this morning. Forty years of hell in this regard, I don’t mind telling you. And no, it’s not me; it’s her.

Being crazy from their family issues makes many people rich and famous, but I’d rather turn the cards face-up — even in this limited forum — and just go, “Man, how come I don’t get to enjoy the presence of ANY intelligent family?” — even if it loses me the Oscar and the fancy car. (Unlike many of my peers, I don’t wish to waste the remainder of my life “acting out” — to the benefit of an industry which doesn’t care about me in the first place.)

I could easily throw around a lot of ugly language at this point, but back to point, and briefly:

“Siblings” and “father” are shockingly useless/destructive, while meanwhile every attempt to communicate with “mother” reveals that she really is horribly rude, ignorant and self-obsessed.

Why it fails: I attempt to relate Truths about my actual life — the one I’m inhabiting, and thus about which I know a thing or two — and she yammers retardedly over everything I say, and ignores me completely (a few previous girlfriends considered this acceptable — which is why they’re gone). As this mess escalates, I’m forced to play her game and talk over her, eventually (I’m good at this) guessing what she’s going to say and making an ugly joke out of it before she actually says it (mind, this is not a lead-off tactic; this is a defensive maneuver; if she played fair, so would I). Then she projects that I’m either “just like my ‘father’” (which — I’m extremely proud to say — couldn’t be less true; I despise the wretch, but I do know him well enough not to become him) — or, worse, just like HER father — at which point it becomes about her total inability to communicate in the real world, resulting in my resignation that I was born — rather pointlessly and painfully — into a “family” of astonishingly shallow and stupid people.

Ain’t that America.

Outside of my opinion of the problem, here’s exactly what actually happens: No matter what I say, about anything, she already has her manipulated and manipulative cover-story running through her limited brain, and is aggressively talking over me, changing the details to suit the way she’d like to perceive the world (which — you’ll have to trust me on this — is a very stupid way indeed: Think “1950’s-head-up-ass”).

Which — obviously — does not work for me, at all.

It’s weird to be abandoned and ignored by one’s “family” — I hasten to note again that my “sister” with the husband who does most of the work and pays for everything said last October that she’d call “within a couple of days” to tell me an appropriate window for visiting around the winter holidays (last year). I am still waiting. Gonna see if it goes a full year. What can I glean from this, except: A. She shoved her fingers under the lawn mower; or B. She doesn’t fucking care.

‘B’ is for Bingo.

Of course — despite knowing a few lovely people around here in this ratty city — I could also mention that I am very disappointed in most of my complacent friends, miserable over how crude and stupid most people I encounter clearly are, and deeply sickened by this catastrophe masquerading as a nation (Hint: All of the major candidates except for Biden are repulsive caricatures) — but this would not be in keeping with my introductory comments, thus I’ll depart this tip of the iceberg here — and tunelessly.

Most likely will juggle the freakish masculine archetypes of the week (including everything from Brian Wilson and Nick Cave to a review of GHOST TOWN)…soon. Then the plan is to blow out whatever is left to say via this medium, and take off the remainder of my wasted thirties for a purely selfish jaunt through oblivion.

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