11.19.08

closure note

Posted in Uncategorized at 4:42 am by Gregory

What I hope will be the final two posts/postings on this thing both happen to begin with the letters “Th” — which is kinda cool.

Why end it? Well — as my peers used to say in our school days: “It’s been Real, and it’s been Fun — but it hasn’t been Real Fun.”

See, that’s the thing: I haven’t undergone some radical transformation — imposed or organic — via the process of turning forty Earth-years old; but I have noticed that Life is indeed short, it flies by very fast, and spending any more of it than is absolutely necessary staring at a stupid computer screen is an extremely bad idea (which is not to say that loads of people don’t also find ways of doing stupid things which do not directly involve computers; but this is merely an acknowledgment of the other stupidities, and not an exploration thereof — which would take millennia).

It simply occurs to me that: A. The past four years have been, for me, extremely unhappy ones (overall; not during sporadic bursts of good company); and B. This unhappiness has tidily coincided with my near-relentless tapping within this silly medium (shitstorm, meet keyboard).

There’s nothing wrong with “blogging,” as such (apart from the terribly unfortunate term for it) — but I do have a problem with constantly putting energy and thought out into the world, whilst constantly suffering diminishing returns with regard to getting any significant energy or thought back (it’s exactly like when I used to record songs, casually give the tapes to friends, and get no feedback whatsoever — spooky! At least tell me you hate it!!!). I know that I have regular readers on this thing (Hello.) — but the number of these grossly exceeds the number of friends and family members who check in with me personally, suggest dinner, or even know how to use what is still the most sensational of communication devices: The Telephone.

Thus, while I’ve been blabbing about my daily and nightly “life” in Stupidland, I haven’t been hearing from many of the people I know and (potentially or genuinely) love — and if they’re reading this thing regularly and never calling me, well, that’s simply not fair.

(To those of you whose company I haven’t had the pleasure to have made, this doesn’t mean you. And to the scattered few who dislike me and want to “give me some shit,” hey, thanks — a thousandfold back upon ye.)

In absolute truth, although I can be happy in good company (and, often, alone), I must state that I have never — ever — been Happy. I don’t run around being depressed, or theatrically pointing out how depressed I should be even though I’m apparently not. I also don’t believe that Happiness is going to arrive via a pill or a cult or sex or a support group or (especially) via money or power or fame. However, I can fairly state that my Youth was a huge disappointment; and my Adulthood thus far has been a huge disappointment, too. Split ‘em fifty-fifty, and that’s two decades each. That’s more than enough. To hell with it.

The first half can be attributed to “parents” who totally thrive on being miserable together-and-yet-not (woe was me). The second, to flying blind — lacking a functional model upon which to base any true Happiness (and, alas, not finding good souls willing to put in the effort [and overall goodness] to build such a foundation together: America, my friends, is not the Land of Opportunity; it is the Land of Opportunists!)

That’s been the general overview — and even though I pause to thank my actual mother here — not only for intermittently raising me (I put it that way because I chose to be raised by many elements), but for pointing out, recently and lucidly, that I have Done Much, Gone Far, Pushed Boundaries (I appreciate that. Thanks, Mom.) — nonetheless, to me, my life is, thus far, a Failure. Dig:

No “Her”. No Home. No Career. No Group. No Faith. No Family. No Purpose.

Don’t get me wrong: I love the friends and family I have, and would be nothing without them; thanks and praise be to them!

All the same, if a UFO with Jesus in it suddenly descended, and He took a moment away from fucking a marsupial with ’80s hair to ask me the following question:

“Do you have any reason to exist?”

I’d say to Jesus:

“Shit! Jesus! Is that Limahl under You!?”

And then I’d say to Jesus:

“In response to your query (not that it’s any of your business): Probably not, no.”

And then I’d tell him to get lost — because it annoys me severely when people talk about Jesus (you’d be better off sticking to alcoholism; at least you wouldn’t be insane).

That’s the thing, though — and it’s certainly no cry for religion (I despise religion) — from a rational, practical perspective, the answer is: No, I do not have any reason to exist.

Thus, then it becomes a process of faking it until one means it (or, appears to mean it).

Most of the wavelengths I encounter in America have to do with either Passion or Commerce. I really don’t like or harmonise well with either, so — without belabouring the point beyond the patience of you darling regular readers — my daily mantra is pretty much: Oh. Whoops. I don’t fit here. Erm…

(Yeah, I know. But still.)

(Incongruous addition: One of the pinnacles of Modern American Culture is Star Trek [the real one] — and I gotta tell ya, the new “Star Trek” trailer depresses me. It appears that they’ve completely missed the mark. I was working at Paramount while Jeff Abrams was writing Regarding Henry — and sometimes I wonder if things wouldn’t be so severely screwed up if I had stayed and helped. Oops.)

Now let’s briefly revisit the salient facets of my past four years:

* Moved pointlessly into a new place (alone) — mainly to escape The Crackhead Family (previous neighbors/criminals).
* Promptly had several years of intense and dedicated work flushed by evil employers (filth) who shot me down.
* Surrounded by some of the rudest people I’ve ever encountered (in two words: total restlessness — one cannot sleep amidst the inconsiderate-to-the-point-of-horrid).
* Hopes and Dreams decaying and/or detonated by the day.
* Women in SoCal: Worst specimens of species on entire planet. (Let’s not bother with the evidence this go-round. Look and listen; you needn’t take my word for it.)
* Family dumped me cold.
* Friends scattered.
* No reasonable new employment/income.
* General society in this region aggressively fucking itself (epic transience; good businesses dying or being slaughtered by greedy swine; talent not only going unrewarded but being flat-out punished).
* Can’t afford here — don’t want to bury myself alone in a boring provincial place.
* Most people I encounter are entirely about Networking To Advance Themselves — and not (alas) about Having A Good Time (which is — as far as I can tell — the only reason to be here in the first place — provided that one has a conscience and realises that Having A Good Time necessitates Being Good to Other People, which = a massive Win-Win — which hardly ever happens, specifically because everybody is too busy Networking To Advance Themselves to consider the miracles they’re choosing to miss).
* Etc.

It’s been a puzzling trap, really, because although I am generally quite flexible and open-minded (not in the abuser-euphemism kind of way [you know: "open-minded" about surprise rectal piercing or whatever], but in a kind and accommodating kind of way), it does routinely shock me how so many things can be Wrong when all I really want is to make Good.

To list examples would be nauseatingly martyry, so it may suffice to say that I find it very, very painful when Giving constantly becomes Losing.

In SoCal — with only a few exceptions — Giving = Losing.

I don’t like that.

Within this process — this trap? this test? — I have endeavoured to chronicle my actual experiences. No major Work, I acknowledge — but this thing has been, at once, my Outlet and my Friend. I’m not one to wallow in depression — if you hate life so much, feel free to leave — and it’s simply that, in lieu of any foundation (which, probably — and ironically — has been the point), I have been well and truly forced to struggle to make any kind of sense of my extremely random and dispiriting clutch of variables.

And alas, my demands are simple: People need only stick around awhile, and be reasonably sane. (Usually too much to ask. Really.)

Nobody can fully know the life of another; I just figured that, since most of the good stuff has been passing me by (or springboarding off my dong into oblivion), I may as well at least tap some truths about the not-so-good stuff.

Which has been, often, this.

And go on, it shall not.

Point made.

There will be more Output via some Outlet — but as this thing, specifically, has come to represent (to me) my Isolation and Failure, I am choosing now to shut it down.

In celebration of a few years of nerve-shredding blather, I shall strive to make the two closing posts colourful and entertaining.

~G

Song: “Ride” by Robyn Hitchcock

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11.18.08

Le cadeau de mon anniversaire:

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

As it turns out, Geography is as illusory as Time.

And the real fake is Worry.

I don’t believe in these things.

Two posts to go.

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11.15.08

pithy placeholder

Posted in Uncategorized at 5:42 am by Gregory

fmbleh?

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11.14.08

Penultimate-Penultimate Note

Posted in Uncategorized at 12:42 pm by Gregory

The nice thing about Friday afternoons is that hardly anybody surfs online — mainly because they’re desperately planning where they’re going to eat, screw and view sporting events for the next two days. This minimises the already considerable pressure on me to write amusing and outlandish things — particularly as I teeter on the precipice of becoming a middle-aged self-caricature (rather than a hip young self-caricature — which at least in America seems to attract money).

Hm.

Unfortunately, in previous years, I made the mistake of attending some 40th parties — which were large, raucous events hosted by friends and even spouses (!) of the birthday celebrants, and attended, in some cases, by hundreds of people. This, admittedly, fucked my expectations. Of course, one could easily discern the difference between the loser-y ones (”Everybody listen! Here’s a mediocre song from every year of my life! I made the compilation myself! Please notice me! PLEASE!!! I am fat and rude and stupid.”) and the awesome ones (”I’m cool. Have fun.”) — yet now, as I turn, I’m mostly literally going to be up in the air.

Hm.

It is “only a number,” as “they” “say” — but it’s also (scientists tell us) forty rides around our little star. What has come of it? You, Gregory! Hast thou proved thyself sufficiently vague to host large gatherings? Or not?

I guess not.

Reads bitter on a computer screen, possibly — but it’s not, actually. It’s more practical: Maybe I shouldn’t have lingered in America; people here are not very much fun.

There. Yeah.

Dude! MySpace! Facebook! Look at me! MEEE!!!

Fuck off.

Well, anyway…

Rather than being Amusing and Outlandish (some see it that way), I celebrate this ethereal Friday afternoon (my last, as a Youth) with a small list of things I actually love:

(as “they” “say” — in no particular order)

1. Knäckebröd (in wheels)
2. Feeding apples to horses and ruminants
3. Working out just a little bit, and not worrying about it
4. Weird old guitars
5. Dew
6. All rain
7. The theoretical notion of attending a good concert or three with a girlfriend who isn’t into shit
8. Reading when one “should” be working
9. Tennis (the greatest sport on Earth — and, for me, the only one)
10. Musty old buildings with soul instead of shitty new buildings without soul
11. That extremely rare movie adaptation which does not prove shockingly inferior to the source material
12. Dancing with nice people
13. Sloshing

~G

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11.13.08

Monkees: See!

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

There’s something truly delightful in revisiting the false idols of one’s youth — particularly when they’re — hey-hey! — The Monkees.

Too spent tonight to elaborate or futz with Focused, Full-Colour Photography — but I’d like to pause a moment to say that it was a wonderful evening — and to thank P., T. for checkin’ in, and the magical familiars who made the evening extra-special.

Two bits of Closure to come — and then this thing is likely done.

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11.10.08

Declaration of Interdependence (2008 Essay #50)

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

Hi. Other things to follow, but first this — an Essay (of sorts) I’m just going to construct over the next couple of days, as whims dictate.

It has to do, partly, with how — despite ENORMOUS effort on my part to play fair and be a legitimate component of various contexts — I’ve somehow ended up stuck in limbo, alone, for most of the past several years.

I’m not going to whinge about it anymore — but it has been arduous! gruelling! painful! I actually feel pretty good now — but the cost has been annexing onto the good feeling a tremendous wariness. Like: “Don’t buy her dinner unless you really trust her” and “Don’t breathe a single screenplay idea to that intolerable hack-wannabe” and “If your family doesn’t care about you, you are no longer required to care about your family” and, above all, “NEVER work for scumbags.”*

(*Incidentally, for the benefit of paranoiacs, “scumbags” is not code-talk for anything; it simply means what it is: scumbags. You’ve probably worked for some, too. Sucks, doesn’t it?)

These things stated, I’m not relinquishing whatever I have already in the sense of responsibility, kindness or good taste — but I am going to allow myself the indulgence of setting some new coordinates on my personal chart — the better to navigate a course I’d like to travel — rather than collapsing (as has been my wont) under the combined weight of insipid creeps.

That’s the other part about which this Essay is.

To Begin:

I drove a friend’s car yesterday — in L.A. I totally hated it. Nice car, got to listen to some fun music — but all the experience illustrated for me (on a Sunday, no less; ostensibly a “light” traffic day) is that the very worst characteristics of most humans are made manifest, and are severely amplified, by driving. This goes a hundredfold for people in SUVs. Attention, people in SUVs: You suck. You suck a whole lot. Swerving, speeding, not signalling (a.k.a. not indicating), sneaking chats on your telephone, and just generally being lobotomised swine set loose upon an undeserving public — you are a menace. And you depress me. I refuse to drive amongst you anymore. I have more than met my quota. It’s public transport or a personal driver for me, from now on. The former will do nicely — it is civilised.

Will Smith (heh): I’m not going to review your movies anymore. Unlike in the previous declaration, I don’t have any particular criticism for you specifically. You seem like an okay guy, and even though you’re, like, one of three black guys upon whose shoulders the Industry makes a fucking shitload of MONEY, I nonetheless like your style, “Parents Just Don’t Understand” still makes me giggle, and I am proud to include you among the luminaries of my generation. But here’s the thing: I don’t want to play out the remainder of my days in “Jazzy Jeff” mode. To hell with that. Reviewing your movies, Will Smith, depresses me. It’s not envy or jealousy — I wouldn’t want the roles you take, and you do them well (well, apart from The Pursuit of Happyness — which earns, at best, a: NICE TRY, RICH GUY!). But for me to sit alone reviewing your work is just something I no longer see as having any point. I’ll let the geeks hash out whether or not you’re “appropriate” to play Captain America — I never read the book, and I usually don’t notice your race, and it simply doesn’t matter to me. But every time you cha-ching fifty-mil or whatever, whilst I sit tapping about your movies as if they’re great literature or something (they’re not), I feel like a chump. And please note, again: I’m pleased to know you’re out there topping the box-office. Good on ya! I have simply selected you as the Name for this particular declaration because, well — because I think Russell Crowe is a useless turd (with a totally sucky band), and if you’re going to re-establish an establishment, you don’t focus on underlings; you take note of the best. You’re the best, Will Smith — and I’m not reviewing your movies anymore.

Cooking: I used to cook all the time. I had these amazing vegetarian recipes, and I’d go shopping, and chopping, and sautéing, and I’d make some lovely meals to share. Then I accidentally became an Award-Winning Journalist — and the thing is, most journalists are alcoholics who eat crap. I neither turned to drink nor ate crap — but in the ensuing years, keeping mostly dubious journalistic company, I sorta lost my ability (or motivation) in the kitchen. Of late, I have even been microwaving — something, in my happier, fitter years, I swore I would never again do. Well — the thing is: People. Meals are best shared with people. (As a university student, I always wondered why people engage in the semi-disgusting process of masticating and swallowing together — but they never seem to get together to take dumps in congress — but, thankfully, I have moved on from such ponderings.) Thus, well, yeah: I wanna share the kitchen and share meals with people again. It’s been WAY too long!

America. Always a problem. I know — there’s instantaneous hatred to be summoned from millions of people if you even dare look askance at America. But I do. I’ve never been happy here. I’ve tried, in various places — but the most satisfying state I have ever succeeded in achieving in America is a sort of sarcastic giddiness. Some will say: “You are disrespecting the soldiers who fought — ‘n’ DAHDD! — for your freedom!” Um…no, I’m not. (And what is freedom if one is not allowed to be happy?) Had I any opportunity, I would have STOPPED those people from becoming soldiers in the first place, MELTED DOWN their weapons, and hired them as diplomats and Artists and language professors instead. And…Freedom? This was going to be stolen from “us” by…whom…exactly? Those dastardly Redcoats? The Japanese? The Germans? The Cubans? Come on. Red Dawn was a movie. America may be severely, direly lacking in integrity, economic strength, industry, Art and wit (this last item I find integral to civilised society) — but America ain’t hurting for bombs and guns and people who get off on fighting and killing. But even beyond that, there’s something about America — some bass-ackwards “philosophy” — which I find troubling. It’s the way people are always going, “HA! I’M JUST GIVIN’ YOU SOME SHIT!” — but…WHY??? WHY give anybody any shit? Isn’t life already hard enough? Isn’t reckoning with a pre-fab nation slapped atop genocide and slavery already enough of a mess? Is everybody giving everybody else “shit” really going to help anybody? Some perceive me as being a negative (or, even, extremely negative) personality — but not at all, not at all. I’m human first — so sometimes I’m reactionary (although I strive, even in batshit L.A., not to be reactionary; with varying results). But mainly I’m just reporting on — and responding to — what I’m actually observing and experiencing. Why does America choose to be stupid and angry? Maybe it’ll shift now — but I don’t believe that the shift will come from the government — or from those propaganda-posters (kinda scary! kinda Orwellian!!!) one sees everywhere these days. It comes from being a real person, with a real soul — and from all the complexities which go along with that. I’m no super-evolved soul myself — but I do require guides and leaders who are intelligent and sophisticated — and most of my experiences in America have delivered unto me exactly the opposite. Thus my constant straining to see beyond these tight little borders. It’s a HUGE, OLD WORLD. And America is literally the new kid on the block. Why not let everybody else tell us what to do, for a while?

Smoking: I took a walk today, and was forced to walk through the toxic clouds of literally at least fifty smokers. I have a few friends who smoke; I like them; I wish they didn’t. Sorry if they get hit with the flak of this, but: SMOKERS, YOU ARE DOING SOMETHING INCREDIBLY REPULSIVE, OFFENSIVE AND SICKENING — PLUS, OF COURSE, FLAT-OUT STUPID. WHY NOT, INSTEAD OF SMOKING, JUST GET: “HELLO! I AM RETARDED!” TATTOOED IN BRIGHT PURPLE CALLIGRAPHY ACROSS YOUR FOREHEAD? But…really…do you have brains? It smells like absolute shit-hell when you light up those things, and then to take it into your (rapidly blackening) lungs because…why? It’s your “rebellion”? It gives you “security”? It’s your “right” (to be RETARDED)? Just stop it. Grow up. Quit smoking. It’s hideous. Q.E.D.

After-the-fact: I walked past a sushi place today, and recalled a minor but annoying incident from a few years ago. I had stopped outside the place to peruse the posted menu, and while I was reading it, some asshole guy crept up behind me and (the font here should be at least 172, but I’ll go with bold) screamed: “AAAUGHHHH!!!” directly into my ear from close range. It was an acute but rotten experience. Dig: I absolutely abhor violence, and believe that the only thing to do with it is to neutralise it, immediately. I am also, however, a writer — and, as such, I now theoretically return to that incident, and knee that shitbag’s nuts up into his trachea with extreme force. People shouldn’t go around screaming into each other’s ears. That’s the moral of this story.

Baby Boomers…oh…not right now. It’s too unpleasant and complicated.

Panera Bread has recently jacked the price of a cup of soup from four dollars to five dollars; fuck you, motherfuckers; you make all chain-restaurants look bad.

It’s still Summer here; why the hell is it still Summer here? (Go away, nasty, ugly Sun.)

Tonight I afforded myself (oh, how I wish I could afford myself) two primary Choices. The Choices were: 1. Go see the new “James Bond” movie, Quantum of Solace, for free, pre-American-release, in an excellent cinema; or 2. Take a long, refreshing nap. The nap was excellent — and that’s my review.

And now it is Veteran’s Day. I was not aware of this — not even peripherally aware — until I met a friend for breakfast, and he mentioned it. Apparently there are three WWI. veterans still alive (and well over 100!) in England, maybe one in France, maybe one in the U.S. Some guys my age are fascinated with that war. Some with the next one. Odd. I suppose that this topic holds a bit more weight than the reflection which gripped me upon my unhappy waking (”Lenny Kravitz, I despise you. You really ‘want to get away’? Then go to Hell and suck the anuses of demonic Great Danes with diarrhea, Lenny Kravitz. Die, Lenny Kravitz, die.”) — but, for History and Killing buffs, alas, I haven’t much of substance to offer with regard to this day. No disrespect for veterans — although, probably, many would see it that way. It’s more that I feel that ALL of this fighting and killing shit can be — and should be — avoided. It disgraces us as a species to fight as we do — or, to fight at all. What offends me about it is the glaring lack of Universality in the brain. We’re all One — we’re all the Same. Really. You eat, you poop, you try to make yourself look cool — and, depending on your orientation, you either try to put your dubious bits up close to those of another — or you try to avoid that. Kick in some religion — and then you’ve got war. But before the religion — before that sickness invades the brain and switches off the Universality module — we’re all One — thus, war is simply suicide. And why do that? Respect then, today, for those who went out and did war things — not because they did war things, but because they are fragile and sensitive bipedal mammals with large brains who (apparently) sincerely believed that they were doing the right thing. Alas. It’s all a bit like actively choosing to be involved in a terrible car accident; one gets hurt, and one must heal, and here’s hoping for the healing of everybody who has done such things.

His Word Is His Bond:

http://movies.yahoo.com/mv/news/va/20081111/122643635200.html

(Vindicated. The “Bond” reboot is stupid. Q.E.D.)

Ah, yes, and now we come to this Essay’s home stretch — wherein I attempt to cram perhaps three more topics into the beast even though I’d rather go to sleep or at least watch Die Another Day (BROSNAN!!! BERRY!!!), but at least I have partly-organic chocolate sandwich-cookies made in Wisconsin, and besides, if I don’t have to do this in the morning (which will start too fucking early; they all do), then at least Wednesday may have half a chance of becoming productive and — who knows? — perhaps even pleasant (but don’t count on it).

Baby Boomers. Baby fuckin’ Boomers. Frankly, I abhor all but perhaps twelve of them. No…wait a minute…let me do a count. Seriously. One moment…

…

…yeah, it’s about a dozen. A lucky dozen.

See, the thing is, Baby Boomers suck. I don’t know why they suck — but suck indeed they do. You know the types. If they were on the Left Coast or in upstate New York back in the day, they fucked everybody within leg’s length and smoked, snorted and otherwise sucked into their miserable, patchouli-reeking bodies every dubious substance upon which they could lay their turquoise-encrusted claws. And if they lived between those two places — trapped in the wastes of Middle America — they nonetheless pretended to do those things — which is even worse.

Then, after about 1974, everything briefly went to shit for the Baby Boomers — you see a lot of the debris of these crises stumbling about today in the violently angry form of Children of Baby Boomer Divorce — but then — lo! — the Baby Boomers discovered a magical new substance:

Cocaine.

Under the auspices of Cocaine (and that intolerable Clapton song; sorry), Baby Boomers basically started fucking and snorting and inhaling and smoking and injecting everything all over again — except — far, far worse — they also started BUYING everything and CONTROLLING everything.

Which is where we are now. Make no mistake: Dubya is THE Baby Boomer “president” — and in his vile abuses and utter ignominity we behold the True Spirit of the Baby Boomers (a poisonous clutch of pseudophilosophies indeed).

Now they’re skittering — these creeps — hiding behind their Bob Dylan box-sets and clandestine “bumps” snatched beside their Jaguars in parking lots just prior to Heart concerts with god-damned Billy Bob Thornton as the opening act — but make no mistake: Even as their flesh rots, their nails crack, their eyes twitch to the fragmented memories of coked-up real-estate deals inked before anybody had even heard of Adam Ant — these Boomers are filth.

Own and Control. Own and Control. Their “free love” was a lie — as was their “peace.” “Free love” does not come free, and “peace” makes for a very bad fit with GREED — which is the only credo to which Boomers cling.

For years, I didn’t believe that there was a problem — didn’t believe that such an horrifying gap could exist between generations — but oh, it does, it does.

I’m a Gen-Xer. I WORKED from the age of twelve, didn’t squander everybody’s taxes on rehab and hyperdevelopment, and I’d still be working today if it weren’t for shitty, lousy, useless, greedy and very, very ugly Baby Boomers.

And let’s not play “innocent,” okay, Boomers? It’s way too late for that. Your shoddy empires are crumbling. Your lame-duck rep in Washington is on his way back to Dipshit Boomerland. The blood on his hands is the blood on your hands — you voted him in, after all (and don’t deny it). And now it is my pleasure and privilege to watch you decay. And collapse. And be no more.

Again: There are a few Baby Boomers I know and like — but they’re mostly creative, kindly folk who are closely aligned with Entertainment and Communication and Sustainable Living. They have souls. They are the rare few. Their combined spirits barely redeem the Baby Boomer generation from being an absolute WASTE.

Here — apart from those few Boomers who are my friends (and I still wouldn’t turn my back on them), let’s make this simple: Get the fuck out of our way, Boomers. You’re sickening. You have failed. We have been very, very, very patient with you — and bought your stupid products, and toiled in your stupid businesses, and helped you pay off your stupid divorces and mortgages and divorces. And now your time is up. Fuck off, Boomers. Get out of our way.

Q.E.D.

(Okay, I hope that theme comes through reasonably clearly. Now on to the “Interdependence” thing before I go fall asleep to the real James Bond in North Korea…)

Uh…let’s see…I’ll just do two:

INTERDEPENDENCE REFLECTION #1: At cinémas (a.k.a. “movie theatres”) you really should NEVER put your feet on the back of any seat in the house (even if there’s nobody in that specific seat — because your motherfucking feet shake the entire row). Yeah: Stop putting your feet on the seats — that way everybody else (especially me) will find it much, much easier to be Interdependent with you!

INTERDEPENDENCE REFLECTION #2: Whatever Yoda said (EPISODE V ONLY).

That’ll do.

Let’s see — I’ve only got a scant few days of Youth remaining, thus I’m only going to do two more new Essays on here, and call it a Glögg.

Meanwhile, Americans, here’s a photo about which you may wish to think:

Luv,

~G

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11.09.08

Big Smile Today (2008 Update #53)

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

Hiya.

I know I said ‘no more Updates,’ but hey, the headline makes a strong case.

I’m happy;
Hope you’re happy too-oo-oo…

~G

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11.08.08

Should I Stay or Should I Go? (2008 Essay #49)

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

Really less an Essay than a series of cobbled-together thingies in the middle of the night — but this is what we get at the dregs of a “blog” experiment.

(Some notes on the lovely ED WOOD night to follow — just got a recording so I can isolate a few quotes.)

In absolutely no particular order:

Led Zeppelin sans Plant is totally stupid; don’t do it. (Led Zeppelin at all anymore is totally stupid; don’t do it.)

I’d like to mention for the haters that, in addition to any latter-day hits of Annie Lennox, I also cannot tolerate Cher’s “Believe.”

Yeah — that “mutt” line from Obama was so casual and off-the-cuff! Oh, what a casual, off-the-cuff and utterly spontaneous speaker he is.

Nonetheless, I am delighted with the outcome of the election: Immediately I began bundling the money falling from the sky into tidy bales, plus I used my comprehensive health-care benefits (which kicked in the very second that CNN called it) to get those huge prosthetic pecs I’ve always been wanting. Thanks, President-Elect! It’s Paradise!

(Heh.)

Hm…I am weary and have little of any value to say…

Actually, with one week left of my Thirties, tonight I set about tearing through about a third of a lifetime (so far) of debris — and made very significant headway, actually. My “home” now looks worse than it ever has — but things are out in the open — which is how I like them (or: filed away in a mega-tidy IKEA kinda way — one or t’other — I cannot abide closets filled with junk).

As predicted, Girlfriend, Family, Profession and Home have not appeared for me. If you had asked me — in any previous incarnation (early 20s Skinny Boy; early 30s Serious Thinker) if I figured I’d become a terrible caricature of a white American male by the age of 40, I’d have scoffed. Oops! Here I am, in a region ruled by single renters, where almost everybody is a terrible cliché (yoga-bitches and shithead-guys-barking-on-the-phone, mainly) — and it shocks even me how somehow I am here — instead of bicycling in Sri Lanka or making babies in New Zealand or something.

Rounding out the bitching component of this largely useless spew of verbiage, we have the number 60. What’s so significant about the number 60?

Thirteen and a half years ago (seems like ten minutes — eight of which were bad) — when I returned for my third (and final?) chapter of L.A. “life” — I weighed a healthy, happy 150 pounds. (No idea what that is in “stone” — nor do I particularly care.)

Recently I weighed myself — in all honesty, I stripped off the heavy stuff at a friend’s house and used their scale — and…yep…(egad)…

210!

What’s particularly weird is that I’m not significantly larger than I was at 150 — just, perhaps, a lot denser.

(And I’d be the first to admit it.)

210, man.

I don’t even eat that much!

Shit, I probably should have spent the best years of my life smoking.

Oh, well.

Erm…I don’t really feel like writing here tonight — so I’ll switch over to an easy default, and give myself a Self-Quiz:

SELF-QUIZ 8 November, 2008!

1. Which is more tragic — Obama’s grandmother dying the day before he won the election? Or Douglas Adams dying before he could see The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy become a big Hollywood movie?

Hm. Well, first, I remember once I met these two women at a pub — and one was African-American and one was Thai-Thai — and we tried to discuss popular culture, and I brought up H2G2 — and the black woman HATED it. She was extremely nice in general, but, to her, the concept of starting off a work of fiction with the Earth getting demolished (for a particularly stupid reason, but nonetheless) was dark, unsettling, and not-at-all-funny. This genuinely surprised me; I thought everybody loved that book. The Thai woman had never heard of it.

In terms of tragedy, though, I’d say they’re about equal. Adams worked much longer and harder to see his work succeed — and then dropped dead just before it…didn’t, particularly. That’s rather tragic. Obama’s grandmother, on the other hand, lived a long and presumably full life; it was just nasty timing that she bailed a few hours before her grandson became King of the World. More upsetting for him, probably — and perhaps she intuited that he’d win.

2. Will you see Quantum of Solace?

Although my initial answer was a firm “No,” it turns out that Sony has invited me — thus, for the sake of formality, I may go see it. I also read recently that Roger Moore endorses and likes Daniel Craig — which softens the blow of this asinine reboot considerably. But it’s my birthday week — so I’m doing whatever I want.

3. You watched Jason X again recently, didn’t you?

Indeed, I did. I had forgotten most of it since its initial release, and found a copy for a dollar, so I popped it in. Frankly, although I could do without the butchery (and the loud, ugly gunfire), I kinda enjoy the movie on its merits as a big wad of amusing pulp trash. It was probably relatively pricey to make — but its roots lie in the tradition of cheap, lurid entertainment — which I can respect from a certain Everyperson perspective. It’s bad — but it’s entertaining…and kind of inventive, actually. Besides, my rave for the silly thing (”WELCOME BACK, JASON!”) was the largest — apart from on an actual movie screen — I’ve ever seen my work in print. (Thanks, New Line — truly sorry you’re gone.)

4. A friend recently sent you a link to a video about scary technological advances in the very near future. Do you worry about computers taking over the world?

No. I mean, they already have, basically. What are you reading right this second? — exactly. But even if “they” do manage to produce a computer that can function as quickly and complexly as a human brain — or (as the freakout video suggests) as fast as the human race — it’ll still never — never — have a Soul. We humans need to give ourselves more credit. We are fucking brilliant. There is nothing about which to worry.

5. Whatever happened to The Waterboys?

I wish I knew. I used to love seeing them — when America gave enough of a shit for great pop music to allow great pop acts from Britain to tour here.

6. What’s the meanest thought you have?

Even in a place as bugfuck crazy as this (there are a lot of insane and severely delusional people here), I tend to be kind in my daily life, with pretty much everyone I encounter. My immediate neighbors really do suck, though — almost the most insipid and inconsiderate and LOUD people I have ever encountered — and when, a few weeks ago, I heard a very, very loud THUD and then silence from upstairs, I admit to feeling a bit of relief that maybe the LOUD, COUGHING, STOMPING, BALD, FAT, UGLY, CREEPY guy who lives up there perhaps had (lucky for me!) croaked. It’s been very oppressive — having him thundering over my head (particularly extremely early in the morning) — so I smiled a bit at the notion of him stomping off…forever. But mainly I compartmentalise resentment for people who’ve knowingly, and with malice aforethought, done me shit — and this I put into words. People hang themselves — I don’t go in for the boring cliché of revenge-fantasies or whatever. The worst thought I ever really have is bitch-slapping the living shit out of my “father” for choosing to be such a god-damned loser — which is something I wouldn’t actually do — but the notion itself is occasionally satisfying (and no, I’m not the projection type).

7. Why do you write such personal stuff on here, where anybody can read it?

Well, it’s like my life completely came apart over the past several years — in several instances, actually — and all the things most people use to define themselves (Spouse; Children; Income Bracket; House; Holdings; Car; Other Car) mostly didn’t happen at all for me — or, if they did (for a while I had a suitable profession) they nonetheless disintegrated or exploded. So I look at this strange medium as a sort of trail of popcorn as I try to find my way out of (or, possibly, into) the woods. Nobody really listens to me very much — so I put it here. I don’t like the concept of desperately, “passionately” attempting to define myself via my “art” over several decades — only to be misunderstood and doomed to pointless tangents associated with whatever weirdness my output summons. I’d rather just spell it out directly — and then have fun with my work. (It’s like that awesome bit from Neil Innes: “I’ve suffered for my art — now it’s your turn!” — which is exactly the sort of pattern I feel it is considerate and tasteful to avoid altogether!) But most of all, I hope that the woodland creatures don’t eat all the popcorn!

8. What about “the actress”?

Oh, she called again — yesterday. I emailed my response. I was nice about it, but basically told her that we have nothing in common, and that my friends were noticing how much our “sessions” together left me drained. Probably because she’s simultaneously fragile and deranged, she didn’t respond to anything I actually wrote — but she agreed to step away — which, strangely, is the opposite of what I want in life — but it’s also exactly what I need from her.

9. What’s your deal with women?

It’s an unfair question; you should ask me, “What’s women’s deal with you?” I have two older sisters who are both total assholes to me (older sisters! go figure!) — plus most women around L.A. really are bugfuck-crazy. Sorry — but that’s just true. If you don’t believe me, have a look for yourself. But really, these pointlessly difficult issues seem to stem from, perhaps, three primary roots. Dig:

I. I want a real and true partner/lover/best-friend/lady — but apparently the Universe’s plan for me is to waste as much of my existence as possible amongst…well, bitches, really…to see how much ghastliness I can withstand before I implode.

II. Although one of the major prerequisites for being in a loving relationship — actually knowing how to get along with a wide variety of people, and practicing this regularly — is something I do, and have done, for many years, I nonetheless suspect that I lack some masculine catalyst — that shallow bad-boy gene which simply wants to fuck, and, thus, does. Pardon the overgeneralisation, but girls/women like dumb bad-boys because they’re easy — easy in the sack, and not complex enough to require any real thought in day-to-day life. I’m exactly not like that. In fact, I often find myself emanating feminine responses toward women — because women themselves seem either to have forgotten how to do this, or (worse) they’re consciously choosing to withhold the very signals I need in order to function as an intelligent heterosexual male. In any case, I know it’s not all me. Certainly a great deal of it is also regional (life, love and sex are all rather cheap in Stupidland).

III. Although I am aware of my actual mother’s mildly manipulative personality, she’s not particularly overbearing, I cut the apron strings many years ago, and the main reason I have problems with her is that she adamantly refuses to listen to anything I say, ever. But there may be a clue to my problem here, nonetheless: I have never — not once, ever — seen my “parents” happy together. Not once! Thus…alas…I am fully reliant upon my outsider observations, plus selected fictions, in order to piece together a concept of how a Happy Couple might, theoretically, function.

(Otherwise, though, if I had a girlfriend, she’d have to be willfully destructive and self-destructive in order to have a bad time with me; I totally get off on bringing happy to my honey.)

10. What about ABBA?

They should have taken the money and done the reunion tour.

11. What about Kenya?

To me, Africa is currently a neutral — I neither ignore it nor am I fascinated with it. Its problems are much too extreme for me to contemplate in great detail in my very limited, single, scraping state. But I do greatly enjoy what cultural aspects I can glean (been listening to Madagascar guitarists lately), and I hope I can help in some real way soon, and I actually think it’s delightful that the name “Obama” has surged in baby nomenclature there recently.

12. If you could change anything about yourself — physical, mental or spiritual — what would it be?

I’d allow my love to be felt and appreciated by somebody (before it dies completely).

13. So you lost the winter getaway option. What now?

I wish I knew. Yesterday I awoke to a dream — well, after an erotic non-sequitur — of my snotty landlord standing waiting for me in “my” living room when I got “home” — and it was disturbing. Not nightmarish — but genuinely disturbing, as he had already cleared away most of my stuff, and was packing the rest, and his snottitude provided the overarching theme of the moment. I mean, it meant I’m leaving — but I don’t know where I’m going. Some guys have wives, some guys have jobs, some guys have partners with whom they make business things happen. I got none o’ that. So it comes to this question — and it is a selfish one — of: “Okay, if you people want me around, then what do you want me to do?” This isn’t laziness or lack of focus on my part — many times over the years I have pushed for this or that goal (which, usually, didn’t work). It’s more, simply: Gimme some feedback, and I’ll modify the programme. But that seems rather unlikely. I’m not sure. Maybe it’s America. America is a lonely, horrible place. You can lift up your chin and get all excited about the election — but nothing will immediately disperse the years of detachment from, and disappointment in, this place and its people. I’ve travelled. Other countries are not as cold and selfish as America. You know I’m right about this, so don’t send me hate-mail. What the fuck is wrong with this country? Is it the church-people? The gun-nuts? The masses of uneducated fakes and frauds? Everybody suddenly wanting to be a “star” on MySpace or Facebook? (As if.) I don’t hate America — it’s just…depressing. I think it’s partly: Status is VERY important to Americans — the cars, the flat-screens, the bling — but there’s never enough substance to keep up. Maybe, yeah, in your little reading circle or kung-fu class — but the overall vibe of America seems to me much more like a vacuum than a font of inspiration. Thus, I look at it like, well: Try to meet “interesting” people — you know they’re just going to flake off the very instant they can cop an upgrade — but try — but also bear in mind that pretty much everyone here has no idea what they’re doing, and now they’re almost all broke, and whatever this White Occupation of this continent was supposed to be, well, obviously that has failed. That’s okay — it wasn’t fair anyway — but now what? Constant national discord for a century or more? That sucks. Don’t wanna do that. So I go…well, all of America is pretty much the same. It’s currently still summer here (which is annoying — although, compellingly, the snotty landlord in my dream was clad in a nylon winter coat and “toque”), and maybe there’s actual weather somewhere else — but America isn’t exactly a land of variety. From person to person, sure, there’s some Individuality — but that damned Melting Pot has done a lot of damage — possibly insurmountable damage. Maybe Portland is greener than Detroit — but is there really much of a difference? I doubt it. Thinking on these terms, my mind tells me: “Well, you may as well stay in L.A. then — because it’s highly unlikely that you’ll find a more scintillating city in America, and you’re not ready to be put to pasture yet.” And then my heart chimes in: “But I wanted a HOME. With a WIFE. Who was MORE than a mere wife. You know — not Norman Rockwell — I fuckin’ hate Norman Rockwell — but something real — not this endless bullshit parade. Don’t I have that coming? Don’t I get a house, with a garden to tend, and a train-station nearby?” And then I shrug and go, “Well, my friends don’t help people move anyway — and I don’t have a family.” So here I am.

Hm.

~G

CD du week-end: Disc One of The Story of The Clash, Volume 1 (every track makes every pop and rock song recorded since then sound utterly crap)

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11.06.08

Wonderful Evening

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

Okay — that was totally stellar.

Great thanks and praise to those who were there (you know who you are — magical, with you around).

Shall endeavour to provide fuller (Dolores?) report soon — like, not Thursday-morning soon; but possibly on-Friday-or-perhaps-over-the-week-end soon.

Meanwhile, a fact and an opinion:

The Fact: ED WOOD is currently ranked on imdb.com as #193 of the Top 250 films ever.

The Opinion: Genius!

Updates on this, and on the site, and on the Life — all soon, soon.

But first I have to get the hang of Thursdays…

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11.05.08

ED WOOD – Tonight!

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

Just a reminder that tonight brings the big, happy screening of ED WOOD (1994) to the American Cinématheque’s AERO Theatre in Santa Monica. I’ll be conducting the Q&A, and the special guests are screenwriters Larry Karaszewski and Scott Alexander, plus Academy Award winning actor Martin Landau — whose genuinely awesome portrayal of Béla Lugosi steals the show from Johnny Depp in the title role (no mean feat). It’s also one of the shrewdest, smartest and funniest explorations of The Motion Picture Industry (and more) ever committed to beautiful black-and-white celluloid. Likely to sell out, get tickets on fandango.com and arrive early — it starts at 7:30 p.m.

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