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ubercine.com Blog http://ubercine.com/glogg Gregory’s Lovable Önline Gabble Garden Tue, 08 Sep 2009 04:43:48 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.8.4 en hourly 1 Not a &amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;quot;reboot&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;quot;; FIN. http://ubercine.com/glogg/2009/04/23/not-a-reboot-fin/ http://ubercine.com/glogg/2009/04/23/not-a-reboot-fin/#comments Thu, 23 Apr 2009 10:10:31 +0000 Gregory http://ubercine.com/glogg/2009/04/23/not-a-reboot-fin/ Some people continue to find and check this thing, so I feel it is worthwhile to spew just a little bit more utter nothingness in clarification and closure.

I was barely around for the ’60s (although I do know exactly which episode of the original Star Trek premiered the night I was born — I’ll betcha J.J. Abrams couldn’t drop a factoid like that).

For me, the ’70s were a decade of misery (family) and gradually-intensifying fascination (Pop culture); and there wasn’t much more to it, apart from some alarmingly bad shirts, jeans, shoes, socks and haircuts.

The ’80s were my personal decade of Hope. I LOVED the music (well, much of it), the movies (well, most of them) — and the fashion (which was a lot less cheezy than goofball archivists would have you believe). I miss the ’80s, actually: Damn, we had new GOOD Peter Gabriel albums and that GREAT Dune movie and Ferris Bueller. We didn’t know yet that we were doomed; it was awesome.

The ’90s were wretched. I’ll state that again: The ’90s were wretched. Although every step I took led to Discovery (alas, not the brilliant E.L.O. album — but actual Discovery; which isn’t such a bad thing, either, I guess) — every step also led to Misery. The ’90s were a goddamned hideous decade. Sometimes I reflect: Oh, I still kinda like the debut album from Soul Coughing… — but no, the decade itself was misery on a stick, with the stick up your ass. Ghastly! Soulless! STUPID! And every step I took toward Beauty — it was like being shat at in the face. What a waste of one’s twenties. Fucking damn it. If I could time-travel, I’d go back and completely eradicate the ’90s, and do it all over again — refusing to tolerate all the wretchedness. Shit decade. Ugly people being stupid and horrible. Feh.

Tellingly, as the ’90s were ending, and I was wasting my life in a rotten job for a rotten Hollywood agency filled with the rudest, nastiest people I have ever encountered outside of journalism — then I accidentally became a journalist. (”…and into the fire,” as it were.) This was ten years ago — or nearly. Suddenly, I started getting paid — nearly a living wage (never quite) — for opening up my brain and showing people aspects of its glorious complexity. And although that was pretty cool in theory, it was also the most devastatingly difficult job I’ve ever had. I have mopped floors for a living, cleaned up dogshit (and, worse, catshit), waited tables, washed dishes, mowed lawns, pretended to care about selling clothing to people in retail outlets (possibly the lowest of all). That all seems a VERY long “time” ago now — but I do know that journalism was the hardest. And off to such a terrific start, too — to suffer several severe and totally undeserved calamities and abandonment just as that career path was taking off. Whee. Shit.

I reflect with a bitter grin how the redneck moron editor promised me he’d submit my work for a Pulitzer. I believed him. Useless creep. Essentially killed his own “girlfriend” via licentiousness and alcohol. I forgive and forget none of that mess — even though, now, there’s no evidence remaining to show that any of it even happened; that’s L.A. for you.

Wayyy back then, people were yammering about the “Millennium Bug” or whatever, but I totally didn’t care about that, and wasn’t worried about it. Suddenly, I was riding high on Cinema Criticism. I was a Name about “town” (a name I really, truly, deeply dislike — I fucking hate my legal surname, if you must know: If you want me to hate you, call me by it), and women were all goofy for me (not that I did much about it; L.A. women are all categorically insane — though it has taken some years for me to confirm this via experience), and I even had a big, fancy award to boost my confidence and alert people that I had “arrived.” Whatever. Mainly I promoted festivals (I was basically the first booster for the Silver Lake Film Festival, at its inception — I even plugged festivals in cities where I do not live), looked out for the indie peeps, and grabbed every studio “tentpole” review I could — which usually involved struggling with egotists under the same employ, whose really nasty madness and culture-vulturism went a long way toward denting and corroding my default easygoing personality. Assholes. That was a really ugly and difficult experience, slamming and banging through those years.

Also: I’ve never had good neighbors — well, in the Pac NW I did, in between the vile hippies and skanks, for a brief while — but for some reason, no matter where I move in SoCal, I get: One (1) COMPLETELY INSANE BUSYBODY BITCH WHO SCREAMS AND SHRIEKS AND STUFFS HER NOSE UP EVERYBODY ELSE’S ANUS ALL DAY EVERY DAY; and One (1) Perilously nearby inbred family of FUCKING ASSHOLE REDNECKS WHO SINCERELY BELIEVE THAT A PUBLIC ALLEYWAY IS THEIR OWN PERSONAL 24-HOUR AUTO SHOP. This has not helped my life or career, at all, either. SoCal is already INSANE in the extreme (will the CONSTANT leafblowers and ambulance-sirens EVER give us a break?) — but I’ve never had a happy “home” here — not even for one day. It’s been difficult.

I moved into my most recent apartment in 2004, when I was still kind of gainfully employed — and a couple of months later, I ended up FIRED!!!! with extreme nastiness by a little-shit culture-vulture in a faraway city, someone I’ve never even met, who simply decided he wanted to destroy my career. Piece of shit. I was already alone and running too fast for my own good, and had only just crash-landed in my alleged new (rather expensive — but in SoCal one either pays for relative civility, or one most assuredly pays otherwise) apartment. And: Bang. Shot down cold. By the piece of shit. And by everybody.

I mention all this because I learnt several things during these years: I learnt that Hollywood really is full of self-obsessed assholes; I learnt that women here are totally stuck up their own asses and cannot be trusted; and I learnt that, far from being the paradise or playground suggested by Beach Boys songs and Monkees episodes, SoCal is basically a huge knife up your anus, which enjoys making you scream and bleed. Yes, I mean that. No, I am not the least bit angry or upset anymore. I just mean it because it is true. Only extremely stupid people would think that this is a healthy or sane place to “live.”

Why continue? Well, I’ll tell you what has been interesting — even sometimes compelling: Cultural — mostly Pop — opportunities have been afforded me, on many occasions, by living here. I truly envy my friends and colleagues out in the territories, who have “settled down” and at least have SOMETHING to show for their lives after college (I feel I have nothing; I’m pretty sure I’m right about this — daily I am forced to ponder that, were I to die, it would affect nobody particularly adversely). However, in the same breath, I am deeply, adoringly grateful to this shithole of a megalopolis for allowing me to rub elbows, knees and whatever else with some of the luminaries of our age. Sure, this could have happened in New York or London, Hong Kong or Paris, but for me it’s been here — and I am not only very grateful for these opportunities and experiences, I shall strive to parlay them into something Good, Useful or at least Fun for the billions of other people out there who sadly lack the daily privilege of being me. Ha.

As for “blogging” (hate that “word”), here’s the thing: I have always been a writer. My whole life. I don’t live to write, nor do I write to live — but articulating my feelings and designs via the embattled English language is something I simply love doing! Have always done; shall always do. And what’s more, unlike a lot of people, I’m not some fucking wannabe who’s desperately struggling to sound like his heroes or whatever. I’m laughing at you, Joe, at you, Erich, at you, Scott, at you, Bob, at you, Josh, at you, Mikey-boy. Assholes. Tell you what, if you’re really, really good, and behave yourselves for the next few years, and learn some manners, I might let you sharpen my pencils. Bitch-boys.

SLAP!

I write because I like writing; I have no agenda beyond that. Scares people, I guess.

Back to the “blog” issue (hate that “word”), there are so many of these things on the internet now (I refuse to capitalise it; like big brother), that I don’t feel the process to be all that attractive anymore. Thank you to those of you who have read (and are reading) this — and I also don’t feel very turned-on by writing about my life anymore. Ooh: Here’s a sandwich I ate. Ooh: Here’s some celebrity. Whee. The sandwich company, and the celebrity company, can start paying me if they want coverage.

I made up my own “blog” (hate that “word”) in the midst of 2005 — kind of late to get into “blogging,” really, but at least I was something of a pioneer in terms of being an online movie critic. I didn’t fully cotton to that awkward, homemade “blog” process, and eventually dropped it. In early 2006, I started this somewhat more formal thing — calling it first a “Gulag,” and later a “Garden” — and I’ll tell you what kept me going on it, for a while:

What kept me going was that every little ray of hope that perhaps my life would start to become a happy thing to be living was constantly ripped away from me, just as I would begin appreciating and welcoming it. You name the job, friendship, plan, whore — oops! “girlfriend” — or whatever — I gave it my best, and it shat in my face. I figured, okay, this must be some kind of test: I’ll just keep going, and documenting it. What other choice is there, when NOTHING is going one’s way? It made sense, under those dire circumstances.

This thing ended — and, here, ends — with the conclusion that, eventually, there’s nothing new to say about a life going nowhere. I could go on and on and on and on and on about how people have lied to me, tricked me, and let me down — but what’s the point? Plus this would be insulting to the very small gaggle of great friends I really do have, and trust, and love.

And why would I publicly broadcast things about the wonderful people in my life? I just want to tell them they’re wonderful, and leave it at that.

In SoCal, I am very grateful to the fine community of the American Cinematheque, to Martin Lewis for his astoundingly fab annual Mods & Rockers festival, to the writers and directors who know I know them and who perhaps also know I love and appreciate them, to the library people and sweet, sweet books who have made my day-to-day existence bearable, and to God. No, I’m kidding about God. There is no God. Don’t be ridiculous. I mean, sure, gods, maybe — as archetypes of the human spirit — but this “God” shit has gotten us all in enough trouble already. Drop it. There is no God.

It hasn’t been a happy life for me thus far, to be quite honest with you (although I am quite happy about acknowledging that there is no God — I’m happy to go to my grave, although I hope not too soon, declaring just that, and knowing in my heart that I am right). I know, I know, you can point to some shell-shocked solider or starving Somalian and try to make me feel bad about my unhappiness — but fuck you, happiness is relative, and I don’t ask for much. I’m neither soldier nor Somalian — I am a smart and generally kind fellow who has no reason to feel alive, thus must fake it every day. Why I lack almost literally all comfort and security and pleasure — after years of arduous effort and sincere presence — is nightmarishly disconcerting for me to consider — but there it is. People suck, I guess; I’ll try to love the ones who don’t suck.

Is there more to say here? Not really. Some very enjoyable things happened near the end of the last Gregorian calendar year — I interviewed my friends who wrote a terrific movie, I got to meet some actual Monkees — and perhaps I can shoehorn those experiences and photos in here at some point, prior to this definitive concluding entry. We’ll see. Things have carried on since then, another interview, more Big Celebrity Types, etc. etc. — but at this point my life is so unpleasant for me that I have no choice but to conclude this…sector, let’s call it…of my reflective ramble. There is no life-essence in my life, no sweetness, no point. Why write about that?

It’s kind of a stupid thing to cram in here near the end, but I am also grateful to Star Trek. I was working on the Paramount lot the day the Roddenberry Building was grandly opened. There for The Undiscovered Country. And when I was fired, Trek played a significant role in keeping me entertained and thoughtful, amidst terrible nothingness and, worse, constant irritation. I’m not a “Trekkie” or “Trekker” — but those many one-dollar VHS tapes of the original series, some of the second series, plus of course the movies (I like all of the movies, actually), they kept me going through some quite frankly miserable times. I had books, too, and Thai food, and movies on the big screen — but in the sadness and loneliness, it was Trek — yeh, it beat out even Bond and Batman — that sustained my severely damaged belief in the Entertainment Machine.

Now it’s funny, as a new generation hijacks the franchise, how dusty all that old stuff seems. And yet not — for great storytelling lasts long after lucrative sensationalism peters out. I perceive no kitsch in the original Trek, nor even in Lost in Space, or dozens of other sci-fi and fantasy franchises which sustained me when nothing else would: For in them lay — and still lies — the kernal of Imagination, in a madly hopeful yet devastatingly lawless and unbalanced social experiement called, loosely, “America.” Without flights of fancy such as these, I would have given up all “hope” a long “time” ago (both in inverted commas, as I don’t actually believe in “hope” or “time” — but you probably do). Thank goodness for those charming old shows.

This isn’t a plug for any new movies, incidentally; I wish people well, but I really don’t expect much.

What this is is the end of this “blog” (hate that “word”). Everybody pretty much mindlessly goes about their lives, and then every now and then somebody burns out or explodes — and people get to act surprised or sad for a few minutes (usually for attention more than genuine feeling, or so it appears to me), before resuming their respective robot routines. Note: I would never raise my hand against another (except to protect a third party) — but I have been spending most of my days and nights over the past few years feeling remarkably close to burning out or exploding. Perhaps this is because Hollywood is built upon a foundation of lies and manipulations, and I reside very close to it. I dunno. It sucks, though. I am here — and yet not. Sometimes people want to get me stoned; that pisses me off to no end: How about YOU become SMARTER and MORE PERCEPTIVE? Why drag me down? Perhaps this is not unlike the Entertainment Machine itself: One of its main purposes is to make people stupider so that it can take their money more easily. But this is not the only thing it could be doing. Hm.

Well, these considerations and others are sure to continue, but this “blog” (hate that “word”) is certain not to continue. Maybe a few tweaks, but basically it really is done. Thank you for reading — and, to a few, for participating. You brought me good things; I hope I brought you good things, too. There won’t be any significant new stuff here; you may stop “visiting” now.

A personal online journal with a different approach will launch May first or thereabouts. Most likely, I’ll go with my previous notion of one Essay, one Update, per week. (I well recall the era before 24-7 online obsession, and wish to bring that more organic, less obsessively “connected” vibe back to the fore.)

Movie reviews will continue on the site, sporadically, until August, 2009 — at which point I hit the ten-year mark and call that a career, goodnight, Gracie. I’m already moving on to other things, and — quite unlike when I started — now literally everybody is a critic!

That’s it. I would conclude with something pithy — except that would run contrary to my sincere appraisal that a vile span of inspirationless doldrums is (outside of my fiction, which is not represented here) precisely why I choose to discontinue this practice.

Ciao.