O (Part 7 of 10)

I fell off and you were not there to catch me.  The utter indifference on display was necessary and momentarily sobering.  Was there hate that passed between us?  Why is everyone always staring at me?  Why were these introductions made?  How much regret must be making its presence known at this very moment? 

The ice fell slowly and he did his best not stare.  And I was waiting for the premonition.  My smile was as fake as everything inside of me.  I waited for a kiss and I waited like a madman in the dark and it was only later I realized the nature of true terror.  I walked in through the exit.  The child was there holding a green cup.  The child smiled and beckoned and we talked about this and I wanted to die but you could not see that and I walked over and I continued to pretend just as I betrayed everything that was good around me.  My fortune is meaningless.  And all those paintings he told you he would see and those mountains and blades of grass you want to walk through.  In the end they will all simply catch fire while violin strings sing out a sad song and remind me of the futility in everything I have done. 

In that moment it was back to creation and the possibility I may have things backwards.  It’s not reality to make someone happy.  There is nothing to see here.  The world has gone away from me and there will be no more sunsets.  Our health was in question and there were compliments handed out and recommendations and the elegant beauty of simplicity.  We were looking out on a river.  I was waiting to drown underneath.  I knew what I wanted to see last before everything went black.  You bought all my hope for pennies and threw it away in the trash.  I’m caught in the crowd and nobody listens.  You will never be seen at that stadium. 

Through so much wine she disappeared into the summer air; all those empty words that escape from your mouth.  It was my fault all along.  I brought about the end of everything.  And hopefully one day I will die as a direct result of my actions.  My death would be the only reward. 

He wants her to marry him.  I am unwell.  I don’t know myself of anyone else.  How appropriate and how wonderful.  He will never be the one to make you laugh.  It is a better world for that.  Nothing makes me happy anymore.  There is something in my eye.  I almost passed out at the familiarity.  Everything was minimal and I saw who would care for us if they were to be taken away.  What beautiful luck to have death knock on our doorstep.  Is there no one with whom I would not trade places? 

When will the water begin to purify me?  I let you down every day.  It is futile to ask forgiveness when I make the same mistake immediately afterward.  I fear there is only one way this can end.  Somehow this all went from very high on the list to being nothing more than another drop in the bucket.  There is backwards filtered reverb on my soul.  I so desperately wish to be washed away and renew myself but I don’t believe this will ever happen.  At some point I wake up alone and part blood red curtains and walk outside to feel the air and I will sing to myself and realize I do not know anyone.  I will still love you but I will no longer have any idea where or who you are. 

You create a light that reflects what is above.  This makes me feel.  I’ve jumped around the strings.  I think back to when it started and I have no idea how I ended up here, waiting in the dark.  No one can take my regret away from me.  You created movement from the dead recognition in your eyes.  Your portrait depicts the death of my pride.  Fear inside her eyes.  It is a blessing they never encountered one another.  Please let it stay that way.  It is a lonely place we have found ourselves in this strange room full of laughter.  I don’t know who is there lurking behind the scenes.  Everything is so mixed up since I moved my hand and scattered the stars all over the place.  I need to be banished.  These poisonous words inside of me should never be spoken.  Our departure hit a crescendo.  I cannot wait to leave it all behind.  The morning’s clarity exposes my disgrace. 

There is no depth here and nothing to discover.  Everything you say is all that is left.  I’m learning to live with somebody’s narcosis.  I’m learning to live with somebody’s obsession.  My life is not valuable.  I spent all this time watching unsympathetic black and white images and now I have nothing left to learn and nothing to hope for.  Take me to church and force me to forget.  To take your hands and dip them in holy water.  To drink from the same cup as you.  To drink love from your generous hands.  I’ve seen your hair covered and your body bathed in light.  I am a false person and my testimonies and confessions mean nothing.  I ask all of you to please forgive me.  I hope to see you at the ocean one day.  I hope to see you all on the shoreline and we can look out at the sea and the sun and the sky.  I hope you will hold my hand, if only for a moment.  And I will ask you to forgive me.  In my dreams you smile and tell me it is okay but I can’t imagine this ever happening in real life.  And in the end I always realize that you are the sea and I am just left alone there on the beach.  Don’t save my life, it’s empty. 

I fell off and kept falling and will always be falling because you will never be there to catch me.  

O (Part 6 of 10)

Do you ever wonder where all these zombies came from? 

Her leg wraps around like an anaconda with the crook of her knee pressed against his neck.  She reaches out and rests one hand on the tip of her foot.  “Quien maneja aqui?” she asks and when he is unable to respond save for brief sounds of struggling she pulls on her foot and applies even more pressure to his neck.  She asks again, her voice more aggressive but she loosens her grips just a bit, “Quien maneja aqui?” “You” Tightening her grips, “Como? Quien maneja aqui?!” It is nearly impossible to speak, “Tu…usted.” “Asi es”.  Oh sweet fishnets.  Oh hosiery.  Oh you.  Nothing compares.  “Trainquilo.” 

It is trauma.  It is blood and the exchanging of fluids.  It is bodies bending and contorting and heavy breathing and steamy breath against sweaty skin.  A tongue licks a tooth or a cheek and moans rise from the bottom of the throat and escapes to the free air.  At yet here is such beauty, such pure experience.  You stick a taser against my skin and turn it on, first against my chest, then my neck, then my thighs.  When this current is surging through my body, my muscles tightening, tendons bulging, you tell me it is okay, everything is okay, “Todo esta bien mijo”.  Someone is shaking. 

And there is dancing under the mistletoe and crying and the sweet and utter dissolve of personality.  I want you to kill me in that moment.  I want you to kiss me and then obliterate me so there is nothing left.  I have no castle to offer.  We wander through this strange and horrific world and my shadow self is lurking behind every corner.  There is only one pure thing left. 

There is lace, cotton, silk and nylon.  Some of it in his mouth, some on her body, some forming a shroud wrapped around his face.  And perfumed souls.  There is rich suffocation after countless hours spent in the daily horror of life.  The parting of the leather opens the doors to the aromatic splendors mixed to perfection by the boldness of time and the glorious heaven sent moisture of the body.  This perfume of the gods – from skin to fabric to skin again – invades the senses and for a moment is the only thing in existence.  And the sweet pressure, gentle one moment and fierce in the next, everything in service to glorious subjugation.  Begging and pleading and choking and the room spinning faster and faster.  More and more layers are peeled and applied.  The denier is perfect as always.  The seam is traversed across the 7 different points of splendor, culminating in divine beautiful ecstasy.  Rivers of milk leading to an ocean of thunder. 

You are a slave.  A servant not fit to look at me or lick the dirt off my heel but that is what you shall do first.  Worship me.  I am your master and you are my pet.  Do exactly as I say and I will allow you to live.  On your knees.  You don’t look me in the eyes unless I give you permission.  You do not speak unless I give you permission. These are new shoes.  Do you like them?   

Please say his name, as the electricity courses through him.  Tell him how much you care while his bones are breaking.

I’m stumbling through the halls in a place I don’t recognize.  I scream and slam myself against the walls.  The lights are either blinding or I am in complete darkness.  I’m going into convulsions.  Tremors erupt through my entire body.  Muscles clench and unclench without any external instigators this times and my back arches.  My mind is spinning at an uncontrollable rate and I see flowers and people without skin dripping blood and stars crashing down into our planet and I see a pale face with smiling pink lips. 

Then I am standing, there is sun outside.  I try to speak, my mouth is warped and rusty metal and my tongue is dust.  I am learning to form words again.  I vomit on the bed and on the floors.  Water is almost impossible to keep down.  There are things coming to get me. Demons. 

“How…how…how long have I…been here?” I ask. 

Just a few days I think to myself, it has to be just a few days.  But I touch my face and there is a beard there, something is stuck to parts of it, probably vomit.  And the stench.  The place reeks like shit and spoiled food left out on the counter tops.  I remember.  I remember throwing up over and over into the garbage can by the bed.  I think sometimes I was not able to make it that far.  I threw up several times on the floor, at least once on the bed itself.  It’s on my shirt. 

Sam showed me the way but they were unable to prevent this from happening.  I had a grim thought of the palms of my hands splitting open to reveal fully formed eyeballs, teary and venous and endlessly searching. 

“Three weeks,” the cleaning woman says. 

I close my eyes and see you there.  I drive by old familiar places and my brain can almost recall the moments we shared.  There are so many nights spent alone with only my thoughts around.  He would kill for a bottle of her perfume.  And what might he do for that dress she wore, especially after she walked through the day in the summer heat?  There are violets in your eyes.  A field of violets at sunset.  And just beyond the field is the tower.  I am terrified to go inside. 

There are so many unanswered questions. It hurts knowing they shall remain unanswered for the rest of my life.  It is likely your spirit will have departed and I shall still be wondering.  I looked through a thousand different photographs to find you again.  For what it’s worth I know you are out there somewhere.  You’re the great mistake I never made.  I am filled with sorrow over this.  I like to look into the past at something that hasn’t happened yet.  Thank you for teaching me this.  I am forever grateful. 

What do you look like with your hair down? 

I miss you dreadfully.

Evolution always wins

They come to me in my bedroom.  I can only make out forms and shapes, dark silhouettes against a backdrop of white light.  I can move my hands but nothing else.  The fear is instantaneous and suffocating.  But every time he is there she is there too.  I once asked her if it was all just a dream and her eyes widened in terror and realization.  Yet aboard the craft she is so brave and consoling, no tears coming from her.  I just want to step inside the loose palace of exile.  The words I end with are not my own but they sum it all up better than I ever could.  I say these things not to one but to all of you and hope you each receive this message in your own way. 

Looking through old photographs I suddenly realized I’ve spent (wasted?) my entire life looking for a replacement.  I have unknowingly dedicated a substantial amount of my time to creating demons.  Oh such sweet recall, 9 humble years ago.  I remember that morning well.  The supple bass notes and the sunshine captured in flower petals.  You were in green and saw me for the first and last time.  She said you would never forget but it’s so easy to have doubts.  But the moment will replay in my head and heart over and over again until my final days. 

I’m excited to read Clive Barker’s latest book The Scarlet Gospels when it is released this upcoming month of May in this great year of 2015.  I shall have to hitchhike over to Waldenbooks to purchase a copy.  I’ll probably read it in my car while parked in front of a department store with the two front-side windows rolled down a bit to allow for some cross ventilation.  I started the book Redwall last night.  It’s been several decades since I read the first book in Brian Jacques sprawling series.  My memories of the Redwall universe are blissful and I hope to recapture some of this magic and have resolved to read the entire series this year! 

You’re leaving town tomorrow.  I knew you a long time ago; we shook hands while my insides exploded like a bottle of nitroglycerin colliding with a hard surface.  I screamed and rolled in the flowers afterward and shared my spoils with a dark skinned man.  And the last time you saw me I was wishing you well and preparing to see such joy thru’ these architects eyes; the crying came much later and then the obsession which would outlive everything.  The music has no meaning when you’re not around.  Everything is just black and white. 

I think I’ll see the movie It Follows this Friday at my local multiplex.  Slavish followers of my work will no doubt remember there are 4 horror films I am anticipating this year like a starving man anticipates a turkey on rye sandwich: Starry Eyes, It Follows, The Babadook, and 31.  I saw Starry Eyes in February and was sadly disappointed, The Babadook comes out on blu ray next month and 31 won’t be released until later this year so for now my only hope is It Follows.  Despite all the rave reviews and recommendations from folks I would trust with my worthless life it will probably disappoint me as most things do. 

Mark Knopfler released a new album last week but I was too busy playing the part of the ignorant fool to realize this.  At some point today I will hitchhike down to a department store and purchase it.  Later I will listen to it within the comfort of my posh flat, a glass of Zinfandel in one hand and a well oiled, loaded and cocked pistol in the other.  I will periodically point the barrel of the pistol to my temple and there will be occasional tears running down my chubby chipmunk like cheeks.  However I will most likely not have the intestinal fortitude to go through with the most logical choice a man like me could make.  I once knew a man who was (and likely still is) a big fan of Dire Straits.  He was (and likely still is) one of the most honorable men I’ve ever had the good fortune to know and every time I am in a bar and hear a song by Straits or Knopfler I raise my glass or bottle and drink to him. 

The amount of people who have kids who shouldn’t is mind blowing and disgusting.  Why don’t we get a fucking job?  Also, it’s really not that hard not to have kids.  People are ugly, repulsive things.  We are a disease to this planet.  To constantly be reminded of our worthlessness is so draining.  Maybe we should all make the logical and honorable choice today to stop having kids.  That way in a century or so the human race would simply be extinct!  These words are translated into Japanese before I start to run up a hill backwards and scream like a baby (I do it all because I’m young!).  Why are there so many zombies around me?  You all make me cry.  The Prestige is still my favorite Christopher Nolan movie, no contest.  None of his other movies even come close! 

Lucio Fulci’s 1981 horror classic The Beyond is released on special edition blu ray today complete with a gaggle of bonus features and a copy of Fabio Frizzi’s fab soundtrack.  I may be going against the grain a bit but of all the great Italian horror directors Fulci is my favorite.  Don’t Torture a Duckling is probably my most beloved Giallo and I enjoy the man’s over the top use of gore more than Argento’s.  But why even bother comparing?!  Can’t one just sit back with a steaming bowl of clam chowder and enjoy them all?! 

The current political unrest in Kosovo is certainly troubling to someone like me.  Ballbreaker and Stiff Upper Lip are two great and highly underrated albums from Australia’s own AC DC.  I’ve been listening to these discs nonstop in my motor vehicle for the past several decades and I conclude they are meaty and fulfilling slabs of pure rock.  Cliff William’s steady pulse of eighth notes is the band’s secret weapon and often when I think of his bass playing I drool in excitement and depraved praise.  What would I do if I met Ecuadorian artist Azucena Aymara in person?  Would I even have the words?  Or would I just beg her to use my face as her footrest, especially if she just finished a long concert on a warm day and was wearing hosiery?  I went to Target a few days ago and bought a box of garbage bags.  But the real garbage is me. 

I was watching Man of Steel the other day and immediately fell in love all over again with German actress Antje Traue who played Faora, General Zod’s commander.  Sometimes I like to imagine that I’m a reporter interviewing her as part of a press junket for her next feature film.  I often burst into tears when thinking about her because she seems so sweet and kind in interviews.  I wish she were in more movies.  I wish she had been cast as Wonder Woman!  Forgive me for saying so. 

Please send all your moonbeam levels to me. 

Es mi forma de jugar

My life is such a shame, shame, shame.

I finished Kim Zupan’s The Ploughmen the other day.  Zupan’s story of becoming an author is inspirational but I was not entirely taken by his debut novel.  I guess that’s all I care to say on the matter.  The other night I began Marisha Pessl’s 2014 novel Night Film.  I have only read the first 81 pages but I can say with a shocking degree of certainty it is the best first 81 pages of any book I’ve read in years.  We’ll see how the remaining pages stack up. 

I am in love with Mavi Gioia.  I often dream of fleeing to Italy to engage in a life of international crime (art forgery, extortion, general cons, nothing murderous unless necessary).  Eventually Mavi’s path crosses with mine while we are both in Florence and we share a drink on a clear summer evening overlooking the Ponte Vecchio Bridge. 

I am convinced that serious long term relationships are an unnatural thing; a dubious construct built around compromise and insecurity.  I am consistently baffled and saddened by all the possibilities for growth and discovery – all the potential – people willingly destroy because they are terrified of going home to an empty house.  How can the center of one’s life be a romantic partner?  How can this satisfy all needs in an individual that their own life means nothing unless they have this other person?  These questions continue to baffle me.  Yet despite all this I still find myself a willing participant in this phenomenon.  This is quite a disturbing fact. 

Saturday night I found myself alone in my posh flat, sitting on my bourgeois sofa [where I sometimes play escondite ingles (or hide and seek for all you white Anglo-Saxon protestants) with Colombian singer Shakira) and watching Ridley Scott’s 2003 movie Matchstick Men starring none other than Nicolas Cage, Sam Rockwell and some other people (including Alison Lohman from White Oleander, which in a freakish coincidence I had just watched a week earlier!).  When the movie finished I smiled to myself and thought “My, that was a quaint little film, not one of Scott’s or Cage’s major works perhaps but still a very enjoyable effort” and then switched on an episode of Elvira’s Movie Macabre.  I put a load of colored laundry in the washer – including an orange sweater I earmarked for church the following day – and then resumed my position on the sofa.  The episode eventually ended and I was left with the standard feelings of dejection and emptiness which I feel several times a day everyday and I considered shooting myself in the head and imagined the stark contrast of my red blood splattered against the white walls of my flat.  I also considered downing a bottle of sleeping pills and washing it down with a bottle of cheap Moscato which I’d purchased at the corner Circle K earlier that same day.  In this scenario I merely drift off to sleep and eventually into the waiting arms of death while listening to one of my favorite albums – perhaps Una Pequena Parte del Mundo by Amaral or Low by David Bowie.   Instead I scanned the internet via my expensive cellular telephone and decided to read up on various urban legends, unexplained occurrences, missing person cases and other phenomena such as hauntings and alien abduction.  Unfortunately, though these topics fascinate me they also terrify me and it was not long before I found myself in what can only be described as a paralytic state of fear.  I was so terrified that even when I heard the washer finish its cycle it was hours before I found the nerve to leave the sofa and walk to the laundry room to place the clothes in the dryer.  I was convinced someone or something would be waiting for me in that room.  Eventually, my fear died away in anti-climactic fashion and I deposited the wet load into the adjacent machine.  However my fear had been so intense that my body was crumbling from exhaustion and I fell asleep on the sofa and did not wake until morning where I discovered the clothes still needed at least another half cycle in the dryer.  But since I was running late to church I was forced to grab the orange sweater and allow it to air dry while I drove like a mad man to my destination.  And thus I spent the morning wearing a damp, smelly sweater; the shame in my heart worn on my sleeve. 

Tom Hamilton from Aerosmith is a quite a good bassist.  I enjoy the work of these sturdy bassists like Cliff Williams from AC DC.  If only I could be like them.  I’ll never be an eighth as good a bassist as a Hamilton or a Williams.  I’m listening to Aerosmith’s 1976 album Rocks as I peck out this prose.  Sick as a Dog is a personal favorite.  Once the disc runs its course I will put on AC DC’s newest album Rock or Bust.  It is a raw and pounding slice of rock though not as compelling as Madonna’s new album which I am still feverishly listening to roughly 9 times a day. 

I was an outsider viewing something private.  I was filled with jealousy.  The intimacy on display made my throat tighten and brought tears to my eyes because I knew it would never be mine.  Your embrace.  That was all I wanted.  Does that sound better than “hug”?  Your hug.  I think embrace sounds more poetic.  Are they the same thing?  I think they can be.  I was staring through the glass.  In my dreams there are always two of you, one dressed in white and one in black.  I miss you dreadfully. 

Over 20 years ago 62 children all saw it in Zimbabwe.  They drew pictures, gave testimonials and were interviewed by well credited professionals in the areas of child psychology.  To this day none of them have retracted their statements.  This is one among many cases which haunts my restless nights. 

To anyone in the know I’m still considering a session with Lady Milady.  Surely one of you dear readers must have partaken in a session with her or someone comparable?  If so, provide me with generous details and an overall review of the experience that I may know if this is where I should be spending my hard earned dough.  I would ask her to squeeze my neck with her thick and powerful fishnet clad thighs while calling me “pathetic” and telling me what an ugly loser I am.  I would ask her to do this until I pass out and when I awaken I would ask her to spit on my face. 

I really like the name Yolanda.  I also like Lorena.  I’m not sure which one I like more, my opinion frequently changes. 

The other day I remembered seeing a tiger at the foot of my bed when I was child.  He was just staring at me.  I nearly broke down in hysterics when recalling this for the implications are both vast and terrifying. 

I only ever cry while watching movies these days. 

My heart is on fire

I spend a generous part of many days metaphorically sucking dick.  It is a depressing fact about my life.  But it’s all my own choosing.  I have no one to blame except my own rotten self.  Almost no one wants to face the truth about themselves and admit what disgusting, pathetic and useless things they are; laughing and fucking and shitting and being worthless.  Why is there is so much hatred inside me?  Why does almost everyone repulse me?  I am constantly living in the moment-right-before.  Does no one understand this?  Please stop looking at me.  Please stop asking me for things because you’re too worthless to achieve anything yourself.  What is this thing staring back at me in the mirror every morning?  I hear myself screaming more and more these days.  There are far too many false faces.  Compromise is death.  I love the amount of devotion we give to things we don’t give a fuck about.  Let’s all whore ourselves out.  We love being whores.  Look at that smirk, right there and you can feel it burning hot and making you come, such glorious and grotesque physical stirrings.  How it makes me want to slice off my own face, or at least give myself a cute little Cheshire grin. 

 

Why is everything so ugly?  How can we all force ourselves to laugh like we do?  Does no one else have a desire to thrust a pair of scissors into their lap during those moments?  You shouldn’t have babies; you shouldn’t go out in public.  Please everyone stop pretending we are friends or that we meet on some kind of common ground.  There is a dull ache in my forehead that grows to a persistent throb that eventually becomes an intense walloping pain whenever I think about any of you. 

 

My personality is melting.  Spinning somewhere, we’re dancing and we kiss and there are tears in someone’s eyes.  This won’t last beyond the night.  Your hair is black as coal and then it is sun kissed blonde and then black again.  Tell me about the book you just read.  Show me your creation.  You calm me.  And I always want to feel this way.  And I only occasionally think about dying.  “You’re such a sad, pathetic thing but I love you anyway.”  Speak to me in a language I don’t recall.  What color are your eyes?  Misery followed by ecstasy and back again.  You’re shedding your skin in the garden and then there are two of you.  The evil one comes to me and the good one only whispers in my ear.  I create idols and they damn me. 

 

The other miserable day I went to Best Buy to purchase Madonna’s new album Rebel Heart.  I was specifically looking for the super deluxe version which includes the album proper and the extra tracks of the deluxe edition as well as a second disc with several new tracks and remixes.  Alas, they did not have this much coveted item and I was ready to blow a fuse when I was temporarily placated by the sight of Rob Zombie’s new live album Spookshow International Live.  Those who know and despise me best know that I absolutely love live albums and will go the ends of the earth to obtain one from a favorite artist.  I frequently come into contact with people who do not like live albums and when I ask why through clenched teeth they invariably give me the same horseshit answer that they can only hear the audience and how they hate that!  I’m baffled by this response and can only assume the live releases they’ve heard are bootlegged concerts recorded by audience members on their phone.  Live albums are soundboard recordings straight from the in-house boards you idiots so the sound is pointedly not going to be a muddy mess.  Whatever though, to each their own as the kids love to say when not they’re shooting each other, doing drugs, making babies and ensuring future welfare dependency.  I love live releases because of the rawness, the passion, the verve, the intensity and the pure beauty.  It was hearing the live version of Si Te Vas by Shakira from her 2004 release Live & Off the Record which ensured my love for her voice and music would be eternal.  I cannot overestimate the importance of recorded live music.  As for Zombie’s new disc, it’s a good live record.  It’s messy.  It kicks out the jams. 

 

Eventually I found the deluxe version of Rebel Heart at another store and I did not hesitate to make the purchase with my credit card so I could accrue more debt. I’ve listened to the album several times now and find it to be inspirational as a scattered, forceful and conflicted piece of art, balancing Madge’s classic themes of spiritually redemptive struggles and equal parts deranged and detached sexuality.  The melodies are sweeping, the instrumentation lush, and her voice a full and impassioned guide through these amorous and odious tales.  It has saved me these past couple days and reminded me of the bit of truth that still remains here. 

 

I’ve recently considered purchasing one of those model kit things that one puts together and paints.  I sense it is something which would help calm my restless spirit and cleanse the stigma of my degradation.  I’ve narrowed down my choices to roughly nine thousand.  Batman seems fun, Green Lantern too.  But I also considered Frankenstein and/or his bride.  There’s also an Elvira one and a Vampirella one.  I just can’t decide.  Maybe I’ll just blow my brains out with my daddy’s gun instead because that would probably also calm my restless spirit.  Sometimes I think wearing makeup and women’s clothes would also soothe me. 

 

I don’t have the body of an underwear model, that’s for sure.  I’m a disgusting pig of a man.  If I could wear a mask everywhere I would.  Why don’t I?  What’s truly stopping me except my own fears and insecurities?  How can anyone stand themselves these days?  All you fuckheads care about is money.  I remember the first time I spoke to someone like that.  Even at that young age I recognized the degenerative evil behind those avaricious eyes.  That’s not entirely true; there are other things we care about.  We mustn’t wait too long before the necessary swapping of body fluids.  Let me jamb my erect pulsating and beautiful cock into your deep, wet and all too tempting opening of the flesh.  This disgusting curved appendage of mine, an alien tumor-like growth that squirts a milky prize and aches to bond with this viscous and aromatic open wound.  I will do this as many times as we like and when you or I find someone better we can move on.  Let me pour as many things into my body as humanly possible.  I am so cute when I’m loud, especially in groups.  Please teach me and touch me and mold me and tell me what is important in this world.  I desperately need to know what is necessary to thrive and survive, this is so important.  I want to be an ignorant fuckup of all trades!  Please let’s keep pretending that it all means something, we are all perfect and pretty and unique snowflakes and this is most definitely love that I am feeling!  Love is everything and it makes me do everything.  It makes me touch myself and touch others (in their hearts, metaphorically speaking).  I am a little toy soldier and I do whatever I’m told.  Thankfully, I’m nothing like you.  Look at me, I am so hip and edgy and sexy, I don’t need to conform to any of your antiquated ideas because I’m my own man.  I travel in packs sometimes.  I can come at any time and on anyone.  I can hear the elks bugling.  Off in the distance you can see my latest conquest.  Let me flip over on my stomach for you.  I am my own fucking man.  Maybe I’ll just cut my tongue out and staple it to the wall.  People are so horrifying.

 

 

Do you actually believe I am separate from you?

I watched Ang Lee’s 2003 movie Hulk last night for the first time in countless years.  I stand by what I’ve been saying my entire worthless life: this is by far the superior Hulk movie.  Lee has always been a prime visual artist and the aesthetics here are sumptuous in a couple different ways.  First, I love the use color, fucking love it – all the greens and purples popping up in flowers and labs and all kinds of unexpected places.  This coupled with all the bio imagery of amphibians and molecules hi tech machinery gives the film a palpable pulpy and deliciously sciencey flavor.  Of course the multipanel/split-screen weirdness is something which hasn’t really been attempted since and immediately calls to mind the colorful and bombastic panels of modern comic book pages.  This was a bold experiment and I can’t say it’s entirely successful as it rarely seems to tie in thematically and is sometimes exhausting in its insistence.  Its boldness is endearing however and I will always praise experimenting and creativity over rote and dull competency (which was in full display in 2008’s The Incredible Hulk).  Also, I cannot fully express how CUTE the Hulk looks when he was hopping and bouncing through the desert.  Finally, Danny Elfman contributes another great score.  I plan to purchase it via Amazon.com and then listen to it during hot and miserable summer days.  

 

I just get the sense that Lee and the creators here were truly focused on making a movie first and foremost without worrying about any of the traditional trappings or “requirements” of a superhero film.  It was bold then and absolutely refreshing and audacious now.  Also, as it comes a full 2 years before Batman Begins I can see many ideas it spearheaded which the later film took to heart (perhaps more successfully) such as that close examination with the parental bond, the use of flashbacks, the aforementioned way color and music is employed and even the overall tone which was decidedly more dour than Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man which was released a year or so earlier.  I appreciate Hulk more and more as the years progress.  It is not perfect but within its genre it is a defiantly honest and genuine piece of art.  Hulk seems to be a particularly difficult character to make work in a solo film.  I think the reason is the heavy anticipation audience members have to just see Bruce Banner turn green and smash things while not necessarily being too interested in Banner’s story.  I enjoyed Mark Ruffalo in The Avengers.  For now, the green goliath seems to work better as a side character where he doesn’t have to be the driving force of a story.  Still, I would love to see another Hulk movie one day.  Or would I? 

 

Sticking with the overplayed and now largely uninteresting topic of comic book movies I’ve been doing a lot of pondering about the Batman flicks recently.  I came to the chilling realization they all have at least one superfluous character that could/should have been excised in order to create a leaner and likely better movie.  Here are two amazing examples: 1. Alexander Knox played by Robert Wuhl from 1989’s Batman is an obnoxious and worthless reporter who does nothing Kim Basinger’s character couldn’t have done.  2. John “Robin” Blake played by Joseph Gordon Levitt in 2012’s The Dark Knight Rises is another character who does nothing and is a constant source of bad exposition and weak thematic reinforcement.  I would like both of these movies to be reworked without these characters.  That would make my life complete. 

 

My boys The Athletics remain undefeated in Cactus League play so far.  Though I am one or two games behind so I may just not have heard the news but right now things are looking smooth.  Is there a greater delight than spring training games?  That last game against the Angels was excellence with the A’s coming back from a 5 point deficit to score the win in the 9^th.  Baseball is my life.  I’m putting all my money on Billy “Country Breakfast” Butler this year to make the big hits and bring in the high numbers.  I love Crisp but I’m worried about his shoulder this season.  Still, if he can stay the course with his patented “small ball” style he may be the team’s secret weapon. 

 

Madonna’s new album is released stateside today. 

 

I find Chiquis Rivera (the daughter of the late Jenni Rivera) to be devastatingly attractive.  I’ve watched her performance at the recent Premio Lo Nuestro 2015 several dozen times on Youtube across many lonely nights.  Here’s the rub as the kids say: I understand the backlash and harsh criticism she receives across social media.  It is very easy to wonder about what talent she actually possesses versus being handed opportunities because of her mother (and uncle perhaps).  To put it another way I have listened to the 3 singles she’s released so far and various live performances and would sadly say I don’t think she has much singing ability.  This may not have been as noticeable or problematic if she were going for a pure pop sound but thus far she has been attempting to find her way in Jenni’s banda and mariachi style.  This is music that requires a strong, full and expressive voice which Chiquis does not yet possess.  I’m willing to remain optimistic and I’ll no doubt buy her album if it’s marketed well (I love great marketing, I love product) but I think the best thing for her if she wants to be a singer is to try and find something unique to her and not simply retrace her mother’s footsteps.   I love her generous thighs though.  Is that wrong of me to say?  I wonder.  Certainly, I would never be so forward with a woman in person.  But here I am hiding behind my computer, a true coward.  But is thick thigh love so bad?  Especially when one puts them on display?  I think I would find it flattering if someone wrote on their blog that they loved my thighs.  But are those reasons just hollow and chauvinistic?  What if my comments then progressed to her derriere?  Is there a line?  If so, have I already crossed it?  Should I apologize to Chiquis? 

 

In recent days I have come to learn that most teenagers are foul, vile creatures.  This applies to the majority of college folks as well though they are largely lackadaisical in their foulness which makes it more palatable (sometimes).  As someone who attended both high school and college I am 100% certain in these well researched opinions.  Old timers bother me too.  In general I find that I really hate people.  Why is everyone so transparent?  Many people I know love people and revel in their rampant fakeness and crave their company and acceptance.  It is difficult to understand.   Idiots.   

 

I’m looking forward to the new 007 movie Spectre which is coming out some time later this year (I think) although I’m not altogether sure of the source of this anticipation.  I have no desire to ever watch Quantum of Solace or Skyfall again in my life (though maybe Casino Royale once or twice more).  I suspect Monica Bellucci’s presence is a key component in my interest.  I often fantasize about her cruelly rejecting my romantic overtures.  I hope this 007 flick is more classically Bond.  Similar to the Nolan Batman movies, I fear they have stripped away most of what makes this character unique and interesting by going the more “realistic” route.

 

I’ve been listening to the song TVC15 by David Bowie multiple times every morning and every night for the past 9 days or so.  Music fans will remember this as the 4^th track from Bowie’s 1976 album Station to Station album which saw him effectively leave behind the glam era of Ziggy Stardust and the “plastic soul” of Young Americans and premiere his new identity and sound as The Thin White Duke.  TVC15 has a thick bouncy bassline and I attempted to learn this last night but my poor musical knowledge prevented success.  I could hit all the root notes but I have no idea how to adequately transfer between them.  I don’t know how to play anything other than the roots and the result is a bare bones rendition. Please someone teach me!  Please!  I so badly want to play this song. 

 

I’ve spent the last couple hours reading Sam Neill interviews, renewing my love for the man.  How I would love to sit with him on a balcony looking out on a river at early sunset and discuss literature, art and cinema while sipping wine.  Oh Sam, I swear….

 

On a related note, close followers of my work and even those closest to me may be interested to know I learned most of my expressions and reactions – both physical and emotional (verbal too!) – from observing actors in movies.  For instance, my look of incredulity is something I’ve copied and honed from Sam Neill.  Stop me on the street some time and I’ll show you and also name a few of Neill’s movies and specific scenes where he pointedly makes that look so you can compare and see how I did!

 

I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo of Elvira, Mistress of the Dark but I haven’t figured out where – both in terms of the location on my body and the actual tattoo parlor – yet.  How many of you would love it if I did that?!  Though many focus on her bust I’ve always found the hosiery and big hair more compelling.  I often wish I could go on a double date with her and Vampirella. 

 

Channing Tatum gave a better performance than Steve Carell in Foxcatcher, I’m just gonna lay it out there.