Supergirl Review

My evening went as smooth as a glass of delicious Soy milk which I drink due to my body’s latent lactose struggles. 

The centerpiece of it all – some would argue the very reason for my existence – was viewing the series premiere of Supergirl on the Columbia Broadcasting System.  I did not have the slightest idea what to expect as I have a rather dubious history with the television format and goodness knows superhero adaptations run the gamut from the sublime to the gag inducing awful with seemingly no way to predict which will be which without watching.  As such, I made myself a big bowl of piping hot soup, sat down on my bourgeois sofa and watched with eyes literally glued to the screen.  Being a physically large fan of funnybooks and of the Superman mythology in particular I can say there was never a moment in this entire pilot episode where my face did not wear a maniacal grin which could easily have been mistaken as a twisted rictus of death.  Yes dear friends, I hate to spoil the verdict but I give this premiere a hearty and swollen thumbs up! 

Prose: Right up front the most central thing, the most necessary component without which the show could never work worth a hooey is the casting of Kara Zor-El AKA Kara Danvers AKA Supergirl and the mysterious powers that be have scored a super win with Melissa Benoist who lays claim to role effortlessly (or so it appears).  She takes a little of Christopher Reeve’s Clark Kent in her portrayal of Kara as occasionally awkward or clumsy and this is shockingly endearing and makes the rock em’, sock em’ action hero transformation even more satisfying.  Most importantly, she is believably earnest (goes to camp) and forthright in her actions which really sells the character.  This also ensures that the instances where she shows fragility do not seem forced or saccharine.  And she’s just as believable when smashing semi-trucks or punching out aliens. 

The arc she is given is slight – she essentially goes from being a good person hiding in plain sight to really really good person now in the public eye – but it is sweet hero’s tale and I actually find it a bit refreshing not having to contend with another dark angst-ridden character and simply have someone with a strong desire to do good (that has always been a huge appeal to me for Superman as well, just as that lack angst is something which turns some people off).  And yes, she is also quite attractive and made my eyes bulge, my palms sweat, my mouth go dry and my pulse race when she stepped out wearing the “S” and the red skirt and cape. 

Quick note on the suit from Academy Award winner Colleen Atwood: it looks great and I’d have no reservations about this design appearing in a feature film.  It is iconic and functional without ever being exploitative (I think) and any ridiculous comic fans that have issues with it should just bite down on cyanide pills.  There is also one thing in particular about it which followers of The Cream will no doubt realize thrills me to alarming levels.  Overall, this iteration of the Supergirl character completely works in characterization, efficiency, power-level and appearance and is a more than worthy interpretation.  

There were tons of little soft-boiled eggs for fans to pick up on from the casting of former Superman Dean Cain and former Supergirl Helen Slater as Kara’s adoptive parents to homages to the classic Superman The Movie in the way the episode’s villain contacts Kara to characters like Hank Henshaw (played by a great David Harewood, more groovy casting) appearing.  Henshaw?!  Will he become the Cyborg Superman at some point?!  This would please me no end.  The supporting cast holds up well and the establishment of three central locations: her home, her job and Department of Extra-Normal Operations (odd name) goes a long way to setting a firm foundation the series can utilize.  To that end the most crucial relationship (so far) between she and her sister played out nicely and I’m happy both these characters will be on the field.

The action and effects – something always requiring more slack on television – were quite well done with the requisite plane rescue as thrilling as ever and the villain fights blissfully showing a lack of restraint; these were great knock down brawls.  

Khans: The whole enchilada was a little rushed.  The groundwork I previously alluded to was impressive in how quick it came but the drawback to events blurring by like a really fast thing is that key moments often pass with nary time to savor or appreciate them.  Ultimately, I think I do prefer they get to the point like that rather than elongating everything and stretching out what would be predictable plot points over several episodes but hopefully scenes are allowed to breathe a bit more now that the pilot business is out of the way.  I’m also never big on narration and this was utilized largely because of how quick everything was.  

As stated, I am overall pleased with the casting with one exception: Calista Flockhart.  Those who know me best know that Ally McBeal is possibly my favorite program of all time and I certainly consider myself a fan of Flockhart’s work so it pains me to say the Meryl Streep Devil Wears Prada shtick she’s employing here is something which will quickly get old(er).  I hope the writers and she add more depth to this character as the season progresses or I sense she will stick out even more like a formerly malignant tumor beginning anew with fresh verve and spunk.  

I also cannot recall the villain’s name and can see how this show may have an element of freak-of-the-week formula to it (as many of this type fall back on).  The phantom zone prison is a neat idea for a well of bad guys but I hope they are able to develop these characters as interesting threats beyond mere muscle and special effects.  The Flash has done a good job of establishing multiple villains with longer arcs and I would like to see that done here.  The end scene seems to be heading in this direction which gives me hope they are already addressing this issue. 

I will say one thing here about TONE.  This is a much brighter series in comparison to a lot of other superhero romps or shows out there (at least in this episode!  Maybe they’re just waiting to start up all the arcs about incest and cannibalistic serial murder).  A little cheese or camp (and those are not the same thing despite many people using them interchangeably) is not a bad thing in my never humble opinion.  Heck, even an overload of them can be amazing if done right though I would say this show merely added a quick pinch.  If there is any mythology that can strike a balance between earnest lightheartedness and sci-fi infused superheroics it should be Superman.  I may be more forgiving or accepting of things like cheddar and camp than others but I dare say a vast majority of TV shows have those elements (even the dramatic heavy hitters) but many audience members simply deny it and are aghast to ascribe anything like that to their favorites as those elements have somehow become synonymous with the word “bad”.  Light does not automatically mean silly or ridiculous just as dark doesn’t automatically equate to intelligent or mature.  Still, I can understand how something like this would not be geared to everyone’s tastes or everyone’s superhero tastes but I think it beneficial to judge it on its own intentions and associated merits rather than what one wishes it might be.

Winding down here I am shocked to the point of dropping a massive steaming load into my formerly clean pristine white jockies to say that I loved this premiere!  I see this first episode debuted to smashing ratings but I also know that any show has the potential for drops and struggles with consistency, this may be even truer on a show like this (Agents of SHIELD, Gotham and the recent Heroes Reborn are prime examples of this) and I wonder if this show might have been better served on the CW along with Producer Greg Berlanti’s other shows Arrow, The Flash and the soon to premiere Legends of Tomorrow.  We’ll see how it fairs on the Columbia Broadcasting System but for right now it has me chomping at the proverbial bit for the next episode.  Time will tell if Supergirl has a future but as I vowed yesterday I will stay with it whether it’s cancelled next week or whether it lasts for another 75 years at which point Benoist will be 102 years old and I will likely be dead as I have a pretty bum ticker.  

Remember when the Parasite pretended to be her?!

In probably the best news I’ve heard in roughly two-and-a-half years David Bowie is going to be releasing a new album on January 8, 2016!  This just happens to also be the same day as his 69th birthday.  Coincidence?!  My hopes for this release are exceedingly high as I immensely enjoyed 2013’s The Next Day.  Honestly, at this point in his career he has absolutely nothing left to prove but I’m glad he still seems metaphorically hungry and is willing to put out music that is both challenging and showing artistic growth.  I’ve only heard the snippet released of the title track but it made me squeal with girlish glee.  I plan to hitchhike on over to Ye Olde Conglomerate to purchase the compact disc and vinyl copy the day it drops though at 12:00 AM on January 8, 2016 I will also purchase and promptly download the digital copy.  Such is the nature of wisdom.  I wonder if he is feeling a bit of competition from Scott Walker’s recent albums.  I’m probably full of malarkey for even suggesting such a thing however.  I truly am a worthless individual.  But man, did I love Bish Bosch.  They don’t need to compete though.  Whatever they do in life in great!  That’s what I always tell my children to provide them with proper parental encouragement.  Blackstar!  I love that title and the accompanying photo that was uploaded on his Facebook.  Is this a new persona?  Some overarching theme to the work as a whole?  Just a word he liked?  Maybe all of the above!  I swear if he ever does another concert that I will be there no matter where it is and no matter what the cost.  I will do anything…kill anyone….

I’m listening to John Coltrane’s 1965 jazz classic A Love Supreme.  It reminds me very much of the days I spent in Chicago playing the upright (or double if you prefer) bass in various quartets in little jazz clubs all up and down the mean dirty streets.  I can still remember the taste of cold beer and stale peanuts after we would finish our third set for the night, my hands raw and blood drying on the strings.  I always left it all out there on the stage, never holding anything back.  Damn, I jammed with some great players back in the day.  There are few sounds as sweeter in this life as that of a good upright (or double if you prefer) bass.  And boy howdy but Jimmy Garrison’s solos in A Love Supreme, particularly at the end of Pursuance are divine.  If you don’t believe me then buy the album and begin a torrid love affair with this eminently rewarding genre.  

Memories of those times also warm my heart when I think of Camila. She was a classic Mexican vedette who often worked nights at Bleek’s (which we would play every Thursday or so), earning raucous and adoring applause with her singing and dancing.  Being a bassist, I have always appreciated a fat bottom end and the memory of her mammoth rump and thunderous thighs crammed into fishnet hosiery on those nights is still enough to put steam in my heart.  Her hair was black as night and matched the leather high heels which always adorned her perfect feet which had the best arches I’d ever seen.  She had a deep appreciation for music and frequently complimented my chops on the ol’ four-string.  An easy contender for highlight of my life was when – after a few too many shots of El Jimador Silver Tequila – we both ended up at her flat on the East side where she demanded I lay on the floor so she could slip off her heels and use my face as a footrest.  Her wondrously aromatic nylon encased feet were heaven.  It was also the first time I realized how deeply sensuous is the crook of a woman’s knee.  

Supergirl premieres tonight promptly at 8:30 on the Columbia Broadcasting System!  It seems like it will be great family entertainment which is why I am going to watch it alone.  I can legitimately say I am excited to view this program, being a fan of funnybooks and superheroes and all.  The Superman mythology is one of my all-time favorites and I’m pleased as punch to delve into it once more.  It is my solemn vow to stay with this show for as long as it lasts whether it’s cancelled after tonight’s episode or goes strong for another 75 years it has earned a fan for life.  I plan to watch this premiere while eating beef bourguignon with ketchup.  I will bequeath five dollars American legal tender to anyone who can tell me the significance of that particular dish coupled with this show.  Don’t be shy!  Anyone at all!  But yeah, I’m super pumped!  I’m ready!  I just want some good old-fashioned fun superheroics! 

I think I’ll go the cinema tomorrow, just stumble in for a light and breezy matinee.  Then I’ll do some reading and then I think I’ll tune in for the baseball game, perhaps drinking a whiskey but likely not.  Baseball is such a lovely sport, boxing too.  Jazz, books, hosiery, baseball and the Good News.  Is there really anything else one needs?  I’ve been considering other sports to watch during the off-season.  I’m thinking either basketball or hockey.  

Criterion’s blu ray release of Mulholland Drive hits the streets tomorrow.  I plan on purchasing 9 copies.  It’s not exaggeration when I say this is my favorite movie of all time though it may be an untrue statement (so could it actually be an exaggeration as well then?).  I frequently go back and forth with myself – often with a well-oiled gun in hand, alternately aimed at my temple or with the barrel in my mouth – over whether my true favorite is in fact Batman Returns.  I believe Batman Returns is the feature film I watch the most, the flick I would take with me on a deserted island if I had to pick one and the last piece of cinema I would choose to see before my long delayed and much deserved death.  Still, being an ultra-just-by-a-hair close second favorite is certainly nothing to sneeze, cough or vomit at and David Lynch should be proud he crafted something that I love so much in the surreal, haunting and beautiful masterpiece Mulholland Drive.  For years I’ve anticipated watching it in the glorious quality of blu and that will be my evening tomorrow post movie theatre, reading and baseball (and the wrestling match featuring Sadika la Ultraviolenta I purchased today, swoon!).

  
I really do love it but I don’t understand it.  Now, am I talking about jazz or Mulholland Drive?  Or am I somehow radically talking about both?!  Ah, that is indeed the question my friends.  

It has to do with the wardrobe

The Last Witch Hunter and Steve Jobs come out on Friday and I’m at a loss as to which I shall view first.  

I had a strong desire to listen to the Jimi Hendrix  Experience today so I woke up and promptly drank 9 cups of repulsive NesCafe (with cream and two lumps of sugar please and thank you) and went about listening to their indomitable trilogy of albums as many times in a row as I could muster.  In a sense I feel I will always be listening these albums.  As is so common with trilogies, I find the second one to be the best.  I’m sure they receive their fair due – though anyone in that band was always going to be overshadowed by Hendrix’s fiery noodling – but I would like to say that bassist Noel Redding and drummer Mitch Mitchel are a fantastic and super skintight rhythm section.  Redding in particular has long been a huge inspiration for me.  I also appreciate the influence Hendrix had a vocalist as it is impossible to listen to folks like Bootsy Collins and Anthony Kiedis of Chilli Willi and the Red Hot Peppers sing and not hear Hendrix in every glistening note.  I think I’ll listen to some Tom Waits later on; real greasy music, real oily.  Then maybe I’ll go to IHOP and order some chocolate chip pancakes and a tall frosty glass of moo.  And holy hot shit but the 1969 album Stand! by Sly and the Family Stone is one awesome piece of work!  I recently learned the song Everyday People on the bass, Larry Graham is such a fucking whiz kid.  And just think: it only took me a decade to learn a bass line that is literally the same note over and over the whole song.  But damn is it ever a difficult note to play!  Thanks for the memories Sly.  

The new television program Supergirl premieres sometime this coming week and for the past several years now I’ve been grappling with myself over whether or not I should view this program.  Initially I had no interest in it whatsoever as I sadly never warmed to the television format.  Yet herein are a couple different lies because there are still literally thousands of shows I watch on a daily basis and I did have some interest in it because it relates to a superhero (although one that I’ve never been a huge fan of despite my love and adoration of Superman lore).  Generally speaking I don’t think the superhero shows have been too great (excluding cartoons) though I have not yet seen Daredevil and Flash and Agent Carter both seemed okay.  But stuff like Gotham is just so much hokey horseshit and I am constantly pissing my pants with fear that it will be another one of those.  Then the preview came out and looked quite atrocious but then all this positive buzz came out afterward so what the hell is I saying then?  I think I will record and then watch it 23 times in a row that I may finally formulate an opinion.  What was the tipping you are no doubt screaming at the top of your iron lungs?!  Well, it was the news that fan-favorite character Red Tornado was going to be making an appearance.  I do appreciate that the show’s aesthetic seems unafraid to be unabashedly comic book like (similar to The Flash).  And I like that the tone isn’t all dull and dark and maybe the show will capture that glorious feeling of drinking a freshly squeezed glass of lemonade.  Its hip mythology so what the hell, I’ll give it a go!  I’m always horrible about predicting success or lack thereof in TV shows and movies but I have a hard time seeing this be successful on CBS and will be shocked to the core if it lasts a full season and will have a massive heart attack if it gets a season 2.  I guess they’re hoping for a SHIELD type of success thing, maybe, I don’t know.  I think it would have been better to go to the CW where there is already Arrow, Flash and soon to be Legends of Tomorrow.  But what the shit do I know?!  That’s why I’m just a punk with a laptop and they’re the ones calling the shots.  I have a darker, more sinister, more fetishized reason for watching this show but I dare not reveal it here and now.  Maybe one day though.  I will tell you in another life when we are both cats.  

Like billions worldwide I saw the new and possibly final trailer for Star Wars The Force Awakens during a recent game of the always uninteresting American football.   It looked bright and shiny and super well-polished and without much of any personal stamp to it which is oddly a hallmark of director J.J. Abrams but I’m not sure what to say or think.  I frequently complain and moan (and groan!) over the state of blockbusters in this humble decade and I know it grows tiresome to everyone except myself because I love the sound of my own voice more than anything save for G2 which is easily the greatest drink ever known to man (though it is badly overrated).  Still, I must speak: Does this new Star Wars flick not look exactly like the old ones only with updated special effects; replete with a trifecta of folks that can easily be equated to new versions of Luke, Han and Leia and a Darth Vader look and sound alike villain with his own death machine and storm troopers?  Is repetition all anyone wants anymore with big flicks?  Must every superhero movie be the same?  Every epic fantasy?  Every Star Wars romp?  Is this it?  This is the way the fucking world ends, look at this fucking shit we’re in man!  Granted, I haven’t seen the movie yet and I hope I’m proven wrong.  I can already hear some folks leaving the theatre saying it was the best movie ever made and I am happy they are happy but…is this all there is?  Mindless, meaningless repetition.  At this point I think the future standalone Star Wars flicks have a better chance of being more interesting than this new trilogy.  That’s right!  I’m that foolish internet person judging and slagging stuff before it’s released and spreading hate and discontent.  I hide behind the sheen of computerdom because I am fat and ugly and impotent.  I hate myself so much.  Why don’t I just kill myself already?!  Spare the world a lot of grief.  Heck, I’ll still be there opening weekend though, ready and eager to give anyone head who has the courage to ask.  If it’s good I’ll go back and watch it 17 times, bringing my plastic bucket along because you can’t watch a thrilling and bombastic space opera without a large Coke Classic and hot margarined popcorn with extra Epsom Salt!  I do want to genuinely apologize to all the Wars fans out there.  I don’t mean to be so damned negative.  I hope this new trilogy makes you very happy.  What does my opinion matter anyway?  I’m just a pawn in a rough game.  Just a stray.  

I tried to save my shit but my shit keeps shitting.   

Tammie the mother's thoughts

One of these days I’m gonna haul off and slap him.  I am talking about the boy and say this to my husband the old bastard who has not touched me – I mean really touched me – in a very long time, too long to remember even.  I think he may be fucking other women and this tears me up inside but I don’t know what to fucking do about it.  What is it about me that he looks at me and just automatically sees the word shit everywhere?

  
I hate my children.  I know my children all hate me but I also know that is not my fault.

 
You can all just go rot in hell. I say that to the old bard and the boy.  They are both disgusting things.  Maybe on the way home from work tomorrow I’ll be hit by a car and die.  Then they’ll both see how good they had it.  All those bitches at work.  I hate them so much and then I have to come home to this shit. 

I know all he wants is someone to cook for him and clean up after him.  What a bastard.  And you, you ungrateful little shit, all you want is someone to take you places and buy you things.  Don’t be surprised if one of these days I just pack my bags and leave.  

Why aren’t they on their knees and pleading?  Why aren’t they apologizing over and over and telling me how great I am and how they’ll treat me better and that I deserve so much more? 

 
Is there blood pooling between my legs again?  Would anyone like to taste it?

If you talk to me like that ever again you will be out of my life forever.  I love to threaten the boy.  Maybe I’d like him to stick it inside of me.  Would that be so wrong?  We’re fucking family after all?  Family always needs to stick together.  Are you going to deny God?   Don’t talk to me about you’re stupid fucking beliefs because you don’t know shit.  Dumb kid.  

I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean it.  I really didn’t.  I swear.  Why do I do that to him?  Why do I always talk to him like that?  Why did I hit him?  I really didn’t mean to, I swear it.  Please forgive me God.  Please have patience with me son.  I didn’t mean it, I promise.  You don’t deserve that.  I’ll be better.  I’ll buy you something.  Whatever you want.  What was it you saw at the store the other day?  I’ll get that for you.  Let’s go there right now.  

I hope you’re fucking happy for this fucking mood you put me in!  I’m going to send the boy to talk to him.  That old bastard can believe what he wants.  His fucking bitch of a mother never liked me.  They can both go rot in hell.  I can use the boy to make her look bad.  I’m not giving him a cent for her fucking funeral.  Knowing that bitch, she’ll want the most expensive casket, the most expensive service, every fucking thing and I’m not spending my hard earned money on that shit.  That spoiled rotten little shit can go talk to him and he’ll see what a stupid fuck his own mother is.  I laugh when I send the boy.  Maybe he’ll feel some of the old bastard’s wrath.  He deserves it; he talks back to me way too much.

The boy’s afraid of me.  I can see it in his eyes.  The louder I scream and the more I push the more afraid he is.  I love that.  I love the way he turns pale when I start to scold him for something, when he can see how bad it is going to get.  Little coward shit.  Dumb kid.  Then I play so put upon when that old bastard treats me like shit.  He sees the word shit written all over me.  But the boy is rightly afraid.  I’ve made him cry.  How many times?  I’m not sure but I know he’s deserved more.  It’s good to see him cry now and then and see him show some fucking respect.  What’s that?  Yeah, I think I do feel just a little wet when it happens, when I’m yelling I can feel it too, that nice little stirring right down there.  The old bastard never does it for me anymore but this is nice.  

You little shit, you are so fucking ungrateful for everything.  All I do for you and this is how you treat me.  You are going to be so sorry one day for how you treated me.  I don’t give a fuck if it is you’re birthday.  You are just one fucking disappointment after another.  I’m not jealous of my other kids!  You can go live with that bitch any fucking time you want.  Ungrateful little shit.  Dumb kid. 

You’re going to hell.  You lied to me and liars go to hell.  You lied to your fucking mother you fucking stupid kid and you’re going straight to hell.  What an ungrateful piece of shit.  Most kids would die to have a mother like you do.  I never treated my parents this way.  

You are not the parent you ungrateful little shit!  I can talk to you however the hell I want!  You just sit your ass down and take it.  Let me throw this at the boy.  I love throwing things at him instead of handing it to him.  He is just like a fucking dog.  I throw something at him and he’ll run and chase it, groveling and sad.  Always whining, always crying.  You look so fucking ugly.  Just a dumb kid.  And that old bastard.  Neither one of them know how good they have it.  I think I won’t talk to them for a week.  Yeah, that’s it.  Then they’ll realize what they’ve been missing and see how much they need me.  

I don’t talk much about my own mom with them.  She must have been quite a raving bitch though, am I right?  

Shall I bathe in piss tonight?

I am repulsive and disgusting.  I am not a woman.  I am an it, an ugly miserable fucking it.  At least that’s what someone else thinks.  I know they’re wrong.  I will know everyone is wrong until the day I die.  

Wish I had a ghost dog

I was happier than a coprophagiac about to chow down on a big bowl of fresh steaming shit to recently learn that El Rey Network’s seminal program Lucha Underground is coming back for a second season in early 2016.  Those who know me best know of my deep unhealthy love for professional wrestling in all its many forms.  Actually, that’s not quite true: I’ve never been a fan of the literally bloody hardcore matches nor the type of women’s matches that become excessively vulgar or tawdry.  However all other types have provided endless hours of entertainment for yours truly and I can safely say Underground features the best wrestling I’ve seen in at least a (largely wasted) decade!  I pray a blu ray release of the first season is released that I may feature it at my annual wrestling party this year; all are invited!  Relatedly, I recently watched a Lucha Libre Unida match online which featured Sadica la Ultraviolenta (the most violent luchadora in Mexico), what a great worker.  She could put anyone over!  How I’ve longed for her lock me in reverse headscissors while laughing at me and taunting me, telling me what a pathetic loser I am (all in her native Spanish of course).   Her sexiness makes me burst into tears as it reminds me of all my inadequacy.  I need her in my life.  Would you be my wife?  I have countless bootleg copies of her matches and I watch them every night before passing out on my bourgeois sofa.  I’ve also been meaning to purchase some Resistance Pro matches for years now.  Billy Corgan’s recent and excellent shoot interview made me want them even more.  Please someone buy me every single one for Christmas and you will have a backstabbing friend for life! 

I’ve been on a mammoth Spike Lee kick lately and have watched 9 of his movies this week and ordered a few more to fill in the glistening well-lubricated holes in my collection.  Though it might not be the popular choice I would say Summer of Sam is my favorite of the feature  films of his I’ve seen (that includes the typical odds-on critical darlings like Malcolm X and Do the Right Thing and the mainstream greats like Inside Man and The 25^th Hour but boy howdy, they’re all fucking good!).  His last flick – Da Sweet Blood of Jesus – was a messy and challenging work and I await with bated breath the upcoming release of his new joint Chiraq.  I understand why his films sometimes piss people off to no end and wish more filmmakers would take such chances and be as bold with their voice. 

I have been jamming hardcore lately to David Bowie’s 1973 album Aladdin Sane.  The follow-up to the classic The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spider From Mars, this one enjoys a slightly less celebrated reputation than it’s big brother but I dare say the rewards it offers are just as fulfilling to those who seek it out.  Drive In Saturday will forever be my jam, especially when the bombs drop and I’m left with nothing but the music but every track rips my face off.  If I had any guts at all I’d learn the entire album on bass guitar and then go out and play it naked during a hail storm.  Seriously, the playing on this album is top notch.  And the vocals!  Cripes, just listen to Panic in Detroit!  I have a special connection with that song as people often tell me I look like Che Guevara and because I panic a lot (though admittedly, I’ve never been to Detroit).  Also, Fijacion Oral Vol. 1 by Shakira has come back to the top again, such a beautiful album.  And I’ve been crushing mad on Public Enemy these past couple days; need to get their new live record and Blu-ray!  It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back and Apocalypse 91…The Enemy Strikes Back are urban slabs of awesome, they make me want to saw my own arm off and slap my face with it due to their intense greatness.  What a mainstream piece of shit I am! 

 
Halloween is finally upon us dear children!  What are everyone’s favorite scary movies and books?  Does anyone have any suggestions?  Any hip new and terrifying shit I need to check out?  I started reading a book by Donna Tartt called The Secret History the other day.  It is a shockingly rich and satisfying work, thankfully reminding me how glorious books can be.  I have read many books that started strong and turned to poop though so I will keep you dear fans updated as I go along.  But after 200 pages it is one of the best things I’ve ever read! Please keep it up, book!  But yes, please suggest some good terrifying movie and book stuff down below.  And no found footage flicks; horseshit I say! Unless you insist it is truly amazing (though I probably won’t believe you). 

Prying (and rather dangerous) minds have been asking why I’ve been smiling so much lately.  I can safely say it’s been a recent switch in toothpastes.  All my miserable and worthless life I’ve been a Colgate man but just the other day, on a complete whim, I purchased Crest Fluoride Anticavity Toothpaste which came replete with tartar protection whitening.  Brushing my teeth with this cool mint paste is like having a daily wintry party in my mouth.  Subsequent to this dental hygienic revelation I don’t know how I could possibly go back to any other brands.  It made me wonder what else I’ve been missing out on all these years. 

Everyone who is exactly like me needs to run out and see The Duke of Burgundy right this very second.  So great and possibly the sexiest movie I’ve ever seen.  All others need not apply and should probably do something else like eat a banana split or go white water rafting!  

I like to listen to Scott Walker’s last four albums while I work.  It puts me in a very terrifying state of mind.  His 1995 album Tilt is a particular favorite of mine and I adore that it came out the same year as 1.Outside by David Bowie which is one of my favorite albums of all time.  I would die for that album and have already reserved my copy of the deluxe vinyl scheduled to come out this upcoming Black Friday despite the fact that I do not own a record player.  Amazing and haunting works.  David Lynch’s Lost Highway also came out around this time and its connection to the latter album delights me in my declining years.  

I was just reminded the other day how much I love The Fragile.  I think I’ll listen to it 59 times in a row while eating bowls of Count Chocula cereal. Then I’ll throw a pair of pantyhose over my head and watch old episodes of Elvira’s Movie Macabre.  Please someone help me. 

Criterion blu ray releases for Mulholland Dr., The American Friend and Lady Snowblood guarantee I will be drooling in front of my television while simultaneously masturbating and doing jumping jacks for many future hours.  They need to give the rest of my favorite movies the Criterion treatment and I’ll never sleep a wink! 

 
I recently watched Guillermo Del Toro’s newest flick Crimson Peak in theatres.  It is almost a certainty that I will view it again on the big screen but you should not interpret that as me saying I liked it but you also shouldn’t interpret that as me saying I didn’t not like it.  

I’ve watched the Cubs lose their asses off these first two games and all I can do is hope for a better tomorrow.  What else can I say?  I mean really, what else can I fucking say?  Fuck, I just don’t know what to do?  Maybe I’ll just drink poison.  

O (Part 8 of 10)

I wake up and I am nothing but a ball of hatred.

What an uncomfortable realization: that I do not understand anyone in the slightest. The lovely world has set fire to brain. Are we all fucked or is it just me?  No one has time anymore but that’s pure bullshit. No one simply wants to make time anymore. I don’t think I can last very long. My will is simply not up to the task. 

I have a recurrent fantasy wherein I murder myself. Please understand, I am not talking about suicide, not at all. In this glorious imagining I am somehow two versions of myself and one is able to murder the other. It is a holistically unique experience as I am able to feel the supreme satisfaction of my life ending and – perhaps more unique still- to feel the joy of being the instrument of my own well deserved extermination. It is a surely a fantasy of pure egoism but that’s just the kind of selfish bastard I am. 

I keep wishing you would rot in hell and this grim desire is doing me no good at all. Tsk tsk, finger wag at me. Words are swords and shields and they can be both in a single sentence and they are the greatest liars and the best of friends. There are two of you and two of me and that piano solo is growing ever more desperate and makes me scream when all else disappears and I am left alone in cold darkness. 

True beauty is an intensely frightening thing and I want to drown inside of it. The tears from your eyes that fell on the pillow, I want to swim in those. The skies will be purple and the moon made of ice. I don’t understand any of it. 

Am I pro-life when it comes to dying? What an unusual question. Does anyone think anymore? I can’t help but detest the physicality of everything. Lasers keep shooting off inside my head and I feel there is something terribly wrong. Everything at our fingertips is so dirty. We are truly pathetic and disgusting things and I feel a great swell of pity for those who refuse to see this. I feel even worse for those who take pride in their depravity. My only solace comes from knowing that eventually they all end up miserable, hugging crumpled dollars and clinging to memories of old orgasms. I am a small yellow beast and I have not been fed in so long. 

There is only one glimmer of purity and I must allow this illusion.

There is never a moment where we are not clinging to some type of illusion in order to survive. I found everything in the blue and black. Those piano keys cry out again and I see you so tender and loving and I kneel to this precious gift. You are the only one who has ever given back. 

That star scares me so much. There’s a storm happening. I can see it right there on the surface. You can see it too. I wonder how deep it goes and how many thousands of miles it stretches on. And when did it begin? I sense it started at the beginning of time during that terrible and wonderful violent burst of creation. This is the center of everything and the horrible truth that resides on that star in the center of that storm would surely drive me insane in an instant. I wonder if I would die screaming. I wonder you. 

I would love to drown inside of…. 

Your tears are strange and wonderful living metaphysical things. Joyous and desperate and uncontrollable, at turns elated and devastated pieces of your soul they create living lakes of emotion. When my naked body and face is inside of them I am overwhelmed by everything you have every felt and the otherworldly beauty inside of you. 

Such utter indifference to my comings and goings. That is the best tonic to add to any drink. Coursing through my veins is the exact elixir necessary to reach those highest of plateaus. And all these flowers in front of my eyes don’t realize how good they have it. I suspect I shall be coming to a bitter end very soon. Oh God, every time it is night and I have to look at the sky and I see that star my body is assaulted by a wave of pure cataclysmic panic. The center of everything. Your smile is the great herald of my death. 

Things are slowly collapsing all around and from your hands come the glow of a new creation. The Saints are lining the streets and incantations are in order. I see you at the head and your hallowed garb makes perfect sense; only fringes of your coal-black hair are visible now, beauty guarded by beauty. You prophesize and look inside of me and for a moment I am no longer ugly. I feel such peace when you touch me. People scream in the streets but I pay them no attention. Their blood is as meaningless as the lives they gave up. And I am no better. I never was. You tell me the world is going to be set on fire and you tell me by whom and the reason why. But you tell me not to be scared and embrace me. I don’t understand anything anymore except this comforting warmth. 

At some other point I wake up alone in my bed - calmer, no longer screaming inside - and I take a drink from the bottle on the nightstand. I record myself saying some meaningless things and then stare at the river outside the window. I shower, shave and put on a nice suit and have another drink so I can face all those meaningless things out there and so they can face me.

I see you at the dance. Blue dress. Hair up. Red lipstick. The only beautiful person here or anywhere. 

Me: “Let me ask you something, why’d you come here tonight?”

Her: “You first.”

“To see you.”

“That’s lovely. And I really wish I could say the same.”

When did this all begin?!

This may help shed some light on my last cryptic post. 

She showed up at my posh flat at roughly a quarter after 9:00 PM. She was in her work clothes which consisted of a white collared shirt (which still looked well ironed), red neck tie, black business jacket with white pin stripes, her rather generous hips crammed into a matching skirt which stopped just above the knee, Secrets in Lace sheer to waist RHT Signature black pantyhose and black leather high heels, the heel a conservative length. She removed her jacket and handed it to me. I proceeded to hang it on a coat rack which resided by the front door but not before I rather inappropriately buried my face in it (cleverly done when her back was turned) inhaling deeply to experience the high of her perfume. She spared the pleasantries as is her wont and immediately instructed me to lie down on the floor while she relaxed in a leather chair which I’d received as a gift from a politically minded couple before they left for a three month vacation to Southern Africa the year before last. 

“Trabaje muy duro toda al dia,” she said, “there were a lot of very frustrating customers. Tu mereces esto, eres mi esclave y no lo olvides.”

She positioned the heel of one of her shoes against my neck and the tip of the other near my face. This afforded me a rather provocative view of her eminently shapely calves and thighs. 

“Besalo,” she ordered. I complied and kissed the tip of her shoe. I ceased after roughly three minutes to which she promptly asked if she told me I could stop. I of course replied in the negative and subsequently begged for her forgiveness before continuing with my prematurely halted affection. 

She regaled me by explaining she’d bought these particular heels – which were in fact Nine West Jackpot – at the mall during a recent sale where she was able to purchase a second pair of equal or lesser value for half-off. I did not speak on it but had the presence of mind to consider that would be a good sale indeed depending on the price. The smell of leather was quite pleasing and I did not resist when she pushed the bottoms of her shoes against my face. 

“Quien maneja aqui?” she asked, first in a pleasant conversational tone and then more terse, “Te pregunte quien maneja aqui?”

“You do…master,” I said.

She laughed, joyous and beautiful.  I was given a temporary reprieve. Then the sound like the gates to some paradisiacal Shangri-La opening as one shoe parted ways with her heel. One leg crossed over the other, her shoe dangling precariously off the tip of her nylon clad foot. It was danger, it was poetry in motion, it was as pure an expression of sex as I’d seen in my miserable worthless life. She let the shoe drop to the floor, the sound thrilling as it collided and my exhale was quite audible. With impressive speed she removed the other with her hand and flung it across the room. My God. 

“Eres tan patetico,” she said, malice in her voice, “tan patetico y feo. What a loser you are.” 

She placed both her feet on my face and pressed down hard. Ah, heaven scented perfume, oh sweet olfactory overload. The resultant combination of the Secrets in Lace sheer to waist RHT Signature pantyhose (featuring 20 denier) and the natural pheromones of her perfectly formed feet with stunning arches and toenails painted red along with the added sweetener previously afforded by the black Nine West Jackpot leather high-heels was the most wondrous, intoxicating and dizzying scent of all time. After again reminding me how pathetic I am, she ordered me to kiss her soles, arches, heels and toes and I complied. 

While this was happening she discussed office politics such as rivalries and bad feelings which unfortunately existed between various employees due to the rigid commission based system inherent to bank work with respect to new accounts being opened and new cards issued. She said today was a particularly long and difficult day as the intense heat outside was actually felt inside due to the air conditioning not working properly for the past two days (their maintenance man had already checked on the system and found several parts that needed replacement, one of which would not be in stock until the end of this week or the beginning of next). I did recall the bank being a bit balmy when I’d gone in to deposit my new monetary gains. She was especially chagrined by this indoor climate change as her boss was stringent on the bank dress code and hosiery had to be worn at all times though I must admit that I considered the insufferable heat to be a great ally in that moment. 

Eventually she told me to sit up, my back to her. She choked with me first with her tie and then with her forearm, pressing hard against my Adam’s apple, her hair brushing against the side of my face.  Then she pulled my arms toward her and pushed her knee into my back until I howled with pain to which she called me a “loser” once more.  I was instructed to stay on my knees and turn around.

“No me mires en los ojos esclave! You are not worthy.”

From a coral colored Coach bag (which she briefly explained was a Christmas gift from an ex with whom she is still on friendly terms) she produced another pair of hosiery, nude-colored this time. She explained these were from the day before.

“Abre la boca.”

I followed her instruction and without warning she stuffed the used pantyhose into my mouth, pushing quite forcefully and creating a very effective and surprisingly flavorful gag. 

“How could you ever think I’d ever go out with you? As if!” she said while amazingly producing another pair of hosiery from her Coach bag, black fishnets this time and still staying with the classic and reliable Secrets in Lace brand. She explained these were worn the day before yesterday as she went to church, ran various errands and enjoyed an afternoon at the park with friends, carne asada and a few drinks. She promptly placed these over my face and pulled them tight until my head was enwrapped in one of the legs. 

She pushed me down on my back a placed a sole on my face again, pushing and moving in an almost massage like motion. Then she moved this foot down to my throat and pressed down, applying a shocking amount of pressure. She released her grip around the time my vision was dimming. I coughed and she laughed. Such glory.  I was only allowed a brief moment of relief before she pushed down with her foot again, harder than before. 

“No te preocupes mijo,” she said, her voice gentle and her eyes caring, beautiful face framed by coal black hair “tranquilo, quedare contigo hasta al fin.”

I felt an explosive amount of pressure on my throat and pain in my head and the last thing I saw was her sweet face before I blacked out. 

Then I woke up and began my day in earnest and I believe you know the rest. At some point I briefly wept for our lost humanity. 

The mints melted on the way

I woke up, pulled off the pantyhose which were wrapped tightly around my head and removed the pair which was in my mouth.  I discarded the one which was in my mouth and carefully bagged the other pair and then lay in bed for a bit to consider what I might do with my humble day.  I purchased a book at Barnes & Noble Booksellers the other stormy night and knew in my heart of hearts I would begin reading it this very day.  This affirmation provided me with excitement and comfort.

Through the wonders of innovative microwave technology I brewed a fresh mug of disgusting NesCafe and it was so vomit inducing I immediately brewed another, downing them both while also shoveling forkfuls of farm fresh eggs over-easy and hot buttered toast into my gaping maw.  I considered throwing up my breakfast as an innovative means of losing weight but ultimately decided against this course of action.  I watched a bit of MLB Central which is quickly becoming my favorite sports oriented program not counting actual games, matches, etc.  Through today’s episode I realized I’d foolishly been ignoring a great rising star this season in the bronzed form of Jose Altuve.  A quick look at his stats show the young gun is indeed quite a force to be reckoned with out on the grass and I will be keeping a closer eye on him in the coming year.  Kudos to Laruen Shehadi for bringing this to my attention.  I watched the Astros expertly deconstruct the Yankees in the rent Wild Card Game and walked away with new found interest in Altuve.  Please understand I’m no Yankees hater at all but the sight burgeoning young talent was inspiring indeed.  Show em’ kid.  Show em’ all.    

I saw Sicario the other day.  And at last, after weeks of disappointing drivel, I was treated to a genuinely great film.  My boy Benicio always delivers great performances (even in shite films like The Hunted) and this was no exception but I also want to highlight Josh Brolin and Emily Blunt who bring a lot to roles which were not necessarily that meaty in script form.  Director Denis Villeneuve is quickly becoming one of my faves with an increasingly reliable body of work.  And what can I say about Roger Deakins’s cinematography that hasn’t been said by a thousand more intelligent and better looking people than me?  I just won’t say anything then.  Except I hope he finally wins an Oscar at the next Academy Awards (not that I care about such things mind you).  Another point of interest is the score.  I know for a fact I’m not the only one on this planet who noticed similarities between Johann Johannsson’s moody work and David Bowie’s instrumental Sense of Doubt from the classic 1977 album “Heroes”.  Bravo!  I’m going to purchase the score ASAP and listen to it while driving around at night when I’m too afraid to go back to my posh flat.  

I’ve been engaging in a lot of piss poor bass playing lately, attempting to learn several New Order songs and classic Red Hot Chili Peppers songs and failing miserably at both.  But jeez, Peter Hook and Flea are inspiring folk!  Listen to the bassline on Behind the Sun from The Uplift Mofo Party Plan, it’s juicy and funky and spacy!  And hot damn, just fucking listen to the bass in Run from Technique, so elegant and beautiful, it makes love with the sounds of the other instruments.  Or maybe it’s the bed where all the love making is taking place, not sure.  Either way, I love it.  I also love the new New Order album but it just isn’t the same without Peter Hook.  You can’t replace Hooky!  

I know what you’re all asking so here’s the reason why:

I was at the bank, cheesy smile on my face because I planned to deposit a fat check; dough I earned which I may then invest in some low risk mutual funds in case there’s a dip in the market.  Directly in line ahead of me was a slightly overweight middle-aged man wearing a navy blue t-shirt, jean shorts and sandals.  His hair was noticeably untidy.  I only began eavesdropping on his business about halfway through when it became impossible to ignore the increasing tones of annoyance in his voice.  It seemed he’d brought a plastic bag of loose change which he wished to turn into cold hard cash (or maybe deposit into his hefty checking account) and was positively aghast that the bank would demand he roll the coins and not simply dump them in a pile on their counter.  Further eavesdropping dug up all sorts of golden factual nuggets including that this man had actually come from out of town (hopefully not just to go to this bank) and that he knew of several other banks which did accept change in this manner.  I briefly imagined his nomadic lifestyle of dressing badly, crawling on hands and knees in the gutters looking for change and then asserting his manhood at local banks.  I chuckled at what a judgmental bastard I am.  The kind teller asked if he would like the papers to roll the coins and he made a grand gesture with his arms and said, “I guess I don’t have a choice, do I?”  I wondered why such a pathetic individual exists and what must have happened in his life that taking five minutes to roll his precious coins was such an imposition.  Perhaps he was on his way to a big business deal and couldn’t be late.  Though another part of me suspected that bringing this change to the bank was likely to be the highlight of his month.  He took the papers but did not stay.  Exiting the bank requires going through 2 doors and he flung them both open as hard as he could for maximum impact.  It was disturbingly easy for me to hate this man with every fiber of my being as he seemed to be a repulsive waste of life.  I hoped for the betterment of us both that I would never encounter him again.  Though I also knew that I am the foulest human being of all and if there were any true justice in this world that man would have been allowed to savagely beat me to death in front of the drooling patrons of this bank.  

Of course, I had ulterior motives for going to this particular bank.  There, to the left of the helpful teller who tended to my needs was Alicia.  She did not smile at me, she did not wave.  But she saw me, just for a second and with the slightest nod I knew everything was set.  

Fresh plastic on the rack

I think my engorged brain is on the verge of exploding inside my fluorescent skull. Can you relate? This really is a new way of looking at the world. It’s not always easy swimming upstream of consciousness. Am I the only one so enticed by this fruit and these black doves? There are black doves everywhere I look. Someone needs to start playing a synthesizer fast or I’m going to have a heart attack (especially after I go see the local taxidermist). Where are all the unborn children of the world? How long should I hold this pistol to my face? I’m going to order it down on its nice broken knees and I’m going to play all four versions simultaneously just as I was instructed. 

Sitting in the dark he began to contemplate all the strange lightning that’s been passing through his room at night. Balls of light keep invading. It is horrifying to wake up in the middle of the night and see unfamiliar silhouettes in the room. Naked beings are the scariest of all. Open doors where you see part of the room and mirrors are also scary. And the strange voices that start to talk when it is dark outside. It was pulled so tight over my face and it felt so good and I realized how terrible I am the second it ended. Gentile mutilation doesn’t quite provoke the same intense intestinal response as genital mutilation. 

I think I’ve had my fill of tax collectors for the year. Is everyone incestuous these days? Birds fly by the window and sometimes blood rains down and spatters against the glass. I never go outside during those moments unless I am wearing black gloves. 

She was quite angelic as she descended the stairs, saying everything; so many beautiful little squares drawn tight around sinful flesh. Why have I let myself be so disgraceful to you? It might be difficult to thread the needle but he has a bottle of the finest imported calcium supplements which should be able to assist in the matter. Did I ever tell you the one about the man in the yellow coat who stayed standing even after his cranium was surreptitiously broken into? There were little purple pieces of cotton all over my body when I woke up but I couldn’t figure out why. Finally, it hit me: I saw a whole group of strangers the night before. They were walking in the middle of the road and were unusually tall. Please don’t wear a rabbit mask in my presence. 

All of a sudden a sweet and nurturing happiness flows through the veins. You could have been a great plumber, just like I was. Should I rip my tongue out now or wait until later? There might be a chance for gambling in just a bit once all this distortion clears up; such an innocent child, who could imagine the type of monster that would eventually result? Thousands of receipts were stuffed into the curator and I casually mentioned it might be time to buy a new duck. How did we ever get by in that dress? Were you incredulous the night she begged for wind chimes? Everything started spinning the second the sun came out. All this braggadocio makes me vomit into my freshly chilled beer mug. Oh please tell me why any of this exists, there has to be some explanation. I suddenly feel so weak.

Clickity-clack and then you lose and you have to kiss a cat. This place is really going down the drain, isn’t it? He saw their white signs and knew the only sane thing to do would be to break them over their ugly heads and then treat them all to cheeseburgers down at the local diseased-filled YMCA. There was raw carnage inside their eyes. They are lilies and supporters of evil and I am very very afraid of what may be happening here. At the same time I must admit that bottled scent he was sporting down at the bowling alley was tempestuous and inviting in all the best possible ways. 

Keys ringing inside the moist toys and all I can think to say is oh please why am I? Hot tears run down my face and I am so scared and she is terrifying and flesh on flesh again and noises and tactile things and I am running away screaming but someone is sticking things inside my disgusting body and all I can see is fires up ahead. 

No one ever says it’s wrong anymore because they have stopped being real forever. What does Blue Bat Rivera have to say about any of this? I suspect Blue Bat doesn’t care. I don’t think happiness is a thing or is it? In that moment I can safely say I wanted nothing more than for her to squash me like a bug. All these sad little men running around in circles. Wow, we are all arrogant pieces of shit, aren’t we? 

Letters were cascading down right in front of him but he was still helpless to stop this psychosexual robbery. Psychosexual inside the inanimate objects that only long for creators to will new colors to life as the sun finally sets on the cursed day which began only eleven hours after the first bombs were launched. Don’t be a fantasist while there’s still so much sewing to be done. I think I’m gonna have to move to a crater inside the furthest reaches of her mind before the clock strikes two. Otherwise they’re going to discover all the missing silverware and promptly put the blame on the well-dressed bear, yes, that’s the one, yes, the one with the red bow tie. 

Surprises inside the box, am I right? Once you have pretended you can create just as good it is impossible to put things back the way they were. Now there is only abomination in our hands. I am always the uglier one, don’t worry. Just give me the chance to say that I’m sorry. I’m an addict of the way things never fall into place. These missing pieces keep me up at night. Codes and patterns are my thing. Charlatans are always showing up and challenging me to a waltz-off and in my vanity I acquiesce and I lose every time but I can laugh and they slap me on the buttocks and everything feels right again. There are so many hidden things and I hope she never finds out what he really meant when he said, “No no, you better take it to the cleaners before a true martial arts master turns up to remind us how we used to sing back when fish walked on land for the first time.” I’ll never forget the dying claps and jeers of the noble woodland
gazelle on that fateful night where I lost a lot more than just my virginity. Cotton candy and metal sculptures indeed. You can’t fool me even when you tell me you love me. 

Fuck it. What else can I say? I like the fucking rapping at the end. It reminds me of all those lovely bitter Christmasses from so many years ago. What an evil woman and her disgusting hatred painted ugly pictures inside my head all the time.