Our celestial wedding

All these soft watches keep melting into our wrists where they are absorbed into our bones.  These watches remind me very much of the soft lies you told me so many years ago.  Alone in the front seat my hands ventured toward a forbidden place and I was denied but not before falling into a pit of love.  What strange and sad creatures we all are and I suspect we will all be shocked when we realize that none of this meaningless shit we are attempting to accomplish will make us in the least bit happy. 

I took a walk on Mars and I sensed he was with me.  I was so confused by his promises and I wondered why he or they chose to appear to those particular women and in those particular times even though the answer was staring me right in the face.  I wish to know them and touch them and understand what really happened.  The files have been sealed away in some dark dusty corridor and I fear what will transpire when they are opened again and wonder if our tiny brains will be able to comprehend what took place here. 

The sands threatened to swallow me whole and the stars offered new wonders and new terrors in equal measure and over the course of an hour I forget who and where I was 540 consecutive times.  There was a white pattern on black and it stuck and clung and I reached for it and felt razor blades across my tongue, splashing bright red upon the canvas.  He knew there were only about 10 people who could really understand what was going on but I was too afraid to connect to even one of them. 

I hear women and babies screaming and I hear no men and I realize now more than ever how evil could have been born from a simple shadow and a glance downward and I understand now what all those ladies were really doing at the marketplace.  There is glass breaking over and over and over again and a sweet temptation to roll naked through all the pieces and there are thoughts which slice my brain in half and then fourths and I wonder why male and female genitalia is so frightening and bizarre and why it looks so horrifying when they are connecting and forming some new slippery flesh monster that writhes and spreads and eagerly welcomes devouring penetration. 

I wonder which version of me is going to be having lunch today and I wish I could be the person sitting across the table to know what they see and then maybe I would have some kind of understanding of what is really happening to me and around me.  I walked through red curtains and saw the water before me and I knew I would not jump and this made me sad and I cried and confessed I wanted your friendship but I knew it was impossible.  I kissed her arm and it felt so blissful and I believed for an instant I was in heaven and when I looked into her eyes I saw a distinct lack of recognition.

There was no place.  There was no wheelhouse.  There was something here and something there and someone had stuck a very long needle through the head of a small monkey and it was chattering and having spasms on the ground and I wondered if its death was near.  There is a red car which keeps driving by my window.  I cannot make out who is inside but I believe s/he or they will one day come to my doorstep.  It will be night and I will sense someone there and I will look out the peephole and somehow it will be too dark to see the face.  I cannot imagine how their voice will sound.

Sometimes I wonder if I will die in your dreams.  I do not understand why I am begrudged putting on lipstick and eyeshadow and blush and wearing nylons and skirts.  What is wrong with a boy wanting to feel and look pretty?  Lipstick tastes so good, even better than the oysters I ate last night.

Has anyone ever screamed for the tears in my eyes?  Suddenly everyone is falling all around me and I see a horse on fire running toward me.  I can smell his hair and flesh burning and I watch its eyes explode.  I was staring at a bowl of fruit the other day when I inadvertently gave birth to a new brand of fear. 

Did you ever dance with all those gypsies as you prescribed to yourself while the old man kept screaming his way to an early retirement?  I found us all there bound by unbridled lust and I watched with disinterest and people willfully threw their lives away.  We say the words that make us cowards and thousands of stone pillars collapse and turn to dust.  Is that sweet thing born again as I was promised and when did I lose track of my second and final chance to be something worthwhile?  There are only so many different ways I can end things and if I open my mouth and look inside and I can almost see the thing that lives there and tells me everything I need to here. 

You mingled with the afterbirth and I watched you smile when putting on a new crown of meat and blood and your eyes rolled back and the noises you made were orgasmic and terrifying.  We all cut ourselves to the beat of our own drum and I have trouble stopping when I start to hit the really sensitive electric nerves and I start to look for nails and pins and pens and knives and other things I can drive inside.  I wondered when you first fell in love with death.  There was a lesbian inviting prostitutes up to her room when so many people started to end up dead.  How many watched that one die in the middle of the street and did nothing but continue in their mundane way while her red juice stained the pavement? 

Happiness rested on my tongue and the flower beds were vomiting their angst against the degenerate unassuming populace.  There is no better place I could be than through the haphazard and loquacious wires which traverse the interpersonal spectrum with their light and dark and anatomically correct selves which only serve to prove the inherent futility in everything that has come before, that currently exists or that will show up in the increasingly uncertain future.  I am a mountain man who has never crushed an empty can against his forehead and for that I cannot live with myself.  Why has no one looked passed the calm exterior and seen all the haunting shit beneath?  There is no better place than the beginning and right at the end and I long to the live in the gutters.  Everyone is closing and opening their legs and smiling and their sex is ugly. 

My words all sound so much better coming from your mouth.  

All those señoritas in the west

My fans and detractors alike have been jockin’ me all day long, dying to hear my reaction to the final game of the World Cup and if the end result was to my liking.  Sadly, I must admit I am not much of a futbol – or “soccer” for all my White Anglo-Saxon Protestant friends out there – fan so I did not actually tune into the game.  However, I did take special measures to ensure a viewing of the opening ceremony as I could not miss a performance by Shakira.  The glory of her reputably honest hips and the hypnotically poetic jiggle and shake of her rich fishnet-wrapped derriere coupled with the dulcet tones of her voice left me drowning in puddles of my own ecstasy and I could scarcely imagine a better way to spend my Sunday.   

The second trailer for David Fincher’s Gone Girl based on Gillian Flynn’s enormous 2012 bestseller went online earlier in the week and completely owned my pale, puckery hirsute ass.  At the same time my main man Trent Reznor and his partner in criminology Atticus Ross posted on some social media platform that they feel the soundtrack they’ve composed for this upcoming feature film may be their best work yet in that particular field.  Artists always say things like this but I trust Reznor more than I do anyone else in this miserable world and this statement fills me with unbridled joy as I worship their previous Fincher film soundtracks. 

What puts me in a state of slack-jawed drooling awe about the trailer is all the characters are perfectly cast to how I envisioned them from reading the novel; it’s a sweet punch to the gut.  And then when I saw the typically gorgeous Fincher cinematography I was ready to kidnap and ransom innocent children in order to purchase a ticket to an advance screening.  Also, I have to get this off my chest: of all Fincher’s movies Fight Club is undoubtedly my least favorite and part of me kinda sorta hates that movie.  There will be many who wish to savagely beat and berate me after hearing this and I understand their frustration but I could not hold it back any longer.  I promise dear readers that in the future I will provide plentiful details over this controversial opinion. 

At the very same instant the aforementioned second Gone Girl trailer was unleashed on an unsuspecting world the first trailer for Ridley Scott’s Exodus: Gods and Kings was also uploaded to the net and I viewed it while guzzling a bottle of the finest Chardonnay which I purchased at the corner gas station following a sumptuous steak dinner with the trumpet player from the local jazz trio.  Though I’ve been eagerly anticipating this flick – almost as much as my own eventual public humiliation and ultimate degradation – I was sorely disappointed when The Powers That Be decided to change the title from the simple and elegant Exodus to the gigantic run on mess I mentioned above.  I do not understand Hollywood’s new fascination with these awful subordinate titles (not to be confused with subtitles which are the captions displayed at the bottom of a movie or television screen that translate or transcribe the dialogue or narrative).  When I find out who is responsible for starting this dubious new trend I will eat a turkey on rye sandwich, play 9 consecutive games of solitaire and then further pontificate the great mysteries of our fair universe while wearing my mother’s wedding dress. 

Still, the title alone does not entirely quash my excitement and I imagine I will be at the multiplex opening weekend – while simultaneously cursing the exorbitantly high ticket prices the government has allowed – to see this Ten Commandments-esque retelling of Moses, pharaoh and the plagues.  However I am two minds on the director and the potential for success.  On the one hand, Scott seems like an obvious choice for this material and the trailer certainly makes use of that, citing his previous work as the director of Gladiator.  But on the other more hideously deformed hand one must also consider that since the release of Gladiator he also crafted Kingdom of Heaven and Robin Hood (which the marketing team wisely chose not to namedrop) and with this information he suddenly seems like a less obvious or at least less infallible choice.  I am willing to give Kingdom of Heaven the benefit of the doubt – though just barely – and (sidewalk) chalk that misfire up to a wildly miscast lead in Orlando Bloom but Robin Hood?!  Only the most ardent Scott or Russell Crowe apologists could watch that nigh impossibly bland movie and call it anything other than finely polished manure. 

The trailer for Exodus: Dawn of Justice certainly provides with the requisite thrills and my groin always feels curious stirrings at the sight of Christian Bale and Sigourney Weaver but every movie has an exciting trailer these days!  They no longer mean anything.  They mean nothing.  They actually mean less than nothing and have taken on a kind of anti-significance though they have undoubtedly become a distinct art form in their own right and I praise their makers.  I’ll still never forget how I actually thought Terminator Salvation looked thrilling.  And this year brought the great emotional pain with Godzilla.  You trailer-makers make my life a living hell and for that I thank you.  This particular trailer also featured an incredible cover from Sydney Wayser of the song “Belfast Child” originally by Simple Minds.  It is extremely unlikely this music will appear in the film but right now all those epic images of battles and plagues are intrinsically linked to that song in my diseased mind and this trailer would not be half as slammin’ without it. 

Christian movies have sure been good business at the box office this year, from the small evangelistic indies like God’s Not Dead to the talk show material like Heaven is for Real to the quick cash-ins like Son of God and right on up to a twin pair of large blockbusters like Exodus: The Desolation of God and Darren Aronofsky’s Noah from earlier in the year.  For my moolah Noah is easily one of the most interesting flicks that has been released in this creatively bankrupt year.  Its divisiveness certainly speaks for itself and I greatly appreciate the risks the filmmakers took.  I cannot see Scott making anything as bizarre as Noah so I am hoping for a more straightforward but perhaps more immediately satisfying biblical epic.  Either way, anti-Christian hate mongers and anti-NonChristian hate mongers have already begun spewing their bile all over the wide world of web and I look forward to the intelligent debates sure to come. 

You know what I just realized?  This is a movie which will likely have overt Christian themes (unless they remove a chief aspect of the source material) and it stars a man named Christian (Bale)!  Coincidence?  Maybe.  But it does make you wonder, doesn’t it?

I bought my first Louis L’Amour book today and I hope to read it in an airport while sipping overpriced cocktails.  

I don't care how many legs they have!

Haris Alexiou makes such beautiful music.  I only have one album of hers – Di Efchon – but I will most certainly buy more.  This Greek singer has such a beautiful voice that transports me to a far more wondrous plane of existence than the awful world which surrounds me.  I have listened to her music on road trips, at work, while falling asleep, stuck in traffic, while writing or reading and each time it has the same transcendental effect.  Her voice inspires such feverish happiness, it is an ethereal instrument.  If all the Alexiou fans in my readership would so kind as to make some hearty recommendations I will immediately make the appropriate purchases. 

Today, I listened to the album Heathen by David Bowie 21 times in a row.  It is a fantastic album and one of my favorites of the neo-classicist era.  I personally love latter day Bowie.  There are so many gems, so many songs which make me break down and sob like an infant.  “Everyone Says Hi” is the song from Heathen which never fails to turn on the wetworks.  When I am at my lowest I listen to this tune and wrap it around me like a blanket.  Bowie has alleviated me so much pain in life. 

I know I was somewhere doing something when I heard the song “24 Hours” by Sky Ferreira.  It was my first time hearing this song and I fell in love with it.  It reminds me of something but I haven’t figured out what yet.  Maybe the song “I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man” by Prince (massive compliment coming from me as that is one of my all-time favorites), maybe there are some sonic similarities there.  Maybe I’m hopelessly lost in the dark cesspool that is my life.  Either way I really dig the song but I’m too afraid to check out any other songs by this bold new talent for fear they may be trash.  I just don’t know what to do about it. God, I don’t know what to do. 

I feel bad for anyone who does not enjoy live albums.  If one is not able to feel the immediacy and the passion and vital beauty that are most clear in a live performance then I would question whether they truly have a heart and would conclude their life to be dull and filled with binge eating and unsatisfying sexual encounters.  And if one’s favorite artist(s) are not engaging live then one should questions the artistic integrity and validity of that/those artist(s).  Just my pompous opinion.

Audiences are much more willing to accept insecurities or fears in relation to sexuality if coming from a female perspective than from a male perspective.  It is very difficult to write a male who has strong and deep seated sexual issues without him appearing off-putting in some way to an audience.  This is rather strange and warrants further thought slash investigation. 

I’ve recently embarked on a journey of rock rediscovery.  This has taken me down paths as varied as Buddy Holly to A Perfect Circle to Elvis Costello to Sebastian Bach to OFF!   I will say right now that whatever band Maynard James Keenan is in at any given moment would do better to stop trying to show off with a thousand little fills and time changes and instead try writing some interesting and memorable melodies and vocal arrangements.  Fuck! 

However going along with this journey I have gregariously stumbled upon Mr. Ted Nugent.  I consorted with a few of my most beloved comrades in the wee hours of the morning on this matter and was shocked to find precious little love for the Motor-City Madman.  I have personally always found him to be highly engaging in interviews and he seems to put on a cracker of a live show.  After watching him being interviewed by the deplorable Piers Morgan this morning I happened to visit a site where I saw yet another clip about Mr. Nugent, this time with him discussing his utter discontent with a recent performance of Jack White on some show.  White happens to be one of the few recording artists whose music I absolutely cannot stand what with its ultra-derivative hipster pandering distilled blues boredom shitty shitness (the man himself seems like a jerkface as well otherwise I would not have employed such trenchant criticism) and I must say Nugent’s frankness on the matter, coupled with the subsequent props he gave to the Red Hot Chili Peppers and the Motown groove further ingratiated the man with yours truly.  Dear readers, do not be afraid!  I am acutely aware that this increased media presence is intrinsically linked to the man’s new album (playfully titled Shutup&Jam!) which sees release today and its accompanying tour and is nothing more or less than a canny form of publicity and promotion.  Yet I found it working.  I believe part of me wanted it to work.  There is a populist side of me that enjoys the idea of being influenced by commercialism.  I cry out for increased controls – government or otherwise – all the time (which is an oddly liberal perspective and quite contrarian to Mr. Nugent’s beliefs) and the prospect of purchasing something of which I’d had no prior interest solely as a result of slick corporate marketing makes me giddy with delight. 

Yet there is also a part of me which yearns to fall for a new rocker (more new to me I should specify in this particular case).  How I adore really delving deep into an artist and slowly amassing every album, every live recording, every rare b-side, it fills me with me white light.  And the great thing is that I never know what to expect and am frequently wrong in my preconceptions.  When I first began my Iggy Pop phase I had no idea whatsoever of the musical and lyrical depth and variety which I would discover in his catalogue – one of the most diverse in ages.  The one consistent was his eminently pleasing personality which made even his lesser discs enjoyable.  Will the same thing happen with Ted Nugent?  I don’t have any fucking idea but I’m open to the possibility, all right?  I’m open to the motherfucking possibility and that’s all that fucking matters.   Also, his anti-hippie sentiments are right on the money in my book.  Does anyone remember that ridiculous “Occupy…” movement from a couple years back?  All those entitled fucksticks sitting on their ever fattening asses, ordering pizzas and watching tasteful European pornographic films on their iPhones.  I am truly stunned that such an ignorant and worthless “social movement” could have transpired during my lifetime.  Anyway, I know Ted would never be involved in something that asinine and for that reason alone he earns my respect above many others.  Plus there is a song on his new album about BBQ!  I just can’t fucking resist shit like that!  I just can’t fucking resist it!  And so my Journey of the Nuge begins.  I will keep you all informed of my progress. 

 The reason I don’t like giving money to poor people is because I know they’re just going to spend it on drugs. 

The wizard gave me porcupines

I recently watched The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring again for the first time in what feels like millennia and I was pleasantly shocked to find that it did not bore the piss and shit out of me like it did the last time I watched it.  I’ve come to a pleasantly odd realization that I am now able to enjoy and respect a great many things which I could not before.  I wonder if this is the old age starting to kick in and fashioning me into a much more accepting and open minded individual.  I also wonder if it will continue in this trend until eventually I will just enjoy everything and be everyone’s best friend.  However I will point out one horrible part of the movie only because its image is cemented in my brain with its awfulness.  When Cate Blanchett’s character Galadriel is talking with Frodo about the dangers of the ring and whatnot and she shows him and the audience her potential transformation were she to succumb to the temptation of the ring’s corruption the resulting effect is shockingly cheesy, super gooey cheesy, ultra rotten smelly cheesy even (the kind I’d want a Mexican hooker to force feed to me with her seamed pantyhose clad feet while she laughs and calls me “ugly” and “pathetic” and while I lay in a paralytic state after she acquiesced to my requests of being shocked by the stun gun she carries in her purse).  The lighting effect on her face and body is akin to the photo manipulation one does on a smart aleck phone and the effect on her voice is so ridiculous it is hard to believe that scene is meant to be taken seriously at all.   I understand what Pete Jackson et al were going for but the cumulative effect is so laughable that I was unable to control my faculties while watching and I promptly defecated in my new Urparcel Mens G-string underwear.  

I want all you Ring-Heads out there to know that I do respect these flicks.  They were and are an undoubtedly impressive technical achievement and easily the most important movies of the genre in terms of bringing respectability to fantasy in cinema and displaying its vast potential for critical and financial success.  In fact the above mentioned scene is the only flaw in an otherwise perfect film, probably the best film that has ever been made or ever will be made, rivaled only by the following entries in the incomparable trilogy.  I’m sorry for my prior harsh words – here and elsewhere – for it was wrong of me.  Damn me.  I’m such a fool.  Still, my criticisms have always been honest, at least give me that.  And at least we’re together.  One last time together.  As it should be.  And at least we can all agree that The Hobbit movies are dreck.  Pure unadulterated horseshit. 

Over the holiday weekend I viewed Sean Penn’s 2001 movie The Pledge for the first time in decades after finally tracking down a delightful used copy on digital video disc.  For those not in the know this film has an all-star cast which includes the likes of Jack Nicholson, Aaron Eckhart, Benecio Del Toro, Mickey Rourke, Sam Shepard and a bunch of other people and follows Nicholson’s retiring detective character down a dark psychological path as he attempts to solve the final case of his career involving the murder of a young girl.  

When one makes a close examination of Nicholson’s career one notices he has opted not to appear in many feature films since the 90’s.  I would posit that The Pledge features (so far) the last great performance of his career and I would have no trouble ranking it in the top 10 performances of the man’s entire filmography.  It is a subtle and haunting performance full of nuance and the right amount of grit and heartbreaking realism.  In that sense it is very much the opposite of the performance he gave in Martin Scorcese’s 2006 flick The Departed where he was all indulgence and Nicholsonian vamping (though Mark Wahlberg, my current cinematic hero, of course saves the day with his typically stunning work).  The latter movie is of course far flashier all around and highly enjoyable in its own way but I do not believe the man’s work in that motion picture is on anywhere the same level as in Penn’s.  I encourage anyone even remotely interested in quality stuff to find a copy of this feature film and give it a good watching.  It is a grim and harrowing tale and I believe it will stay in my brain until I die a much deserved death.    After watching, leave me a comment somewhere to let me know your thoughts. 

Incidentally I once allowed my beloved friend Calvin Black a copy of this back in the delightful days of video cassette.  However in discussing the film with him what I found as apparent as it was bizarre was that Black had somehow missed several vital pieces of information that were not so subtly stated and for that reason he had completely misconstrued the film’s denouement.  Even stranger still was his adamant insistence that he had indeed viewed every second of its 124 minute running time.  Upon re-watching I have no choice but to label my dear friend either hopelessly delusional or a backstabbing liar as there is no way someone could watch The Pledge in full and come to such a mistaken conclusion about the events which transpire at the end.  Whatever the case may be, I desperately hope that Black gets the help he needs and finds the answers he is looking for. 

I keep having flashbacks to strange astronauts performing a bizarre medical examination on me.  I remember things leading up to it as well such as being dragged down a white corridor while I am screaming.  At intermittent moments during these memories I recall having strange sexual relations with a gorgeous black haired and ivory skinned woman with unusually large, dark eyes though sometimes I remember her not in that way at but as something with an animal like appearance and those memories are quite horrifying.  I also recall great pain in my groin and legs during this moment and that there were things – maybe those astronauts? – holding down my hands and feet.  Every time I tried to close my eyes she told me not to but I never saw her mouth move and her eyes were at once beautiful and frightening beyond measure and I cried and continued screaming while looking into them. 

After having watched Batman Returns and The American Friend no less than 17 times each over the 4^th of July holiday weekend I can conclude that not only are these two of my favorite films of all time but that the titular characters and their respective portrayals – Michael Keaton as Bruce Wayne/Batman and Dennis Hopper as Tom Ripley – are my favorite interpretations of said characters AND I believe very similar characters in several ways which likely leads to my unbridled love.  They are both troubled loners, they both have difficulties functioning within the parameters of what society deems “normal”, they both forsake close relationships due to their individual psyches simply not permitting intimacy or friendship beyond a certain point and they both have no choice but continuing to succumb to their base instincts and desires which push them into their increasingly bizarre behaviors which ultimately yield their sole gratification.  They are haunting figures and so fully, beautifully realized that I praise the heavens I can re-watch and explore them whenever the need strikes me.  Thank you Burton and Wenders.  Thank you Keaton and Hopper.  You all make me cry.  I owe you so much.   

The Raid 2 is unleashed on blu ray tomorrow.  Having viewed this feature film on the proverbial big screen I can safely say I am so excited for this release I may spit in the faces of anyone with whom I come into contact until a purchased copy is clasped in my trembling hands. 

I joyously blew up the car on the beach and triumphed before my enemies but the ambulance left without me.  

You are a furry thing

I have been trying like an evil fiend to learn the last five songs off Pearl Jam’s 1998 album Yield on the bass guitar.  Mind you, I have not yet learned the first eight but there is something so incredibly magical about the sequence of those final five and I would love to be able to play those songs in order to a rabid group of 10,000 fans.  Maybe I would just go around serenading people with my bass guitar, spreading love, joy and music to the emotionally impoverished citizens of the world.  Yield is one of my favorite albums and it sounds particularly astounding while driving on snowy roads at night alone or with a loved one in the passenger seat.  Playing the bass provides me with such unspeakable pleasures.  Is there anything that feels better than the A string?  Truth be told, I am a supremely incompetent bassist.  Even that term – “bassist” – is a gross (disgusting even) misnomer when discussing yours truly.  I frequently wonder why I am so inadequate at everything I do.  PJ’s bassist Jeff Ament is a frequent inspiration on the instrument and he crafts some truly creative and tasty basslines.  Should I ever meet the man I would love to compliment him on the tastiness of his bass licks.  Just listen to “Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town”: that is full, supple, beautiful support.  Or the incandescent slides on “Sometimes” or the chunky rock of “Why Go” or the simple majesty of “Faithfull”.  The song “In Hiding” has such perfect bass that it sends me into convulsions and leaves me writhing on the floor where I promptly a take large steaming dump right into my formerly white Hanes.  Amen to Ament is what I say!  Fuck, I’ll even say it again for all those hard of hearing and all the haters who stalk me on the message boards: Amen to Ament!

Lately, I’ve been listening to the 2001 album Invincible by Michael Jackson.  Fans know this was his last album proper before his death though I’m sure posthumous albums will continue to be released for millions of years until the sun goes supernova and obliterates us all from this humble universe.  Final albums are a tricky thing indeed.  Off the top of my cerebral cortex no artist has ever knowingly released something which could definitively function as a final work (though The Who at least came somewhat close as the song “Tea and Theatre” from their as yet last album – 2006’s Endless Wire – serves as an amazing final song and summation of the band’s music/history.  Also Warren Zevon’s final album definitely touches upon some heavy things as he knew the final curtain call was soon to take place.  I bet there are many more but I’m too dumb to think of them).  Due to Invincible’s place in his discography it is tempting to ascribe something deeper to the music contained on the disc rather than listening to or examining it on its own terms.  However, even with that understanding the album still presents a unique set of problems for the listener.  

I should preface any further commentary by saying I am perhaps that rare breed of Jackson fan who prefers his nineties work to his more universally celebrated eighties output.  Until the end of my miserable days I will always prefer Dangerous and HIStory to Off the Wall, Thriller and Bad.  I don’t know that the reasons behind this preference are particularly important or revelatory but suffice it to say I simply find the music – the propulsive new jack swing of Dangerous and the sharp angular funk of HIStory – and lyricial sentiments behind those later albums to be more interesting and impacting.  HIStory in particular is such a densely layered, paranoid and cutting album that it demands repeated listens to dig deeper into Jackson’s anger and discover whatever truths lay within.   

It was easy to think Invincible would follow the lead of those previous two releases but though it begins as a hard electronic urban album it soon devolves into a frustrating series of ballads which grind the flow of the record to a dead crawl.  Oddly, the dividing point is with the attempted comeback single “You Rock My World”.  That song in itself represents what I feel is the major overarching flaw of the album: far too reserved.  Jackson seems to be holding back in the music, lyrics and his singing.  It does not come across as laziness or even half-baked ideas but more like a man actually frightened to make too bold a statement.  Perhaps it was a reaction to the continued controversy that followed him so close through the nineties and until his death (but if that’s the case then why did HIStory turn out so forceful and compelling?).  Or maybe he simply was not sure where he would fit in the ever changing musical landscape after his extended leave of absence and decided to play it safe.  Either way or any other way, so few of the songs here seem to come alive and scale those majestic heights of his previous work.

Jackson’s ballads have always been difficult for me as their careful craft often comes across more as rigidity rather than feeling and the sentimentality more saccharine than effectively heartstring tugging.  I will never pick “You Are Not Alone” over “They Don’t Care About Us”.  One sounds more calculated and one more genuine just as one has burning passion to spare and one only a careful rubric to follow.  This turn toward excessive slow numbers and stilted dance tunes makes Invincible a frequently difficult album to appreciate or even get through.  However I plan to persevere a bit more as I know how rewarding his music can be and maybe there was a plan and design for all these ballads that I simply cannot see yet.  I will keep you posted dear readers. Also, I’ve always loved the cover to the album, whatever that’s worth!

I spent a shocking amount of time over the weekend watching giallos and kung fu flicks.  I would sit or lay on my bourgeois sofa with a large bowl of Lucky Charms cereal positively swimming in whole milk and delight in world cinema.  In between these installments I would pop in a movie like El Alacran Ataca or El Chacal de la Frontera that I may witness once again the glory of actress Yamila Herrera.  I love her you must know.  With all my heart.  Yet there is precious little information about her save the films in which she stars.  She’s a complete enigma and part of me wonders if she truly exists at all.  Her beauty is nigh unparalleled.  Yamila, I swear…I swear….  At any rate in watching some of these giallos such as those directed by Lucio Fulci or Dario Argento and some of those Shaw Brothers Martial Arts films I noticed the blood is the same gleefully impossibly bright red in both genres.  If I were a character in a giallo I would no doubt die in a horrifically gruesome and excruciatingly painful way and this makes me sad that it will likely never come to pass.  Along the lines of martial arts, I recently ordered from a local conglomerate the Angela Mao Ying Collection which contains 6 of the martial arts queen’s films. My hopes are that the item will arrive in time for the holiday weekend that I may have time to place an order with my local butcher (we’ve since patched things up after the St. Patrick’s Day fiasco) as well as purchase a couple of nylon wearing prostitutes who will use my face for a footrest in between the times when we are all watching martial arts cinema and eating large chunks of undercooked meat. 

All these smiling faces I see, so unlike my own.  I walk through the doors and I feel the hateful stares on me.  I no longer wish for anything.  Angels of finance (or are they financial angels?) dance before my eyes while burning lamps are inserted into strange places in my body. 

I think I'll bake a cake tonight and eat it while going on a 27 mile hike through the woods!

Please use the triangle choke!

I recently watched In the Blood starring Gina Carano, Luis Guzman, Stephen Lang and the ever ubiquitous Danny Trejo.  From the moment I first heard of this film’s development I knew my healthy Carano obsession would lead me to a purchase and I checked for news on a daily basis until the moment of its release.  So it was that I found myself at Best Buy staring at this item on the rack.  My eyes were as wide as saucers full of milk and my heart was pounding with all the intensity of one man savagely beating to death another with his bare hands due to a racial dispute.  I made the purchase, went home, drew the curtains, poured myself a scotch, loosened my neck tie and watched.  

Truth be told I found the film to be quite enjoyable.  In a shell of nut the story concerns Ava (Carano) searching for her missing husband in the Caribbean and kicking lots or arse along the way.  It is a blissfully simple tale at its heart yet with enough layering and nuance to add just the right amount of depth and an excellent star vehicle for Carano’s growing talents as an actress. I had and continue to have even in this modern age misgivings about Haywire (though the scene where she fights Michael Fassbender is one of the few things that makes my failed life worth living, how I wish she would...), the former MMA fighter’s feature film debut but In the Blood is an altogether more straightforward affair and therefore more satisfying in an immediate (though perhaps narrower in the long run) sense.  John Stockwell’s direction is assured and confident and he thankfully employs an unobtrusive editing style to tell his story and his story’s action scenes.  He and cinematographer P.J. Lopez make the most of the beautiful Caribbean setting which gives the movie a unique flavor amongst its brethren (Stockwell seems to thrive on these settings as a glance at his filmography shows he as the man behind the camera on similarly attractive movies such as Blue Crush, Into the Blue and Turistas). 

The performances are good all around – no one necessarily exceptional yet no one hitting any false notes either.  Carano is a more than credible action heroine and she has a charming presence which has caused me to fall deeply in love with her and thusly unable to really render an accurate review of her acting prowess.  I won’t hide it anymore: I adored every second of the film in which she appeared and burst into tears several times at the sheer power of the love I felt.  Guzman and Trejo are always delights to see and though I wish Lang had more screen time his role is pivotal and well played.  As alluded to, the actions scenes are quite well done with some tense stunts and refreshingly above average hand to hand combat where Carano continues to impress though one does wish there for a bit less gunplay and bit more of those MMA skills.

Subsequent to viewing the feature film I also watched the making of documentary included on the disc.  I found this to be immensely satisfying and it enriched my appreciation for the flick when I saw and heard the passion that Stockwell and my Gina have for it.  No doubt they knew they were not reinventing the wheel or producing something quite as profound as a Schindler’s List yet this knowledge of their limitations seemed to push them to provide the best possible version of the film they were making and that is the key.  It is truly amazing how many filmmakers try and push their movie in a direction for which it is obviously not suited.  Make no mistake: In The Blood is a B movie but it is a lovingly made B movie and that is what turns it into a good time.  They seem to have a genuine fondness for the old fashioned meat and potatoes action type movie and this is quite endearing to me as I have grown to greatly miss meat and potatoes style filmmaking.  In fact, I dare say this newfound affection of mine for this style of cinema is the source of my recent love and admiration of Mark Wahlberg films (as I alluded to in Monday’s post, helpful link here for new readers: http://creamybrandenblog.blogspot.com/2014/06/i-can-feel-like-child.html). Wahlberg’s movies are frequently stuffed full of meat and potatoes.  

I also can’t miss this extraordinary opportunity to point out that Carano is dating Mr. Man O’ Steel himself Henry Cavill and the two make a strong, strikingly beautiful couple. Unfortunately I burned what clout I had at Warner Bros. Studios during the summer of 95’ and I have been persona non grata with the brothers ever since otherwise I would have strongly pushed for Carano to play Wonder Woman in the upcoming film Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice (what a fucking unholy mouthful of a title that is!) as well as the subsequent Justice League and Wonder Woman solo films.  Carano has the presence and strength of character to pull off the role of the Amazon princess with grace and ease.  Seeing her as Diana of Themyscira would literally make all my dreams come true.  Gal Gadot is just too damn thin for the role and scholarly opinion has repeatedly echoed this sentiment since the moment of her casting.  

I’m sorry everyone.  I realize now how guilty I’ve been of thin shaming toward Gadot in the press.  I once knew a gal (not Gadot) who said being called too skinny was just as hurtful as being called fat.  It is difficult for me to believe this – most likely because I am repulsive bloated hog of a man and it hurts greatly when people point it out – yet I know it is not right to single someone out for their thinness either.  I take back what I said.  I believe in Gal.  I believe she’ll do a fine job in the role and I eagerly await her performance.  It’s not right to judge her in the part before I’ve seen it.  What a bastard I am.  What a hopeless, miserable bastard.  Still, Gina would have been great.  I have a fantasy where I’ve just had my head bashed in by a violent smuggler/local crime kingpin and I wake up in the hospital, look over and Gina Carano is sitting by my bed.  She puts a strong but gentle hand on my shoulder, kisses me on the forehead and tells me it will be okay.  In another we are dancing at a ball and she suddenly mistakes me for an undercover counterintelligence agent and she beats me to within an inch of my life before realizing her mistake and then carries me to a hospital.  I pass out upon entering the hospital and the last thing I see before it goes black is her beautiful face. 

I want to write something about objectification in one of my next posts.  

I can feel like a child

My excitement threatened to bubble over into raving insanity when the trailer for Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Birdman went online last week-and-a-half.  Those who know me best know of my deep, undying love for actor Michael Keaton and that he is still my Batman of choice.  Every time a movie with his name in the credits is announced I squeal with girlish glee and eagerly count down the days until its release.  To that end Keaton’s increased cinematic presence this year has certainly been welcome though it‘s a blubbering shame it had to be in the horrifying form of the predictably bad Robocop and the predictably yet somehow unbelievably bad Need for Speed [despite the latter being an unquestionably worse and all around horrible movie (Aaron Paul, you are going to destroy your film career in a flash of golden lightning if you keep picking movies like this) it is the former which actually hurts more since it also stars Gary Oldman].  The trailer for Birdman was certainly more enjoyable than either of those movies but I stopped trusting trailers years ago after losing several thousand dollars and the use of my left pinky.  Still, it is the rich combination of Keaton, the trailer (which truly is glorious) and Iñárritu which gives me high hopes for this particular cinematic entry.  Though I was able to find all sorts of enjoyment in 21 Grams and Biutiful (not as much in Babel) I feel Iñárritu has never quite matched the heights of his debut Amores Perros.  To be fair, that is an insanely high standard to set for anyone and I would personally posit that film as one of the best of the aughts decade.  Still, I have faith he may again scale those heights and would love for that to happen with this upcoming feature.  As many have pointed out the strange parallels to Keaton’s own career suggest this film could be to him what The Wrestler was to Mickey Rourke.  The only thing making me apprehensive about this movie is Ed Norton but I think I can use the next few months to grow as a human being and accept his presence.  Oh Keaton, I will do anything for you.  I await this feature with bated breath.   

I was inside the palace at last.  I was here so many times before but never in real life.  This time the taste was so sweet.  There were guards and goblins at the gates and I felt afraid but I was allowed to pass.  You allowed me to enter.  Everyone assembled and on display and I was terrified.  I could not intellectualize or contextualize the situation as everything was moving far too fast.  Brass nails held things in place and there were gears and pistons and many moving parts.  I saw a man who was half machine, the pale skin of his body becoming rusted metal, one eye a rotating reflective lens, a circuit board his stomach, his manhood half organic but ending in a splay of wires connecting to a battery the size of a cinderblock.  He smiled and his teeth were glistening sharpened steel.  “I can feel the energy inside of me; it tickles me and makes me tremble and smile.  When I touch it, the spark is so wonderful, I can feel it in the center of my body and it makes me laugh and bleed and I love it.  I can bring the pleasure outside of myself when I am being shocked; I live for the sweet torment.  Please don’t tell the children and please don’t tell Annabelle.  My brain belongs to the stars now and my body is in a perpetual state of ecstatic damnation.  I don’t know who I pray to anymore”. 

There are times where I weep uncontrollably as I realize what a horrible person I am.  In those moments I think of all the fragile, wonderful people around me and how I wish they would all be happy and never have to feel pain. I know I am the source of sadness for many and this makes me panic and scream and I so badly want to omit myself from all future proceedings.  I am sorry to everyone, I truly am.  I know I am a waste.  I am a fucking disgusting, ugly waste and I do not why I am allowed to continue. 

Mark Wahlberg consistently appears in some of the most generic mainstream movies of our generation and for that I treasure him.  I used to loathe him and his filmography but now I find his films soothing, akin to slipping into a warm bath of the man’s saliva.  And he is a far better actor than I originally believed. 

I’ve been doing some deep soul searching lately on the band Creed and I realized how unfair I was to this group.  For years I slagged them in the associated press and to my compatriots yet they are truly no worse or better than a band like Stone Temple Pilots.  In fact the similarities could not be clearer!  Simply put, they are both highly derivative bands that pilfered a huge amount of things from groups like Pearl Jam and Alice in Chains and spun some calculated, catchy and arena ready songs in the process.  Honestly, take a listen to “What If” by Creed and “Wicked Garden” by Stone Temple Pilots and the only thing really separating them is slightly (and I mean slightly) slicker production on the Creed track.  They are both very faceless tunes, retreading shadows of better songs by the aforementioned bands however both are enjoyable in their own way and perfectly harmless.  “What If” could have appeared on 1992’s Core by STP and no one would have found it out of place.  I’ll even go so far as to say you are a damn hypocrite if you love one of these two bands but hate the other!  Stone Temple Pilots and Creed are my new favorite bands and the wiry Scott Weiland and the nimble Scott Stapp are my new favorite singers.  The two Scotts make my heart burst with joy and with their faux-angsty showmanship.  I wonder how history will view them?   Already STP enjoy a more flattering reputation than in their heyday when Rolling Stone listed them as worst new band (Creed also enjoyed a similar accolade by that very same magazine) and I submit that Creed will be likewise revered in 10 or 15 years. 

Even when I bought the blu-ray of The Shining I could still not part with my DVD copy due the difference in aspect ratios – the dvd in 1.33:1 and the blu ray in 1.78:1 – and the continued debate over which was Kubrick’s true preference for the flick.  I used to beat myself up over owning two copies of this movie but I’m done feeling guilty.  I’ve removed those oppressive shackles and made the decision to go forward in my life as someone who loves himself and is at peace with the world around him.   

Kicking my ass would be a pleasure. 

Johnny wants to suck on a Coke

My night bequeathed to me an extraordinary dream wherein I was sitting front row at a Shakira concert in a curious venue no larger than the average high school auditorium.  I do not recall any of the songs in her setlist save for a rather unexpected cover of David Bowie’s I’m Afraid of Americans.  The overall narrative flow of this experience was largely lost to the sands of time yet I clearly remember suddenly being with her at an impossibly massive and colorful backstage area.  She was so kind.  She seemed to have a genuine interest in talking to and interacting with me.  I wanted to confess my love but I was not able.  And at once the cruel and ugly morning tore me away from a life far sweeter than any I’ve ever known.  Please shed a tear for me my friends.  Life has killed the dream I dreamed. 

I recently ventured to the cinema to watch X-Men: Days of Future Past.  I found the movie to be predominantly enjoyable though it is already fading fast in my memory.  Still, I would like to see it a second time in order to really get a firm grasp on my feelings.  However one thing I can say with all the certainty of a man who recently had his hand eaten by the same aquatic lifeforms he could so recently communicate with via marine-oriented telepathic powers is that I did not like the ending(s) one iota.  Superhero movies in recent years have developed a rather disturbing trend to end things with a sequel hook – either in a pre-credits end scene or in those horrible post-credit scenes – as opposed to providing an actual conclusion to the narrative.  I have several very close friends who love this trend but I’m convinced they are all drinking Drano. 

These weak and stilted setups for sequels do nothing but cheapen the movie in which they appear.  It is as if to say “We do not have enough confidence in this particular film nor do we view its story to be of any significance to actually provide it with a self-contained conclusion, instead we are just going to set up the next one which we promise will be ZOMG so much cooler!!!”.  The result frequently leaves me holding a bag of unresolved emotion and I leave the theatre with a dawning feeling of dissatisfaction. 

It boggles my feeble brain why this happens (logically I know it happens for the money, the moulah, the dough, the shickles, the greenbacks, the pesos, the bread, the coin, the bank, the cabbage, the dead presidents but this does little to calm my spirits) because the final scenes in these flicks can be so beautiful if they are actually treated like final scenes and not commercials for the next installment.  2008’s The Dark Knight had a perfect ending.  The characters all end up in spots which are logical to the story – not forced due to sequel demands (this is especially proven true given the unexpected and controversial path taken by 2012’s The Dark Knight Rises).  Just recall it right now in all its ending glory: arch-fiend is caught, tragic backbone-of-the-story character took his figurative and literal fall from grace which mirrors the hero’s own journey and key supporting character gives excellent theme summarizing monologue, he’ll haul ass because we’ll chase him, he’s not a hero, guardian, or protector, he’s a strong silent type, a watchful eye in the sky, the Knight Before Christmas, boom, fade to black, The Dark Inky Knight, perfect ending because it is an actual ending to that particular story.  

Last year’s Man of Steel also had an actual ending which was even more ass-jigglingly shocking to see given the glut of superhero films between Knight and Steel which insist on concluding things with sequel teases.  Another great finale: villain defeated, world saved, lessons on humanity learned, I’m taking a leap of faith, father is proud of me, I need a high profile, fast paced competitive job, this is our new cub reporter Bark Bent, welcome to the Daily World Mr. Bent , happy to be here Cloris, Boom! Fade to orange! Man of Metal!  Perfect fucking ending.  And the thing those two movies – and in particular the endings – both have in common you are no doubt screaming at the top of your tar stained lungs?  That’s right: Hans.  Hans Zimmer scored both those feature films and as both movies cut to the title and subsequent end credits his score drives it all home with the subtlety and strength of a brown bear lopping the head of a hapless national park tourist (the kind that wears khaki shorts and socks with sandals).  Am I saying that Zimmer’s presence is what secures a legitimate ending to a superhero movie?  I’m not not saying it, that’s for sure.  

Yet I also recall that before either of these Sam Raimi’s 2002 Spider-Man movie also had a perfect ending, thus undoing the Hans theory I spent years researching and developing.  Raimi’s ending: villain vanquished, characters developed, funeral, love you but can’t be with you, uncle taught me lots, power, responsibility, who am me?  Me Peter Spiderman, photographer for Daily World, cue web-slinging, sticking to buildings, CGI American flag, Boom!  Fade to brown, Man-Spider!  Raimi did it before everyone!  Except now I am remembering that Bryan Singer’s original X-Men had a reals honest ending and so did Timothy Burton’s Batman movies before that and Richard Donner’s Superman movies before those so really it is only some horrific unholy trend in recent years that has brought about all these unnecessary teases and meaningless endings and mid-credit scenes and post-credit scenes and post-post credit scenes and extra holographic 4-D post-post-post credit post-next-day and post-two-weeks in the future pre-pre-Superbowl-pre-show scenes.  I credit this to movie audiences being far less intelligent in a general sense these days but that’s just because I’m an old curmudgeon ruled by his fears and insecurities. 

But come on!  Some entire movies – Iron Man 2 and Captain America: the First Avenger among others – take it to even further vomit inducing extremes and feel like nothing more than stopgaps released solely as prologue and promotion for the “big and important” movie, in this case The Avengers.  If this trend continues – and Thor: The Dark World certainly suggests it will and I am terrified of Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice for this very reason – then I will have no choice but to make a turkey sandwich on whole wheat bread with lettuce, tomato, mustard and mayo and eat that sandwich while perusing a book of delightful nature photographs.    

I was watching a sitcom when a strange demonic voice kept speaking in my ear.  It said my name and told me terrible things.  I started to cry and tremble.  There was a man standing in the corner of the room.  There was something so horrible and off about his appearance.  He took slow, measured steps toward me and while doing so began to smile. 

I was a rabbit wondering who I would be.