Friday at night time

I am in a weird mood but in a message I am receiving from the past I am telling myself not worry about anything.  At the same time I am also telling every other person in the world not to worry about anything and to take solace in the fact at least they are not me.  I quite audibly laugh out loud as I tell everyone this.  At that exact moment I also remember the very first time I ever became acquainted with the phrase “lol”: a gal named Christina wrote it in a yearbook of mine after a reflecting on a mutual humorous anecdote.  I had to ask around to figure out what it meant.  A few years later she would sign another one of my yearbooks but never finish the message.  I saw her a further few years later while at a jewelry store (either Fred Meyer Jewelry or Zales, I cannot recall which).  I was pretending to look for an engagement for a fiancee I did not have and she was searching for a gift for her sister.  We spoke for a few minutes and I learned that she was married and working at a fast food restaurant.  We shook hands and parted ways in an amiable fashion.  I have not seen her since this encounter.  However I can remember clearly that before the jewelry store meeting and in between the two yearbook signings thinking that she looked quite good in a denim skirt.  Years later in a completely unrelated set of circumstances I would come to realize that the album Load by Metallica is highly, dare I say criminally, underrated.  Think about that last statement.  I’m essentially saying that anyone who underrates that particular album is committing a criminal act and should be brought to justice accordingly.  I love the English language so much that I frequently find myself wishing it could be turned into a cunning, ruthless person who would savagely murder me for being inadequate on almost every fundamental level.
 

I want pizza but I am not pizza.  I am not delicious or saucy nor do I come in a box though hopefully soon I will be buried in one.  During college I once gave a presentation on Papa John’s Pizza that received a standing ovation.  It was probably the greatest moment of my life.  Amongst the attendees was a charming, beautiful woman with the last name of Gamble.  Despite my yearning I never had the guts to take the gamble of asking her out. 

At some point while driving the other day I had to come to a halt for a stop sign.  There was a large white delivery truck coming from my left whose driver did not have a stop sign.  He was traveling roughly 55 miles an hour.  I considered unbuckling my seatbelt and then slamming on the accelerator in the hopes of interfering with the truck’s trajectory at just the right moment.  I imagined my head slamming against the window with such force that my brain was rocked back and forth inside my skull, banging off the graffiti covered inner walls of my cranium until its lights were permanently dimmed.  I saw my blood splashing across cracked windows and heard the symphony of twisting metal and splintering bones.  What stopped my right foot from slamming down on the gas pedal was the thought of what guilt the oncoming driver would experience due to my selfish decision as well as the uncertainty over whether the impact would be enough for a finishing move.  I think what also may have stopped me was the fact that I still listen to David Bowie’s new album every single day as it is a captivating work of art and I still hold out hope that he may one day tour again.  Plus, I still need to watch Man Of Steel which is less than two weeks away.  I have been waiting over 25 years for that film and though my excitement and anticipation could scarcely be higher there is a grim and insistent part of me that believes it will be a disappointment.  Big Hollywood has not offered much in the way of greatness as of late.  Perhaps I have lost my ability to have hope when it comes to these types of films.  Where have our heroes gone? 

I should clarify again that I do believe it is only a select few trials that should be closed off and there are other ways to alleviate the possible prejudice or dangers.  When there is a clear and present danger to a fair trial, certain actions such as a gag order should be permitted (Tedford, 244).  Though in other cases there are other helpful things to get around any prejudice on the part of the jury.  Changing the date of trial or its location is a good suggestion because it gives people time to forget about the details of the case and to look at things in a more impartial light.  Though I do believe this particular suggestion is still a bit problematic because it is difficult to determine exactly how much time one would need in order to regain their degree of impartiality.  Also, while the practice of using prior restraint on members of the press may be controversial, the use of it on trial participants, such as legal counsel, is more accepted (Tedford, 244).  What I naïve young fool I was.  And what I naïve old fool I have become.  If I ever meet my younger self in a darkened alley I will snuff him out in the hopes of extinguishing my current existence. 

The words “senior ballroom” keeps echoing in my brain.  It is a haunting refrain and I cannot figure out their deeper meaning.  I think this is a place I went to years ago but I am unable to recall why I deemed it impactful.   USA TODAY is my favorite national newspaper but there is no bias here because the November 18, 2008 edition does not feature one of their best front pages. The first thing that caught my eye about the front page of the Spokesman-Review for November was how much white space there was. 

I like to wear my robe around my duplex and pretend that I am Neo from the Matrix. 

Wednesday, brunch time

I have let everyone down.  I woke up this morning with the comforting sound of rain falling outside and this thought repeating in my head.  The morning was a strange mix with my environment and actions hazy but this thought clear and constant.  As I went through the day I had the distinct sensation that I was no longer in control of anything, that my life was simply happening and I was no longer an active participant, just another working part.  The only aspect of my life that seemed real and legitimately connected to me was the never-ending failure.  This was something I could feel in my throat and chest and taste on my tongue.  It was at the bottom of every bottle and the first thing I saw when opening my eyes in the morning.  The rain reminded me of several people and it hurt to think about any of them. 

True to my word I purchased the new Alice In Chains album last night at Best Buy (one of my favorite conglomerates).  Funnily (adverb alert) enough I have a shirt that is very much Best Buy Blue and on one occasion – without thinking – I wore it into the store and was mistaken for a worker several times.  I think I have been mistaken for a retail store worker more than an average amount throughout my life.  The mistake does not bother me save for the discomfort of being noticed.  Indeed, I have worked at more than one retail store in my time and understand the often thankless nature inherent in the work. 

The album itself is called The Devil Put Dinosaurs Here which I find to be a rather provocative title.  It is a searing, molten slab of rock.  A grimy, sludge ridden and altogether compelling musical statement and first impressions suggest that it easily stands up against the best of the band’s output.  The musical combustion was so fierce that upon first listen my face was melted off and my eyeballs liquefied and oozed from their sockets, resulting in a grotesque puddle of skin, blood and puss forming at my feet (which were adorned in well worn wing tip shoes).

Sometimes I remember waking up in the middle of the night and seeing a tiger at the foot of my bed.  I remember not being able to breathe in this moment and feeling suffocated by terror, not simply at this animal but at some as yet indescribable presence that was also in my room and perhaps even closer than the tiger.  I do not know what happens after this and sometimes I am not sure whether this is a memory or something else. 

I also went to hastings (the entertainment superstore) last night.  I had a coupon for $5.00 off any purchase of $20.00 or more and I was determined to use it.  I was specifically looking for a copy of The Joshua Tree by U2.  I already own a copy however someone very dear to me does not.  This dear person is also owed a rather large apology by yours truly and I wanted this trinket to be part of said apology.  The Joshua Tree is an incredibly rich album and though it is not my favorite U2 release (that would go to Achtung Baby) I cannot deny that it is an essential disc.  One Tree Hill is my favorite song from that release and I feel it is actually a bit underrated.  The melody is beautiful and this song is always a must on rainy days. 

Hastings succeeded in having this item but failed in having the Godzilla movie I was looking for (Final Wars) and failed in having a new copy of the movie Narc (gritty cop movie with Ray Liotta).  Instead I purchased two Megadeth albums: Risk and Cryptic Writings.  Despite the fact that there was a new remastered copy of Risk available I actually purchased a used, non-remastered copy.  This action will likely confuse many as those who know me best know that I am a slave to remastered re-releases, especially those chock full of elucidating liner notes and bonus tracks.  However I have read that the remaster for Risk greatly diminishes the “Riskier” parts of that album, namely the eastern instruments, keyboards and synthesizers which were all new for The ‘Deth.  I craved to hear the album in its original and musically exciting state.  It is entirely possible that at some point I will purchase the remaster to compare and contrast.  The woman working at the checkout aisle was very kind and had a soft beauty with just enough contrasting grit to have a truly compelling appearance.  She mistakenly entered the coupon for $10.00 off instead of $5.00 but I did not realize this error until I was home. 

I can remember being on a campus made political debate show during college.  The individual in charge of the show was in the army and one of the most respectable people I would meet in my time.  I can remember his name but not the names of my fellow panelists or moderators.  I do remember at one point we were debating an issue – the exact issue I cannot recall – with myself and another gentleman on the Republican side and two others on the Democrat side.  I had remained silent for much of the debate until I finally stood up and asked why we were talking about this.  I further inquired as to why we were bothering to talk about any of it.  Did our contributions, did our voices actually make a difference?  Whichever way the scale was tipping, would it not go the other way at some point and continue teetering back and forth with no real resolution ever in sight?  Does any of this actually matter?  The other panelists gave me strange looks and I could not discern whether their eyes held confusion, disbelief or something else.  I do not believe I spoke for the remainder of the debate.  I never saw that episode and I do not know if that part was edited out. 

People become angry for reasons I cannot understand over things that do not matter while remaining complacent and silent over things which should provoke screaming.  We line up like animals waiting to be clubbed, skinned, consumed and forgotten.  It has occurred to me that at some point there was a bizarre cultural shift in what is perceived as polite behavior and what is perceived as offensive.  I do not know how to figure any of it out.  I just know I want a hug and that is all I have wanted for a very long time. 

 

Tuesday, mid-morning

I see everything through a haze.  There is a gray veil over my eyes at all times.  Actual verbal communication with my friends makes me feel even worse and I often find myself wishing that everyone would simply leave me alone.  I seem to be developing a strong connection with a fictitious person.  The problems this presents are not lost upon me but I still make daily efforts to strengthen this bond. 

At some point today I was pleasantly surprised by how quickly 30 minutes could by and I figured out how many 30-minute intervals there are in my day and thought perhaps if I measured my day in those terms maybe it would pass me by just as fast. 

Sometime in the past few days I am saying horrible things to someone who does not deserve to hear these words.  I feel immediate regret and this grows after the person has left.  I do not believe there is any hope.  I talk to many people who are unhappy and who continue to make the same type of decisions that will only prolong and increase their misery.  I do not laugh at them.  I do not feel sympathy for them.  I look into one man’s eyes and realize that I cannot imagine him ever being young or hopeful.  I cannot imagine him not being full of despair, bitterness and disappointment.  I also realize that after a good long while of constantly fostering these emotions they stop being aimed one thing or one person in particular and instead become associated with everything. 

I watched The Iceman over the holiday weekend.  I drove to the movie theatre still in my suit and tie and purchased a ticket for the 7:30 showing.  When the gentleman running the register asked if I wanted I receipt I replied with “yes please.”  I considered buying Dots or a drink but ultimately decided against this since I was already a couple minutes late and did not want to miss the previews.  As expected, there were not many people seeing the same movie and I took an aisle seat somewhere in the middle of the small theatre.  There was a smell I did not like in the air and it took me a few minutes to realize that it was popcorn.  Michael Shannon gave another great performance and nearly melted the film stock with his searing intensity.  Chris Evans was an unexpected and twisted delight as a fellow hitman and Winona Ryder and Ray Liotta turned in reliably nuanced performances.  I felt the film could have stood to be a bit longer and there were occasional pacing issues but overall it was a highly pleasing movie and one I plan to purchase once it is available on blu-ray.  Leaving the theatre I kept repeating a line from Batman & Robin that George Clooney said to Chris O’Donnell: “You get the ice, I’ll get the iceman”.  He was making reference to Mr. Freeze and a rather massive diamond the frosty criminal was trying to steal.

 My mind was racing and screaming a thousand things at me every second last night.  I started reading chapters of the Bible and then Rendezvous With Rama to calm it down.  I laid on my couch and put a pillow over my head to block out all the light and I did feel sleepy for a moment.  Sleep is a strange thing in that it feels so wonderful but no matter long it lasts, it is always too short. 

The new Alice in Chains album comes out today.  I will be making the purchase after work though I’m not sure if this exchange of money for goods will take place before or after I drink a few pints of alcohol.  Next week if I am still alive I will buy the new Megadeth album and possibly the new Queens of the Stone Age album.  I hope I am still alive because the week after next Man of Steel finally hits theatres nationwide.  I have already purchased my tickets for the first showing at 7:00 PM on June 13 and it would be unfortunate if all the waiting, anticipation and subsequent expenditure on advance tickets had all been for naught. 

I recall at one point I was in Pullman and covering a city council meeting for my broadcasting class along with some peers.  In the middle of the meeting a fellow student whose name I cannot recall – though he was tall with blonde stringy hair and a bad goatee – showed up roughly 25 minutes late.  He fumbled with the door nearest the council members (as opposed to the back entrance we had all used) for a minute or so before finally getting it open where he then proceeded to walk right through the room to where we were sitting.  Along the way he passed directly in front of the projector one of the council members was using for a PowerPoint presentation on funding for public schools.  She paused her presentation and looked incredulous and he walked by.  This was made all the more comical by the fact that he was wearing a tan private-eye style trench coat and was soaking wet due the rain storm going on outside.  I bit down on my pen to keep from laughing while a few of those around me employed their own methods to stifle this natural response.  Upon leaving this place I saw a beautiful reporter for the Moscow Pullman Daily News.  She smiled at me and I at her.  I would later go on to learn her name and we would have several conversations together.  I believe I saw her on 3 separate occasions after that night.   

I remember I started watching One Night With the King and then decided to watch Star Trek III: The Search for Spock instead though I made a mental note to return to the former at some point. 

Every time I wake up in the morning my first immediate thought is always: God, I just want to go back to sleep.  This desire grows stronger throughout the day but my wish cannot be fulfilled until I return home.  Someone tells me I am a good person but I know this is not true.  Nyquil and/or wine makes one feel quite relaxed and I heartily recommend these beverages to anyone who is having difficulty sleeping.  With the right kind of background music anything can be frightening.  I recall seeing leaves falling off a tree set against a grey sky and feeling absolutely terrified. 

Sometime on Sunday

Today felt a bit different from previous days.  At some point during the week there came a moment when I was speaking with someone and they were asking me work related questions while also attempting to have a genuine conversation and I found myself unable to respond. 

I teared up today while thinking about the final scene of the movie Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me and I teared up even more while listening to the songs “Cabecita Loca” and “Los Aviones No Pueden Volar” by Amaral.  When I heard the harmonica, the sonically lush guitars and then Eva’s voice I was able to imagine a world that was born from this music, a place I could inhabit where the tactile senses met the aural and I would be able to feel her voice press up against my body.  Truth be told for roughly the first five hours of the day I was holding back hot tears.  My life is long stretches of misery punctuated by moments of unbelievable horror. 

The full length trailer for the movie Riddick was released on the net of inter this week and I watched it no less than two hundred and fifty-seven times on my iphone 4 while at a strange apartment complex that I do not call home.  I recall seeing Pitch Black nearly a millennia ago when it first graced the big screen and I remember loving every millisecond of the film as it was a stylish and fresh sci-fi romp.  I eagerly awaited the sequel – The Chronicles of Riddick – with so much anticipation that I nearly chewed off my own tongue at the sheer intensity of the emotion.  However Chronicles turned out to be a movie so horrible that it still haunts my every grim waking moment while waiting even stronger for me in my gory and violently sexualized nightmares.   In one of the increasingly rare instances where the public at large dares to agree with one of my always controversial opinions the movie pulled disappointing numbers at the office of box and plans to continue film series were put on hold. 

Still, I must commend the dark hearts of Mr. Diesel and the director whose name I am disrespectfully forgetting right now because they never gave up the belief in this character slash mythology and its potential for future movies and now we have this third chapter coming in the merry month of September.  Savvy folk (and me) know that September is something of a dumping ground for movies – though not quite as notorious as January – but that does not immediately concern me because every once in a while comes a September movie that stirs my and soul and sole with a potent mix of gore, violence and tight scripting.  Machete fulfilled this a few years ago and Dredd made my testicles dissolve and ooze out of my rent trousers with its sheer awesomeness (Dredd is one of my new favorite movies and I typically watch it on a nightly basis while eating roughly 5 bowls of frosted flaked with chopped up bananas and strawberries.  What is so neat is that Karl Urban – who was amazing as Judge Dredd – is also in these Riddick movies). 

I am feeling so close to her now at certain moments and it is a wonderful thing.  And then when I do something that pushes me away from her the energy that swirls around in my head is much grimmer than it otherwise would be.  New darkness coming from new light and new pain resulting from new pleasure is a scary and somehow amazing concept. 

I was driving around Yakima (the Palm Springs of Washington) the other day and was struck by the consistency of beggars.  On the corner of every major intersection – sometimes facing one another – was a seemingly homeless man with a long beard, cardboard sign hanging over his chest and a mug or baseball cap held out in his hand.  As cars stopped for red lights or slowed to turn he/they would politely ask for money.  I was in the inside lane and unable to reach my hand out that far.  As I drove around Yakima I happened upon some neighborhoods and streets which were quite lovely.  Despite what I frequently hear about the levels of violence and crime within that city I am quite convinced that I could be happy there, at least for a while.  And anyway, don’t we all on some level want to live in a crime ridden area?  I drove through these areas with my windows rolled down and I was listening to the most recent Iron Maiden (live, not studio) album.  I was feeling very good for about four minutes and saw a blue sky, thoroughly modern apartments and green trees swaying in the wind.  For the following two minutes I had to almost stop driving completely as an image flashed through my brain of the sky turning red and black and the trees and buildings catching fire.   There was white noise all around and I too was burning in this image, my skin boiling and popping, my hair bursting into flames and my face smoldering and melting off.  Still, through all this I was somehow able to continue screaming and screaming but no one ever came to save anything.

I met an absolutely beautiful woman somewhere in Yakima that day.  She was wearing a gold necklace and a gold bracelet and I complimented her on these even though I really wanted to compliment her on her hair.  It was black and mostly pulled back with some hanging down the right side of her face and it was somehow messy and orderly at the same time.  At one point – though I’m not sure if it was the same day or a previous day, maybe even a day afterward – she called me “mijo” and I imagined the oceans and stars contained in her eyes and the universes she must hold in the palms of her gentle hands.   

I love all the hatred Kim Kardashian has been receiving for being pregnant.  Maybe I should choose a random, non-famous woman who is pregnant and decide to hate her for no reason.  It shouldn’t be too hard given how often people fuck around and make babies “by accident” because they are so intent on getting off and have no actual ambition or means of supporting themselves.  What stupid things we are.  In my mind I’m telling someone that they are not nearly as attractive as before.  How is it possible that none of us has any self-control anymore?  There is a river outside of my room and I can see it from the balcony.  It makes me think of another river. 

Monday Night

God was a beautiful woman in a dream I had last night.  I woke up several times throughout the night, I have not been sleeping particularly well lately and wake up anywhere between 3 to 11 times on average.  Last night was especially dire and was mixed with strong feelings of fear, desperation and self-destructive desires.  I recall staring up at the ceiling and then at (but not out) the window and then at the wall in front of my bed.  I wondered if there was someone else in my room with me.  The air conditioner was loud and making a strange rattling noise, possibly broken somewhere.  The album Amarantine by Enya was on repeat and coming out of my computer speakers at volume 9 out of 100.  I felt like crying and screaming but for some reason could do neither.  The older man who lives below me – usually noisy – was silent and this also frightened me.  I pulled a pillow over my head and tried to imagine I was somewhere else, somewhere familiar with water crashing against waves and the sky painted always in a sunset.  Yet I continued to be pulled back and my stomach tied itself in knots and my palms began to sweat just as my mouth grew dry.  I think I said someone’s name but I cannot remember who (though I have several guesses). 

Perhaps I was taken out of my room at some point and made to dance naked in a room of blinding white light where large black eyes stared at me.  Certainly, I was screaming at that point and trying to close my own eyes but being denied this simplest of comforts.  Voices in my head asked how they could calm me down and all I could think of was Marina.  Thousands of images were flashing through my mind all at once: my hands being impaled on jagged splinters of wood, the color blue swirling into a red hole, my first kiss with a woman I met who was selling fruit on the sidewalk, something being placed in my eye and I can see it inside my head, a man with slicked back hair and long teeth telling me his name though I don’t hear it because I’m only staring at his red eyes and the protrusions coming out of his back, there are people screaming their hatred of me and wishing me dead and stabbing me and I’m falling – first down and then up – and there are deer and white owls wherever I go and a tiger at the foot of my bed and they all stare at me and they all laugh while I panic and my reality is irreparably fractured….and I still tell them to show me Marina and for one second – maybe two – I can see her and the shrieking horror in my brain subsides just slightly and then she’s gone and I’m back in the white room and I can’t speak or think and any semblance of the old me is being stripped away and my voice rises higher as my vocal chords tear at the strain.

At once I slip from this reality and I’m in a dream and I am asking for forgiveness and strength even though I know that I deserve neither.  There is music from Meredith Andrews playing around 5 hours in the past and I can almost hear it.  It is comforting music and I will listen to it on the way to work in the morning. 

She looks familiar – she looks like several women I have known.  I remember seeing her once in a sterile office environment where she was willing and happy to walk amongst us.  Her hair coal black and her hands gentle and welcoming.  I saw her again in a park on a sunny day and she was cradling a baby in her arms.  I questioned repeatedly where she was at the point of my birth, knowing she was there in the room and wondering if I had been able to see her or reach out and touch her.  And I wondered where she will be at the scene of my death and if she will welcome me into those arms.  I see her again and I’m meeting her by accident for the first time like I’ve done a thousand times before and I apologize for my clumsiness but she smiles and tells me it’s okay and I believe her.  Much later on when my words fail me and my actions prove meaningless I reach out my hand, not feeling worthy, and she hugs me instead.  I close my eyes and try to make that one moment stretch into an eternity. 

And now, then, she is dressed in blue, her lips are red and her eyes gentle caring.  She tells me once more that it’s okay and once more I believe her.  She’s far away and I want to go to her and fall at her feet and touch the dress she is wearing – a fabric I’ve never seen before – but I am unable to move.  However, I no longer feel scared and there is sun and water around her.  She is an embodiment of passion and comfort and she tells me that she knows I can be strong and that she will help.  She blows me a kiss from her red lips and the feeling is euphoria.

There were clouds in the sky all day today and the rain rarely ceased.  I think she made that for me.  

Sunday night

When I woke up this morning the inside of my mouth tasted like soap but my lips did not taste like anything.  Dial is my preferred brand of soap – both in bar and liquid form – and I can recall with great clarity years ago walking past the library on the Washington State University campus carrying a heavy camera for a broadcasting class and wearing an ugly maroon plaid shirt when I was stopped by two fellow students who themselves also had a camera.  They asked if I would be willing to answer a couple questions for a presentation they were making for a marketing class.  I was very conscious that my disgusting face was not meant for film yet I was unable to turn them down.  When they told me the presentation was on soap I laughed and the absurdity of the situation helped put me at ease.  They asked if I prefer liquid or bar soap in the shower and I said bar and added that I like having something firm to grab onto when I am showering.  They asked if I would have any problem using a soap with a “feminine” scent and I replied that I would have no problem at all as long as cleanliness was achieved. The truth is I have never liked the sporty or athletic soaps with their obvious and cheap masculinity.  But I did not tell them that.  To my knowledge I never saw those two again but I sometimes wonder how their presentation went.  I’m not sure why I woke up with the taste of soap in my mouth. 

There are many many days where I wake up in the morning and have a nearly overpowering desire to either go back to sleep or fall victim to some type of horrific accident that would end my existence.  This is a grim feeling that lasts for at least the first hour of the morning.  By the time I arrive at work I have enough distractions that this tearful despair is turned into an anguished acceptance and I go about my day in this manner.  I often find myself laughing at things that are not truly funny.  I smile a lot and I am charming and likeable in an odd sort of way, no one seems to have any problems with me at work.  Everyone I talk to seems nice and interesting but I rarely feel that I have anything interesting to contribute.  Sometimes I do feel happy at work and things are going quite well but this is not especially common.  However, I am always able to fake happiness and in the end that is the important thing.  I am able to do my job though I still have trouble with filing.  Better people than me help me with the filing and I know they rightfully despise my existence for having to waste time on my incompetence.

The emo-ness of that last paragraph reminds me of music that I never listened to while in high school but that many of my contemporaries were fond of.  I recently acquired a strong taste for the Blink 182 song I Miss You.  I learned the bass line earlier tonight and it is a smooth, silky line to play.  I had never listened much to Blink 182 before this month.  I remember so many years ago Michael walking into to zero hour class, a bright smile on his face and he said “got the new Blink CD”.  He was talking to Savannah and she asked how it was to which he replied “it’s hella different but it’s good”.  I never listened to that CD but I always loved the cover.  Michael was an amazing guitarist.  I once came in 5^th place in a poker tournament where he took 2^nd.  I was happy with 5^th but he was furious that he got 2^nd. 

 If I were Leo I would have happily moved to Paris with Kate, no questions, no second thoughts.  Kate had it right, Mike understood too but he was not able to articulate those sentiments without offending.  Everyone understands but very few people actually do anything.  About a month or so ago I watched the trailer for the upcoming movie Before Midnight, continuing the story began in Before Sunrise and Before Sunset.  These are some of my all-time favorite films (a pretentious word but I will use with barely contained glee) and I have been following this third chapter’s development with much enthusiasm.  There was a beautiful song played during the trailer and I meant to do some deep investigation and find out what it was but then this slipped my mind.  However flash forward to three weeks later and I was ordering some compact discs off ebay including With Blessings by Haris Alexiou, a Greek singer whose music I’d longed to try for many months.  It was a happy coincidence when I realized this is the artist whose song is featured in the trailer.  I listened to her music while driving to a friend’s house for breakfast this morning and it was beautiful.  I do not understand a word of what she says but it is beautiful and I am very grateful to have it. Breakfast was also tasty and I consumed eggs over easy, beans, chorizo and papas with homemade tortillas.  Saying goodbye is never an easy thing.  Before hugs we discussed golf and movies and drinking and relationships and I felt very content. 

As the work day progresses there comes a point where the grey bleak clouds begin to clear, if only a tad.  There is an escape on the horizon.  I have nothing against my co-workers or my supervisors or my clients.  They are all good, hard-working people.  My only anger is for myself, my only resentment for myself.  I often eat nothing but Chewy granola bars and Oh Boy Oberto pepperoni sticks throughout the day in addition to several glasses of water and roughly 11 sticks of gum.  The bars and sticks are all purchased at Costco which has good prices on books and blurays as well.  A friend and I were once metaphorically booted out of Costco after entering without a Costco card in an attempt to purchase and eat the delicious sausage dogs they sell.  I had planned to layer mine in kraut, relish, onions and mustard yet never got the chance and it is a loss I still feel to this day.  Once home I typically have a decent dinner. I do not know if this diet is healthy or unhealthy yet I never seem to lose or gain weight, remaining my standard fat self.  Lunch is often a depressing meal. 

The words this is not right keep repeating in my head over and over and when I feeling particularly stressed I like to put on a Shakira album as she makes me feel calm and happy.  Lately I’ve been listening a great deal to Fijacion Oral volumen 1 and songs like “No” and “Dia de Enero” have struck me with their beauty all over again.  It is bittersweet to know that the backup vocals in “No” are by Gustavo Cerati (whose own album Bocanada is one of my faves, amazing piece of work and goes very well with Low by David Bowie).  I cannot deny that Iron Man 3 was a big disappointment but it is still quite fun to go see a movie and I can still leave happy if the person I am going with enjoys the flick.  Leaving work I start to perk up a bit though I know that this cycle will just repeat.  Once home I am feeling okay except for the moments when I am not and there is typically a moment somewhere between 11:15 and 12:05 where I experience a feeling of deep euphoria and peace and feel like everything is going to turn out all right. 

Sleep is wonderful but goes by far too fast.  Sometimes I wake up and feel very frightened.  Sometimes I’m wide awake and am missing something intensely but I do not know who or what I am missing.  Then there are random moments of paralytic fear where I don’t think I will have time to say or do everything that needs to be said and done and I wonder how any of this is possible.  There is a terrible finality to things.  The majority of planet earth (always amongst my favorite planets) will not read this text.  I’ve never been able to find those Mexican candies again.  I will never understand why cake is handed out at parties when pie is obviously superior.  Most people even prefer pie yet we still eat cake.  I feel great sorrow for many things I have and have not done.  

Movie Review: The Amazing Spider-Man

Thesis of my discontent: Everyone here does fine work but I struggle to really list superlatives because the script does not allow anyone to shine but also does not allow the story work as an ensemble piece.  Instead everyone is simply shortchanged at the expense of a flimsy and familiar plot.

Caveat emptor: this review is really phoned in.  It will be up to you, dicerning reader, to decide if I am making a clever statement on the creatively bankrupt movie that is today's discussion or if I am just not very good at this.  Hint: the answer is C!

I remember seeing the first Spider-Man movie way back in the summer of ought-two.  My anticipation was higher than a kite.  As a young man who fantasized extensively about Lynda Carter (more accurately Diana Prince AKA Wonder Woman) I also read a stupid amount of Spider-Man comic books.  The quantity never quite reached the heights of Batman and my heart always belonged to the Dark Knight but the fact remained I was definitely a Spidey fan.  There was just something so damned cool about him and his supporting cast of heroes and villains.  Until I discovered The Flash years later (oddly after nearly being struck by lighting and after writing some very dubious checks) I considered Spider-Man’s rogues gallery second only to Batman’s (they are now behind Batman’s and Flash’s and tied with Superman’s).  I simply loved the character, his mythology and his hipness.  When that first movie hit, sitting in the theatre as the credits rolled I was as happy as a man who has been physically shrunken down to the size of only a couple meager inches and forcibly placed inside the pantyhose of the aforementioned Ms. Carter, made to lay under the arch of her sole or between her toes before she jams her foot into that glorious red and white boot and begins a long, hard and very warm and sweaty day of extensive running and jumping superheroics.  I greatly enjoyed the film.  What was not to love?  The tone was sumptuous.  I was never one of THOSE (italics and caps!) fans who insist everything must match up to the comic.  I wisely understood changes must always be made from translating thousands of issues and dozens of years worth of material into a two-hour feature film.  I had a similar enthusiasm for Spider-Man 2 though soon Batman Begins and X2 came out and took their place above Raimi’s vision.  It’s sad and pointless to compare all superhero movies but I am as guilty of it as the next lady or gentleman.  

Then Spider-Man 3 hit and diminished nearly all my enthusiasm for the character by taking a huge narrative step back and basically just being a steaming pile of rotting vegetable matter, an awful crammed movie.  The comics were going through a particularly frustrating point during that time as well and I jump shipped after the thousandth ret con (fanboy jargon for retroactive continuity or something like that, basically rewrites).  Now comes this new version starring everyone’s favorite lasagna loving orange feline and Emma Stone (I originally had a similarly sly joke here instead of her name but felt it could be misread as mean spirited and therefore opted not to include it as I have no ill will whatsoever for Miss Stone).  Was it amazing?  If you read the first sentence of this review you already know my answer but I thought I’d pose the question anyway.   

Not since Superman Returns have I had so many mixed, conflicting thoughts on a comic book film.  And not since Green Lantern from last year have I been so disappointed in one (that’s a sadly short amount of time). 

When I first heard the mysterious “they” used to describe movie studios were rebooting the Spider-Man franchise I was not surprised but I was also not noticeably enthusiastic.  As stated, Spider-Man 3 was dismal but it still seemed strange to scrap all the momentum the original films had built up and start over from scratch.  My intrigue grew a bit when I learned of who was to play the titular hero and then I pretty much forgot about this movie in favor of others. 

I try my damndest to go into every movie with an open mind and leave my expectations (along with my pride, shame and inhibitions) at the door.  But I am seriously, absolutely 100% tired of origin movies.  Last year alone we had four, FOUR (sure it’s less than five but it’s still a hell of a lot more than just two or three) origin movies, two of which were pure trash (not to be confused with Alice Cooper’s 1989 album “Trash” which I find to be a great, underrated gem in his catalogue!).  

To that end this movie is simply not necessary.  I do not buy the argument that a new generation needs their own version of the origin.  All those lazy entitled bastards can watch the old movie or take a few minutes to read the comic reprint in a store or take thirty seconds to look it up on wikipedia (or better yet search for it using searchwithkevin.com which still all these years later is my preferred way to navigate the ever growing and treacherous information super highway!).  It is especially true with the huger, more iconic characters – which definitely includes Spider-man – that everyone knows the origin anyway so there is no need for a retelling.  There’s good reason why the second film in these franchises is typically better and that is because they do not have to waste any time with exposition.  Tim Burton’s 1989 Batman movie had no extended origin sequence, just a three-minute flashback to Wayne’s parents being killed and no one complained.  The origin is even less necessary this time around since the last Spiderman movie barely came out five years ago.  Even if they wanted to separate themselves completely from the Raimi films (which honestly doesn’t seem to be the case) they could have done it without telling the same story.  The Incredible Hulk clearly wanted to be different from Hulk but they did not waste time telling Banner’s origin again, instead it was shown in a montage during the opening credits (that the original Hulk is still a better movie is an ironic twist that does nothing to diminish my point). 

The repetitive feel of this movie is made even more intense due to all the brilliant Sony marketing that promised “the untold story” about Peter Parker and his parents   However there is no such thing here.  There was no significant new information addressed in this film that was left out of the original.  The history of Peter’s parents was brought up in the first fifteen minutes and then discarded for the rest of the movie.  Some folks are saying that it is unfair to criticize the movie simply because it is a reboot and unnecessary to constantly compare it to the original movie.  I can definitely respect this point of view and would even agree if there was a sense of freshness here, like opening a new package of pressed meat and savoring the scents.  However this is a not a case of Tim Burton’s Batman and Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins where the two movies are completely different and seem to have different intentions.  Amazing Spider-Man does not bring anything new to the table and hits many of the same beats of the first Spider-man movie but in a weaker way.  It begs me to ask the question why it even exists in the first place?  The answer is of course that Sony would lose the rights if they didn’t make another movie and they were too scared after Spider-man 3 backlash to have another go in that universe so they decided a numbing rehash would be preferable. 

To be clear, almost all problems I have with this flick can be traced back to the script so let me give some credit to the actors here who all do an admirable job with what they’ve been given.  Andrew Garfield is a great and memorable Peter Parker/Spider-man.  Garfield’s body language in the suit really does look like Spidey stepped out of the pages of the comic book.  Emma Stone is sweet and effortlessly charming.  Despite the lazy writing that accompanies her character and their romance the audience can clearly see why any man – even those of the arachnid variety – would almost instantly fall for her. 

I first became truly appreciative of Rhys Ifans work in Enduring Love and hoped a scene of he and Daniel Craig making out would find it’s way into this movie but I was not destined to have my wish granted.  Despite playing the central antagonist his role is pretty thankless and I have the feeling many of his scenes were left on the cutting room floor.  Still, he’s certainly game all the way through and it is testament to his abilities that he makes such a thinly written character at least almost somewhat intriguing.  I credit any depth or interest in Connors to Ifans and wish he’d been given a chance to show off his true talents. 

Denis Leary, Sally Field and Martin Sheen also do well with so very little.  It is a true shame such a strong cast was not given a meatier script. 

A couple more positives: the score is quite good here.  The only other superhero movies I can think of that have tried to incorporate a truly notable score are the old Richard Donner Superman movies with John Williams at the musical helm and the Burton/Nolan Batman movies with Danny Elfman and Hans Zimmer respectively.  The spider sense was also handled well throughout the movie and the subway scene is rather funny. 

Now the negatives which have a better lead-in if you ignore the previous positive paragraph: Oddly, the first movie – and other comics movies since – have had a much larger supporting cast yet balanced the characters in a far superior way.  There is nothing particularly compelling about a majority of this movie and despite the length of many scenes – notably those at the OsCorp tower or even some between Peter and Gwen – none of the characters are well developed.  Instead, clichéd dialogue and contrived situations stretch on to awkward lengths.

Pacing issues reign supreme!  Ben’s death seems glossed over in relation both to Peter and Aunt May (it also doesn’t help that this depiction makes Peter look like a world class turd for his hand in Uncle Ben’s death being over a bottle of chocolate milk).  Then the movie stalls for romance scenes then speeds up for whatever goofball things the Lizard is concocting.  There was no flow here at all (as far as modern day goes, I would still say Nas has the best flow, fuck Jay-Z!)

Even scenes that should be simplistically epic like the crane scene have missteps.  I never minded the scenes in the first two Spider-man movies where average New York citizens help the star in their own heroic, “awe shucks” kind of way (it really is weird how much this movie borrows from the Raimi films) so I was not bothered at all by these citizens helping out.  However after the musical build up and Spiderman’s run across the roof the pacing is completely ruined by the same thing we’ve seen in a thousand other movies where the hero seems to miss his mark, the music cuts out and then everything swells when we realize he did make the jump, just not in the way we thought.  That may sound like a nitpick but the whole movie is filled with these contrivances and they start to weigh heavily after awhile. 

We now have to discuss Dr. Curt Connors AKA the Lizard.  I am a huge fan of the original Amazing Spider-Man comics by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko and have several different reprints for reading as well as fine to near mint copies of the first nineteen issues (and Amazing Fantasy #15).  One of the many genius things about those early stories is that the legendary creative team invented almost every major Spider-Man rogue in the first thirty issues or so.  Those are the classic villains and have had no problem passing the test of time.  The Lizard is among those classic villains and first appeared in Amazing Spider-Man #6.  Growing up on those original stories as well as thrilling to later arcs featuring the character such as Todd McFarlane’s “Torture” storyline in the 90’s was a delight and I have always been a Lizard fan.  I can’t say he’s my favorite Spider-Man villain but I’ve always had affection for him.  However, he is a very strange choice as a launching pad villain for a new franchise and unfortunately his inclusion and depiction is one of the absolute weakest aspects of this movie.  

I’ve always felt giant creatures are not the best way to go for the big screen adaptations and most of these films have wisely avoided them.  Personally, I am rarely able to find enjoyment from two CGI personality-less creations duking it out.  In the end his plan seems to be to turn everyone in New York into giant lizards to cure their imperfections which played out as terribly in the movie as it does in this sentence (or when I tried to do the very same thing during Miami back in 96’), even a character as undeveloped as he is painfully inconsistent.  One moment Connors is intentionally injecting himself with more lizard juice to go and murder Peter Parker and then in the next he is saving him from falling down a building (which I would think Spider-man could just stick to anyway).  One moment the Lizard ignores Gwen hitting him with a flamethrower and then in the next he murders Captain Stacy.  I know some are going to say he was conflicted and the lizard side of his personality was dominant during the more villainous scenes and the Connors side in control during the other moments but this was honestly only suggested one time when he was talking to the voices in his head (a la Willem Dafoe in the first Spider-Man) and was not explored in any meaningful way that it can excuse weak writing and poor characterization.  I do like the two minutes or so where the Lizard is wearing his lab coat, it was a nice visual.  In the end it was a bit too difficult to take a giant talking lizard seriously and his overall story seemed like a hacked up and watered down version of Doctor Octopus’s from Spider-Man 2 except without the added gravitas of a family (which is odd since Connor’s family in the comics has always been a major plot point with the character) and with a layer of gooey, smelly cheese piled on him.  

 

This is one of those instances where every single money shot was given away in the trailers.  I don’t think this would necessarily be problematic (or even noticeable) if the narrative itself stood up well.  But it does not.  The movie is around 2 hours, 20 minutes and it definitely feels that length.  Despite all that time, the characters have very little depth, the story is thin and there aren’t many moments that stand out as impressive, interesting or exciting.

Despite my aforementioned fond memories I am by no means a Raimi fanboy and none of the original Spider-man movies make it on any of my best films lists.  But I cannot immediately think of anything that this new movie does better than his original.  With the possible exception of the crane scene there is not a single moment of this film that has the sense of wonder, awe and fun that Raimi’s original brought to life so effortlessly ten years ago. 

This is not a terrible movie by any stretch (Armstrong) of the imagination nor does it represent the worst of the genre.  It is however an inexcusable, workman-like disappointment.  In a time where we’ve had films like Batman Begins, Thor and the original Spider-Man this is a sadly pedestrian and unnecessary movie.

Lately, I’ve been listening a lot to Dragonforce’s new album “The Power Within”.  Great album is all I have to say.  Check it out, all ye metal fans.  Roadrunner records is such a great label I should sacrifice myself in their honor.  Good gravy this review sucked!  Trent Reznor (swoon!) once said he would never release anything he does not fully believe in.  I am no Trent Reznor.  Oh Reznor, my life for you....

Music Review: Oceania by The Smashing Pumpkins

“Quasar” starts things up and immediately forces you to pump your fists and grit your teeth with its rock power.  Corgan’s signature walls of guitars are all over this album and welcome as ever.  Everyone in the entire world is going to be comparing this song to “Cherub Rock” from the great Siamese Dream and the similarities are undeniable.  Regardless, the only important thing is this serves as a fantastic way to kickstart the album, a sign to fans new and old that they are welcome to enter and discover what waits inside.  Let me state up front that William’s new band is uniformly great throughout.  Much has been made about the Smashing Pumpkins or yore being a Billy Corgan project where he pretty much does everything except drums (and I have no reason to doubt this) but this new bands seems to have had much more of a say in the music and they are all excellent.  Jimmy Chamberlin being the best drummer in the world would be slightly intimidating to most newcomers but Mike Byrne – a precocious young lad – makes his presence known as a powerhouse drummer in his own right whose beats will cause your brains to liquefy, ooze through your nostrils, and stain your filthy unwashed shirt.  Of course, afterward you won’t even be able to have a firm grasp on the rest of the album but it won’t matter because you’ve just heard this inspired, blistering opener. 

The new Smashing Pumpkins record is great in the way only records by this band can be, let’s get that out of the way.  But as with any great work there always comes a fair bit of exposition. 

I was sitting in an authentic Indian restaurant about to stuff my bloated ugly face full of naan and chunks of unknown meat coated in equally enigmatic orange sauce.  Palatial Gold is a restaurant I always frequent while in the Chicago area, which was where I happened to find myself for a recent two-week period.  A friend of mine was getting married but I also wanted to take the opportunity to catch up with some other comrades.  I’d worked at a now defunct movie magazine called Cinema Estado during the early two thousands and fostered several strong friendships.  Some of these were strained to the breaking point after a few too many drunken skirmishes – nearly all of which were my fault – but a few managed to survive against all odds.  Back in the day we would all go to Palatial Gold after the end of a hard week and chow down while watching clips from the latest Bollywood film.  I was delighted to find that little had changed in the decade and a half since I’d last frequented the establishment.  Lisa, Caroline and Alice sat at the booth with me, Lisa to my left and Caroline and Alice across from us.  They were all as beautiful as I remembered, the years had been kind and I was delighted and perhaps unfairly surprised to find that none had decided to opt for any kind of surgery to combat the aging process.  Their beauty was strong but natural.  Still, as we ate and talked I couldn’t help but feel that beneath the beautiful faces lurked a searing, consuming hatred for me.  How could they not hate me after all?  Despite all the laughs, and good times we shared in the past it was clear the years since had only tarnished those memories rather than give them a rose tinged hue.  

As we sat there masticating, I took a good look around the place, realizing for the first time how seedy it all was.  Cockroaches scurried across the floors and flies conversed over the steaming piles of food in the buffet area, vomiting their life stories and waxing melancholic over their blissfully short lives.  I use the word blissfully because my life is so inherently without meaning that I have often cursed Mother Nature and Father Time in equal measure for making it last so many years.  As I’ve often written in the past, if I had any courage at all I would have ended this farce long ago.  But I have no courage.  I only have you dear readers and the slim hope that perhaps these words will find one of you, perhaps someone in a similar situation as I and maybe prevent someone else from heading down the blood stained path that is now my curse.  People told me not to use hard drugs, people told me not to drink so much but what other forms of relief can we turn to in this day and age?  This world of throwaway sex and empty house music wears on a person until one day you wake up and realize that all you have left are your own corrupt vices for they will always be there for you and never judge.  Addiction is a warm bath, filthy and relaxing.   

There were countless underhanded dealings going on at Palatial Gold.  Pay offs and marathon oral sex sessions were taking place beneath the tables.  The kitchen reeked of meat left out in the heat too long and of broken promises and shattered dreams.  Fights broke out like clockwork every four point two-nine minutes and surely no less than seven different tables’ occupants were planning the murder of a friend or family member.  I did not feel scared to be here, I welcomed the danger.  Maybe there was a brave soul finally willing to do what was necessary.  I tried to talk to my former friends but realized we shared nothing in common, there was no way I could relate to them and they had no chance of understanding the oily inner mechanics of my mind.  I wondered if one of them had poisoned my food while I was not looking or maybe only introduced a sedative into the mix.  Was torture on the menu for tonight?  Would they pluck out my eyeballs and fill the sockets with sawdust or maybe use Exacto knives and a cheese grater to create a thousand and one tiny cuts and open sores all over my hirsute body before covering me in Bear Brand honey and throwing me onto a hill of red ants.  The question was not did they want to kill me.  The question was who wanted to kill me the most.  Their smiles were both beautiful and savage, three great whites circling me, all sharp deadly teeth and cold black eyes. 

But this was not truly them I knew.  This was simply my own insecurities and self-hatred being projected onto them.  Oh God, why can’t I be normal, why can’t I just sit through a cordial dinner and watch Aishwarya Rai on the television and love life as though it were a huge stuffed bear won at a Vegas game where the Nevada Gaming Commission (anything for the NGC says Andy Garcia, star of the under appreciated little gem Things To Do In Denver When You’re Dead along with the great Christopher Walken who starred in the film adaptation of the most terrifying book I have ever read) looks the other way because everyone realizes the bear is stuffed with unmarked millions from a drug trafficking scam and you are about to reap the spoils and subsequently buy everyone on the same floor as you a drink of their choice before immediately proceeding to call an escort service and humbly request the trashiest and biggest hipped latina they have working (please let her have naturally coal black hair that has been dyed blonde, oh please!)?  I remember the first time I saw Ms. Rai.  It was at least fifty-nine years ago but I remember it as though it were only twelve and a half years into the future from the thirty-seventh minute after you began reading the second sentence of the third paragraph of this review.  I was home alone on a Sunday night and watching the program 60 Minutes.  Outside a large black dog was barking and I somehow knew that all the waking nightmares in my life – all the unimaginable horrors I’d seen in recent weeks – were somehow a product of his mind.  He was causing all of this.  I was a part of his game and the shadows that danced across the walls of my bedroom at night would soon perform his bidding, such as it was. 

But then the wise and comforting face of Bob Simon appeared on the screen and I was able to ignore the black dog for the following nineteen minutes.  Simon introduced the story as discussing the most beautiful woman in the world, which the public at large was deeming Aishwarya Rai at the time.  He challenged the humble viewers to see if we felt the same.  Beauty is of course an entirely subjective thing, but I must admit when I saw Ms. Rai’s face pop up on the screen for the first time I forgot all about Mr. Simon and immediately felt all sorts of butterflies and other insects like moths and locusts fluttering around my stomach.  She was undeniably stunning and seemed like a genuinely sweet person as well.  As the years progressed I have only watched her beauty and talent grow.  She was recently with child and certain unscrupulous members of the press were calling her “chubby” but these were probably ugly folks (like myself but without my kind and lustful heart) who are in full support of Mayor Bloomberg’s proposed ban on large size sodas (damn that liberal agenda, they love government interference, it’ll be Clockwork Orange in the year 1984 on a blistering hot day of Fahrenheit 451 degrees if they get their way!).  It’s true Ms. Rai gained some curves during her tenure with baby but this soft and supple bodily addition only made her even more insanely attractive.  Oh Aishwarya, don’t let the bastards grind you down (says Paul David Hewson), you are a beacon of positive energy in this negative cesspool of a world.  

Incidentally, I ended up leaving Palatial gold after four helpings of food, seven glasses of water, one bowl of rice pudding and sixty-seven consecutive minutes of wide eyed staring at my female companions.  It was not my night to meet my bread maker.  On the way back to my gloriously seedy hotel room (the kind where you find hair in the sink and on the sheets) I stopped by at the local Samuel Goody to pick up the new Smashing Pumpkins album entitled Oceania. 

It’s been on constant rotation since this purchase but I am finding it difficult to express my opinion, pretty great for a writer, huh?  I’m such a worthless poser.  Everywhere I go I’m always posing, flexing my deltoids and showing of my chiseled six-pack of abs.  But it is no secret that I love the Pumpkins.  I think why I am having trouble expressing myself here is because this album is just so darn good!  I wish more things were like that and yet I don’t; it’s so easy (and fun) to spew anonymous hate speech when something is bad. 

Highlights are so frequent that I could practically pick any of the songs and write ad naseum (not to be confused with ad nazism which is likely how I would have made a living had I graduated with a journalism degree in Germany in the early forties!  Don’t go to college kids, a degree ain’t worth the diamond studded brick of gold they emblazon it on.) about them. I am not going to do that however.  Part of it is simple laziness but part of it is that people need to listen to this damn record!  It is a truly great album, not a collection of songs but an actual album where each song seems to be a different shade of some beautiful color on a rainbow that only the Pumpkins can see. 

The word cohesive has been thrown around a lot to describe this new release.  I tried to think of another word so as not to simply copy everyone else but I could not.  This album stands up from beginning to end as an extremely consistent listen.  Consistent is such a boring word that does no justice to the hour of great music here, an hour that passes incredibly fast each time precisely because of the quality. 

As I bite off what little skin remains on the tips of my fingers let me try and articulate some of the things that are jumping out to me on this latest work. 

“Celestials” has some eye-gougingly awesome bass parts. One of the things I loved on the aforementioned Gish was the tasteful bass playing that elevated almost every song.  It was an aspect of the music that often seemed downplayed on later releases but has made a triumphant return on Oceania where the bass often acts as a lovely layer of warmth. Nicole Fiorentino is the latest in Corgan’s never ending supply of lovely lady bassists and her skills are formidable.  I consider myself something of a bassist but the truth is despite my Julliard education she could play trapezoids around me.  The other element she brings to this release whose importance cannot be understated is her backing vocals.  On some previous discs Corgan often just used his voice for backing vocals, which is fine, but this feminine element adds a lot to the material.  She doesn’t sing on every song but her contributions are always stellar and always elevate the track

I have seen some people slagging the song “One Diamond, One Heart” but I think it is absolutely beautiful; a majestic track that soars in washes of guitars and syths with Billy’s uplifting vocals the guiding hand.  This song will sound great if one listens to it while driving around Seattle at night, it’s a city kind of song.  I will try it some day; Seattle is a great city to drive around in at night.  Truthfully, this song reminds me a lot of Zooropa era U2 and that is always a good thing.  I know a new relationship is going to last for at least 59 dates if after the first kiss I can say to myself “This woman reminds me a lot of Zooropa era U2”.  If I cannot make that claim then I typically end up wrestling with various emotions and trying to decide if I am staying with her because I want to or because I am simply afraid of being alone.

Speaking of which, I have always been a wrestling fan and the nineties was something of a golden age for me with the famed Monday night wars.  I must confess to siding with WCW on this one and I can recall with glee great things like the N.W.O. storylines, Rey Mysterio Jr. and Dean Malenko (two of the most technically gifted wrestlers of their era) series, Sting turning heel and still being the best and Goldberg with his never-ending wins. It seemed like wrestling was never quite the same after Vince bought the company but I do see things slowly turning around.  From what I’ve seen Resistance Pro looks great and recalls the classic style without being a slave to it.  Someone should buy me the dvd’s from their website as a gift since I am a lousy freeloader.  I commend Corgan for his commitment to music and wrestling because they are two passions I have always shared.  My wrestling love goes so deep that I have often wished I would be tortured and killed by a luchadora!  What death could be more delightful than falling by the sweet, sumptuous and powerful pantyhose clad legs of these gorgeous Mexicanas!  And after they humiliate me in a match they use me as their footrest, calling me “patetico” “asco” “feo”.  

  

I have always found the life of a luchadora to be among the most noble.  This interview with Amapola just reminds me of that, her passion for the sport is a grand thing to see, and she’s also one of the best luchadoras around.  If I met her I don’t know if I would praise her or intentionally say something to make her mad so she would challenge me to a match and bash me brutally.  

The first couple instrumental minutes of “Pinwheels” are just so gorgeous.  It would make me incredibly mad if the rest of the song didn’t measure up but it does!  This is the sound of a hope filled summer where you will either find your true love or rekindle that fire with the one that got away.  This is the feeling the band has given us since the first notes of “I Am One” from Gish. 

“Oceania” is a fittingly epic title track. The word epic is thrown around so much that I should receive a stipend each time it is used since I was the one who it brought to the mainstream public consciousness way back in 71’ when I used it in an old Toronto newspaper article to describe Spielberg’s directorial debut Duel.  The word is so overused it has started to lose meaning but it applies here.  As ever, the rock side of the track is really rocking and the softer side – always my favorite side of this band – is gentle acoustic glory that is a massage for the ears of anyone tired of all the homogenized chuff on the radio today. 

“Pale Horse” with that recurring piano part (I think it’s a piano but I could be wrong, I am a complete idiot when it comes to identifying instruments but it should be obvious what I am talking about, it’s kind of chimey, percussiony and pianony).  There is some great bass and some wonderful subtle backup vocals and synths in here too and combined with that piano part the whole song paints a portrait of that strange beauty: the gentle thunderstorm.  It is a perfect image to evoke for feelings of a lost love.  This is my favorite track on the album and is best-heard wearing headphones.  The first section of this album is classic Corgan rock but it is this middle section – specifically this trilogy of tracks – that is the album’s heart and a pure statement of beauty.  If “Pinwheels” is the sound of a summer day and “Oceania” the majestic sunset then this is the unexpected thunderstorm on a summer night, calling you to run through the rain and scream your passions to the night sky. 

Everyone and their ermine has noticed how Zwan-like “The Chimera” sounds and that is most definitely a good thing.  I disagree with the folks [and oaks (and James K. Polks)] who say this song sounds like it could be from Siamese Dream.  However if any of them want to vehemently disagree with me I would happily invite them out for some carbohydrate rich pasta and bread – my treat of course – where we could discuss the matter at greater length and possibly come to some sort of happy medium or simply set aside our differences and agree to disagree like all the great leaders of the world and all the great pioneers of science and art throughout the ages who have had equally fantastic but diametrically and didactically opposed ideas but can still come together to play backgammon over glasses of merlot and jars of green olives and sliced up sausage and cheese when the situation calls for it.  

If there is something I have to fault the album with it is a seeming lack of melodic vocal hooks.  Don’t get me wrong dear readers, Corgan’s voice sounds great and the backing vocals are consistently lovely and much appreciated.  But most of the hooks really come from the guitars or the synths with the vocal melodies taking a backseat.  I said seeming at the beginning of this paragraph because I remember Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness feeling like a large unshapen musical mess the first few listens where I also voiced a similar complaint.  However now so many years, listens, experiences and heartbreaks later that album has become one my favorites of all time, a life imprinting and affirming piece of art that never ceases to reward or fails to yield new discoveries.

I cannot say that this new record touches the classic original trilogy (so many damn trilogies in this world) of Gish, Siamese Dream and Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness.  Were to say that I would be promptly executed if I lived in a country that sent 64,000 volts of fine imported electricity surging through the bodies of those bawdy enough to speak in minced untruths.  But luckily I don’t live in this highly hypothetical land and instead live in the good United States of America where the people are so free and spoiled that they complain about tuition after they obtain they party and drink their way through college to obtain worthless degree and “rally” against government and capitalism by lounging around in their own filth, ordering pizzas and playing games on their iphones while watching movies on their laptops and tightening the strings on their GAP sweaters.  Real anti-corporate folks they are, real intelligent, fuck you all!  I cannot believe the different ways people find to waste time these days.  Why don’t you all go get a job instead of whining and expecting everything to be handed to you?  But in all seriousness, I love the protesters.  They’re fine people.  I actually participated in the protest for a few days.  After all, we’re in this together!  What chance does middle America have if we don’t stand together, hold signs and yell about how mad we are!  Sorry!  Sorry, I told myself I wouldn’t get involved in politics, in part because they’re dreadfully boring and in part because I don’t know enough to have any kind of relevant opinion.  If you don’t know enough you probably shouldn’t be screaming your opinion at people, right?  Zing!  Ouch!  My prose is both elegant and hard-hitting, I love the written word!  The keyboard is mightier than the sword!  With these words I can build or destroy an empire.  I am a force to be reckoned with and I will not be ignored!  If I don’t say these things no one else will, no one else has the guts!  Everyone just wants to build careers in things they care nothing to make money so they can buy garbage they don’t need.  This is life, huh?  This is what was intended?  What a mistake we will all are!  Dance puppets; pretend that you don’t see the strings! 

Speaking of strings, the strings sounds in “Wildflower” are a lovely and subtle touch, as are (once again) the backing vocals. And even though they actually sound nothing alike this song reminds me a lot of “Dance Dance Dance” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers from their last album.  They both seem to mine from the same dreamy territory.  This is a rich concluding the track, the kind we fans have all come to expect and look forward to on their records, the serene inescapable almost lullaby that takes us to a gentler place and reminds us why we love this band. 

There is clearly an abundance of effort and Pumpkin sweat all over Oceania and it is very possible that a few years from now the songs will be as ingrained in my soul as those from Mellon Collie.  It speaks to the quality of this new disc that I can make such a claim.  Perhaps then I will have no complaints about vocal melodies or hooks or other things that I only have a passing knowledge on.  Hell, why even bother comparing two albums?  I always hate when reviews do that!  The artist is at a different point in his/her/their lives, the work should sound different.  This album doesn’t sound anything like Mellon Collie and that is a good thing. 

I was driving around the other day with my windows rolled down.  It was a brutally hot day of summer and with all the driving I had to do to reach various courthouses and attorneys offices I actually had time to listen to the entire Mellon Collie album.  As “Jelly Belly” and “Porcelina” and “Thirty Three” hit me all over again I began to have a conversation with myself while pretending that I was speaking to my beloved friend Calvin Black.  Black asked me who my favorite singer slash vocalist was.  Strangely, I began to spit green bile all over my windshield as I struggled to answer the doozy of a question.  So many fantastic people came to mind: David Bowie, Bruce Dickinson, Prince, Eva Amaral, Katia Guererro, Shakira, Ana Gabriel, Miles Davis, Eddie Vedder, Trent Reznor, Tom Waits, Jim Morrison, Gustavo Cerati, Luz Rios, Diana Reyes, george Clinton, James Brown, Vicky Terrazas, Natalia LaFourcade, Elida Reyna and countless others.  Billy Corgan did in fact come to mind and I considered that choice for the duration of eleven minutes while discussing my reasoning with the always-curious Black with his sponge like brain and caring blue eyes.  I ultimately decided that Corgan was not my favorite but that he held a special place in my dark bitter heart.  His voice is a unique and instantly recognizable instrument, a feat not many can claim.  But I further believe it is the combination of his voice and lyrics that make the whole package such a success.  I have never met the man (we came close during my stint with Rolling Stone Europe back in 96’ but a severe bout of tendonitis on my part kept me bed ridden for what would have been my interview, damn you Keith Moon for inspiring me to pick up drum sticks! On a quick side note while editing this review I was listening to the fantastic album Quadrophenia by The Who.  The BBC just aired a rollicking retrospective documentary on the album called “Can You See the Real Me”.  It’s all over youtube so be sure to check it out!).  His lyrics have an impassioned romanticism that is sadly lacking in most of today’s popular music.  Just listen to “Thirty Three” or “To Sheila” or “Luna” or “Crush” or from this album: “Violet Rays”, “My Love is Winter”, “Pinwheels”, “Pale Horse”, “Wildflower”, “Inkless” or darn near any of the songs.  Some might find his lyrics flowery but it is the simultaneous conviction and fragility in his voice that makes them believable and oddly beautiful.  The combination of voice and lyrics gives the listeners a sense that they and the band have the same history, the same memories and are connecting on those most sacred and intimate of moments through these songs.  It is a true gift.    

You know what?  This is just a gorgeous album.  I am thankful to kick off the summer of the earth’s last year with a new – and excellent – Smashing Pumpkins album.