I'm talking to you as though you were real

My brain is scrambled egg. 

The other day I was driving through the snow in my vintage 53’ maroon Mercury Coup.  It was night and the sky was pink.  I always loved the silent intensity of snow fall.  I listened to U2’s 2000 album All That You Can’t Leave Behind (this would begin a new era of very long album titles in their history) while driving and the sheer beauty of everything hit me like a cinder block.  All That… is often critically lauded as U2’s third masterpiece [after The Joshua Tree and Achtung Baby (swoon)] but for some reason I had never been able to fully connect with the album (despite the fact that it has one of my favorite album covers of all time, one would think this would be enough).  I had always much preferred the other two aforementioned works – especially Achtung Baby – and Zooropa also spoke to me much more.  However that night, everything seemed to click and I understood the themes and absorbed the melodies and sounds in ways seemingly not possible before.  I felt such a peace with myself and the world around me and the spiritual planes surrounding everything. 

Last night I watched the movie The Man with the Iron Fists 3 times in a row while drinking several bottles of Sangria red wine which I purchased at Ye Local Rite Aid.  I enjoy buying wine and hard alcohol at Rite Aid because it is dirt cheap and because I can also purchase various fetishistic items while still blending in and typically the atmosphere of a Rite Aid is so depressing – nearly to the point of it being actually physically suffocating – that I feel right at home.  I was reading an interview with director Christopher Nolan (who in my eyes can do no wrong and whose every film is a cinematic masterpiece only topped by his next stroke of brilliance) wherein he stated something to the effect of the only he feels disappointment in the viewing of a feature film is when he leaves with the impression that it was only work and no passion for the talents involved.   Regardless of the end result he likes to feel that those who made the movie actively think it is the best in the world.  It is a philosophy I can get behind and applies well to this feature film.  At every second it is clear the movie is a passion project of the RZA and he was trying to make the best film possible in tribute to the Kung Fu and Karate movies he so loves.  I hope with all my darkened soul that he is afforded the opportunity to direct again. 

I have tasted evil on the tongue and the most horrifying thing of all is I liked it.  It came to me with great clarity recently what sad disgusting things we all are.  The amount of settling we do – not on a daily basis but on an hourly, sometimes by the minute basis – is truly staggering.  Every single one of us is only one single elucidating moment away from realizing the stark failure of our existence and reacting in the only sensible way imaginable.  Oh how the tears streamed down on all our faces when our true selves were exposed.  What weak, ugly things we all are, searching desperately for some meaning in it all.  How we love to dance and trade body fluids and pretend it matters.  We jump from person to person and addiction to addiction and we are able to kid ourselves into believing we know what is right.  We are so incredibly stupid and rotting on the inside that we are actually able to fool ourselves. 

I quite literally shit my trousers the other day when I heard that Gloria Trevi was coming to my neck of the woods for a concert.  Those who know me best know of my deep love for La Trevi and how I would happily murder anyone – even those I love most – in order to see her live in concert.  The part that is so ironic it will go down in history as a textbook example of irony is a few months ago I was lamenting the fact that she seems to never to come anywhere near my home and I did not think I would ever have a chance to see her live show without flying down to Mexico (where I would no doubt embroil myself in a daring scheme to manipulate and steal from several different drug cartels while also attempting to stage a coup overthrowing the Mexican president and positioning someone more amenable to my needs in that seat of power).  And then suddenly there was this announcement which I heard through a friend of a friend.  The most joyous thing of all is the incredibly affordable ticket prices.  There are deluxe meet and greet tickets which I am seriously considering purchasing.  One of the reasons I am considering this is because I recently obtained a shiny new credit card that has a voluptuous limit and I am eager to max it out and accrue more debt.  Truthfully, the price of a meet and greet ticket is less money than the price of several standard tickets I have paid for other artists.  This makes me think I should do it and that I would regret it for the rest of my natural, miserable and utterly wasted life if I did not.  La Trevi’s music was a revelation for me.  Her albums are about as perfect as pop and rock can get.  Pelo Suelto still hits me as hard all these years later and makes me thank the sweet heavens I am alive to enjoy it.  Fuck I love this song and this artist!  

All my friends in the underground music circuit know I am in the market for a new electric bass guitar.  Despite having tried out every brand in the rich history of the instrument and loving several I have come to the conclusion that I desperately need a Fender in my bottom end arsenal.  The only question is whether to go for a Fender Jazz bass or a Fender Precision bass.  P or J?  This question has haunted my every waking moment since it first sprang forth over an Italian dinner with a charming Norwegian couple I met while selling shoes door to door in a quaint Chicago suburb in order to pay for the last semester of dental school for my formerly estranged daughter who was able to forgive me and make amends with past transgressions after she learned her mother never told me she was pregnant and that we broke up mere days after the surprisingly tender night of conception.  I would never purchase a red bass but I must admit the “fiesta red” model is mighty sexy. 

There was nothing left to do except watch El Chacal de la Frontera 19 times in row, taking pauses between each viewing only to listen to the entire Funkadelic album One Nation Under A Groove (one of the stankiest funk albums of all time!).  I will find you Yamila!  I swear it!  No matter that it takes an eternity!

 

I cry every single day and much of the time I have no idea why.  

Grainin' on that wood

My Saturday night was beyond loco a week or so ago thanks to my plans to watch the Lifetime original movie Lizzie Borden Took an Axe.  I had been anticipating this movie for years for two chief reasons.  One reason – though not the most sense shatteringly powerful of the two – is my love of the macabre and general interest in the Borden case.  However the second and by far most dominant reason is my absolute love of and devotion to Christina Ricci.  I love her as an actress yet I am also in love with her.  Some would say I’ve loved her since the day I was born.  I’m proud to say this was the second weekend in a row where the centerpiece of my time was a Lifetime original movie.  This fact really puts my life into perspective.  The prior week’s film was the Heather Graham, Ellen Berstyn vehicle Flowers in the Attic.  I realize now Lifetime movies are rather cheap productions with appallingly ugly photography that I cannot express through words because I am not a great writer but it seems like some poor soul went overboard with soft lighting or decided to brighten up the sets with a thousand collagen lamps or something like that.  Either way the movies look almost as ugly as my bloated and disgusting face.  Still, I loved every second of it.  Billy Campbell also starred and gave great supporting work and the courtroom drama aspect worked surprisingly well.  I'm definitely purchasing it when it comes to digital video disc in April and I plan to watch it nightly.  Ricci is my wife in a parallel universe where I actually know what happiness feels like. 

I am now going to talk about the Grammys since over a week has passed and my thoughts are completely irrelevant.  The Grammys went by in a blur of drunken rage for me as I desperately poured gallons of alcohol in my body in an effort to drown out my pathetic existence.  Still, I was sober enough to note once more my utter disconnect to most modern music.  Three point five hours is entirely too long.  How I despise the Grammys, how I loathe it.  Yet every year I watch.  I am like a stupid, smelly dog rolling around in his own shit because he doesn’t know any better.  I am now going to spill all my thoughts on this year’s show.  I sometimes wish the thoughts and words in my brain could manifest themselves in the physical form of puke because I would love to vomit my thoughts all over the unsuspecting masses! 

Easily the most exciting part of the Grammy’s for me was the COVERGIRL commercial featuring Sofia Vergara.  This commercial begins with a shocking and wonderful close up of her nylon and high-heel (with peep toe, oh god) clad foot.  How I wish she would suffocate me with that foot after a hard day of acting while telling me what a pathetic ugly loser I am with her thick accented voice.  I must have rewound and watched that clip roughly fifty-nine hundred times, erupting in ecstasy all over my television and floor.  

The new Liam Neeson movie looks like great trash which is exactly what I want in my movies and women.  Honestly, I would watch Liam Neeson and Julianne Moore in anything.  The only downside here is the trailers and TV clips seem to give away far too much of the storyline [unless the writer(s) have a lot of aces up their sleeves] and this makes me put a frowny face right here L.  Metallica was one of the best performers and possibly my favorite but it could just be the intense relief I felt to hear some actual genuine rock after the assaultive parade of generic or awful R&B, rap and pop.  I was initially skeptical when I heard of the nature of this performance – teaming with world renowned pianist (whom I did not know because I am a tasteless hack) Lang Lang for a performance of their classic song “One”.  Skeptical because those collaborations slash mashups often do not work for me and specifically, their album S&M – a live album complete with orchestral backup – has always sounded so chintzy, weak and not great at all to my waxy ears.   But this performance killed my face.  My like of Beyonce is starting to dwindle with each trying-way-too-hard performance.   It also pains me to say I did not like her haircut.  I’m now bored with Grammys talk.   

Regarding more recent and popular televised events I was one of the sports fans who watched the Superbowl yesterday.  After managing to stay awake through the entire thing I can only say that football is an incredibly boring sport with a shocking amount of time spent simply letting the clock run down in between plays that last a few painfully uninteresting seconds.  How four 15 minute quarters can be stretched into 4 seemingly endless hours is truly impressive.  There is nothing like spending four hours watching a group of large grown men toss a ball around a field. 

What a jerk I’m being to the football fans of the world.  It’s probably because my mommy didn’t give me enough love as a child.  My mommy never wanted me.  She wanted to kill me in the womb and even tried with a pathetically failed drug overdose but no dice.  Life clung to me like a disease.   In fact, I think I’m changing my mind as I peck out these blistering words.  Truth be told, it was the most enjoyable experience I ever had watching a game of ball foot.  Perhaps with more time and a clearer understanding of the sport my appreciation would only deepen.  However the forty seven billion car commercials did grow tiresome after a while.  Out of the previews for coming attractions the one which wet my cinematic appetite the most was probably Noah because Darren Aronofsky is always an interesting director and I’m curious what – if any – sort of unique slant he will give to the story.  Every other movie looked like absolute garbage; it was as though multiple studios decided in unison to film big, splashy blockbuster versions of my life. 

I recently watched the French movie Cache (only about 9 years late on that one) and I have not been able to stop thinking about it for a single millisecond.  The film and its implications haunt me.  It is true that it borrows some things from David Lynch’s masterful Lost Highway (the director of Cache – Michael Haneke – seems to know this given the protagonist’s name in his film) yet I can forgive this because it is chiefly only a borrowing of the initial conceit, a springboard if you will, though its subsequent narrative meat and thematic gristle are a wholly unique flavor. 

My life has become impossibly busy and full of massive amounts of meaningless malarkey as of late.  This makes me feel so miserable I have been spending every free moment contemplating all the different and wonderful ways I can end my pathetic, useless existence. 

Of course, how could I end this blog post without providing a single commentary on the recent Superman/Batman casting news of Jesse Eisenberg playing Lex Luthor and Jeremy Irons playing Alfred Pennyworth?  I would never leave my dear readers bare-assed out in the cold like that without even a single can of Campbell’s Chunky soup to keep them warm during these inordinately frigid months where we are finally suffering the grim consequences of the awesome force of global warming which of course stems from our flippant destruction of mother earth.  My dear friend Calvin Black is probably the biggest Irons fan in the history of film and he told me the news made him drive downtown, inject morphine into the corner of his eye and bed 5 different strippers, each one dressed like a different fighter from the Shaw Brothers kung-fu classic 5 Deadly Venoms.  After I told him what a richly appropriate reaction I thought this was, he and I drank chardonnay on the balcony of my posh flat and as we looked out across the river I began to yearn for the classic days where we worked together in a barbershop quartet and made love like rabbits after watching the incomparable nightly one-two punch of Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy (he always shouting out in voz alto all the questions to answers involving ancient Chinese history) and eating a healthy snack of pears, string cheese and red red wine (which always went straight to my head).  I too share in his enthusiasm for the Irons casting (if not his eccentric taste in drugs and women) and find it to be so spot on that discussion seems redundant.  It is a foregone conclusion that Irons will be a slammin’ Alfred and this continues the rich history with Batman on film of Alfred always being portrayed excellently by a real actor’s actor.

That was not meant to disparage in any way because Michael Gough was a great Alfred and I love that commercial!  

That only leaves Lex.  Luthor.  Lex Luthor.  Arch fiend.  My favorite comic book villain of all time.  For years now the internet was bubbling like cheese pizza in the oven over who would be portraying Superman’s arch nemesis in the Man of Steel sequel.  Names as varied as Bryan Cranston, Mark Strong, Denzel Washington, Vin Diesel (shudder) and even Tom Hanks were rumored.  There was a particularly strong rumor that Joaquin Phoenix had even signed on for the role.  I cannot deny this rumor made me squeal with girlish glee as I thought Phoenix a perfect choice for Luthor.  So like many the casting of Eisenberg smacked me across the face like a wet tuna.  For an interminable amount of time I did not know what to think, I did not know how to react.  I simply sat slack-jawed in front of my computer and read the press release over and over again as though I were memorizing a monologue for a high school drama class taught by an elitist snob who failed at acting and looked down upon the cinema as a nonviable artform, only acknowledging the “theatah”. 

And I conclude it is BRILLIANT casting.  Well, perhaps brilliant is too strong a word but it is fresh, vibrant and exciting casting.  It will be great to finally see a cinematic Superman and Luthor so close in age (both actors are in fact the same age!) and judging by the little teasers and easter eggs tossed into Man of Steel, I will finally see a cinematic Luthor more in line with the mythology of the last few decades.  The old Superman films are beautiful but their time is over and I am ready for a different type of Lex.  I don’t want to speculate too much with this character and I feel content to trust in this creative team.  However I love that I can immediately picture an Eisenberg Lex in all sorts of underground labs controlling and creating all kinds of sinister and terrible things behind an immaculate sheen of heretofore perfect PR. The certainty of Lex being here also makes Bruce Wayne’s/Batman’s part in the story perhaps easier to discern but – as stated – I do not want to speculate too much.  Do I dare hope to one day see this iteration of Luthor wearing the purple and green garb or (gulp) possibly even sporting a LexCorp Battlesuit?  It seems every time I open up my heart it only gets broken once more but I think I’ll allow myself a little bit of hope, just enough to get me through the lonely nights. 

Metallica and U2 both have classic songs entitled “One”, what are the odds?! 

The U2 song is undoubtedly better.  

Turbines to speed

Recently – so recent it practically hasn’t even happened yet – I listened to Kylie Minogue’s new song Into the Blue.  This is set to be the first single from her new album which is to be released sometime this year.  Those who pay close attention to my work here know I am a massive Kylie fan and consider her 2010 release Aphrodite one of my all-time favorite pop albums.  She is an exceedingly rare pop artist in the sense her work only seems to be getting better with time.  I must say this new song almost melted my face off with its shimmering, incandescent splendor and gave me much the same feeling as when I heard All the Lovers for the first time those many years ago.  If the album is up to this standard I will no doubt drink myself into a stupor in order to contain my zeal!

Time for some micro reviews to keep things fresh and fruity!  Here are a couple of movies I meant to watch in 2013 but never did for various reasons.  Both are sort of in the horror genre so I thought it made perfect sense to pair them up here – like a pair of fatted calves being led to slaughter. 

You’re Next: This movie received so much acclaim and hype around the festival circuit I was prepared to despise it with every fiber of my being yet in the end I found I rather liked it.  The premise is simple: a family is having a reunion out at a large home in the woods where they are then murdered one by one in gruesome fashion.  This feels like a combination throwback to old school slasher movies and self-referential Scream type horror.  Though it is not difficult (and perhaps not supposed to be) to figure out who is doing this and why there are still enough jumps and surprises to keep the momentum going.  There’s also a generous amount of gore for all you blood thirsty fiends (though honestly, I am almost never satisfied by the gore quotient in movies, there is always room for more).  I find this movie is one best watched with a friend(s) for maximum enjoyment.  Great bloody weekend entertainment and worth a rental.

American Mary: Another movie which received a great deal of hype and another one I enjoyed.  The titular character is a financial flailing medical student who through a stroke of (good or bad?) luck finds she can make a great deal of money performing illegal surgeries and body modifications.  Naturally things don’t quite go as smooth as she would like, particularly once a little revenge gets thrown into the mix.  The set-up is fantastic but the overall execution is a bit contrived, never quite reaching its full potential.   It is ultimately an engaging and memorable narrative but the nagging feeling of “could have been more” keeps it at a mere hearty rental.  Still, Katherine Isabelle gives a stirring performance and brings a complexity to the role I’m not sure was necessarily present on the pages of the screenplay.  She is also so attractive that I have since been having fantasies aplenty where she is performing all manner of horrific and unrequested surgeries on me; it is all worth it because I can see her smiling face before and after the alterations.  I was elated to learn only hours later this actress was cast as Margot Verger (a very interesting character) in the TV show Hannibal.  I am curious as a 17 legged cat to see how this part plays into this iteration of the mythology. 

Speaking of which, the trailer for the second season of Hannibal went online early Sunday morning and I watched it no less than 5,977 times over the course of that humble Sabbath.  I will keep singing this shows praises until it disappoints me – which TV shows are generally designed to do – and then I will do nothing but talk about what absolute slop it is.  However, for the time being it is still a thing of pure greatness and this preview of season 2 left me quivering in delight and moaning in ecstasy. 

I hate you.  I hate you more than I ever thought it was possible to hate anyone.  You are the most vile, disgusting person I have ever known.  You are a fucking worthless disgrace as a person, a spouse, a parent, just completely fucking useless.  Every year you find a new way to ruin this just like you ruin every other day, just like you ruin anything you come into contact with.  I can’t imagine what it must be like to be you and to wake up and look in the mirror and realize what a monumental sack of shit you are.  All those times you were standing at the tops of the stairs…and all those times I wished you would just rot in hell. 

My blu ray purchases for the week so far only include Machete Kills but surely I can find some other trashy thing on which I can blow my rent money.  No NEWly released music purchases spring to mind but there are definitely a couple older releases – namely Bob Dylan and Ghostface Killah – which warrant a purchase. 

Realizing how late I am to the game and that everyone in the world save yours truly has read this book, I started Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn yesterday and read the first 53 pages which I found largely engrossing.  Despite how drawn in I was by the story I may have to take a break from this novel for personal reasons and read something else first.  

Faithful readers, you may recall last week or the week before I discussed the premiere single Can’t Remember to Forget You featuring Rihanna from Shakira’s new upcoming album.  I wrote about my anticipation slash trepidation as well as other things regarding the Colombian songstress.  Savvy folk will note the song has been out for a week now yet my comprehensive review has not burst forth into the unsuspecting world.  Despite all you kind faced ladies and gentlemen foaming at the mouth after having waited years for my thoughts I must postpone that review just a bit more.  However my reasoning behind its mention in this post is due to a Spanish version of the song being released today entitled Nunca Me Acuerda de Olvidarte.  This is standard for Shakira who will often release a Spanish version of English singles for the lovely Latin markets.  But what separates this even further is the complete exclusion of Rihanna, meaning this version is 100% Shak.  I plan to post my thoughts on this release once the music video is out.  Soon my puppets…soon….  

I was overjoyed and undersexed the other day when I learned that at long last – after decades of waiting – the 1960’s Batman TV series would finally be arriving on digital video disc!  For untold centuries now the series has been tied up in copyright issues and company ownership and a whole hooplah of red tape but due some unforeseen miracle those issues have departed.  Upon its release I will hitchhike down to ye olde conglomerate and make purchase with plastic and then have a marathon where I watch all 120 episodes (as well as the feature film which was released shortly after season 1 finished).  I plan on this involving a drinking game where I will take a shot of El Sauza Tequila every time something awesome happens – which will pretty much be every time Adam West is on screen.  I think I’ll also take bathsalts and inject china white heroin in between my toes while watching just to make the experience more psychedelic.  Such is the nature of wisdom. 

I always wondered if I would have the courage to part the sea if it came down to it. 

Here's your complimentary chicken

Caveat emptor, a bit of a throwaway here (aren't they all?).  

Tuesday could only be described as a big streaming pile of excrement.  I walked through the dismal halls of my day not entirely feeling like myself.  Apathy and forced compromise threatened to overtake me at any moment.  I desired an escape from everything and experienced moments of sheer panic where I was reminded once more of the vast pointlessness in nearly all aspects of life.  I’m still unable to play the game.  If I can only keep focus on the magenta and black, mixing and swirling before my eyes, maybe that will be enough to get me through at least one more week. 

Near the end of the day I shuffled my way to one of my favorite conglomerates where I purchased the new Bruce Springsteen album, High Hopes.  Dare I say it?  I myself had pretty high hopes for this release.  I am still a relatively new fan of the boss and as such have not fully absorbed the entirety of the man’s discography.  However the releases of his which do occupy my impressively eclectic music collection receive regular and affectionate rotation.  High Hopes is another reliable slab of sweaty, blue-collar rock and was just the tonic I needed to cure me of the day’s disease.  I won’t go into a full-fledged review of the album here but perhaps someday in the future…some place where a warm hand waits for mine.  The title track, Harry’s Place, Like Fire Would, and Frankie Fell in Love are immediate standouts.  The latter two in particular sooth my tortured soul.

I remember seeing the Mars Volta live years ago and being mostly bored out my skull (which provides ample support for my fat ugly face).  This revelation will no doubt cause all kinds of insane and hip musical fans to come out of the woodwork and savagely beat me to death with pipe wrenches and tire irons but I am okay with that.  I could and can handle uninteresting music.  However, what really grinded my gears about their performance was how sense shatteringly loud it was.  Loud enough to cause one’s ears to bleed and one’s brain to liquefy and ooze out their nostrils.  I am not sure when artists decided the best way to ensure sound quality and a great concert experience was to turn the volume on everything up as much as possible but this was a grave turn in the live music world. 

I was at the table with a few other contemporaries and people were talking and some were asking me questions and I had responses for everything but I was blinking back hot tears and fighting the urge to drive a BIC (nothing writes like a BIC) pen into my upper thigh and twist so the wound won’t close and then watch as the life drains out of me in staining red spurts.  How could all this meaningless information be so important to so many people?  I realized recently if I were a smoker I would smoke Kools or Camels because I have always been an animal lover.  Sometimes I think about taking up smoking just so I can have more things to carry around in my pockets.  I love utilizing my pockets.  Back in the nostalgic days of yore I had a beloved friend who nicknamed me “Pockets” and we frolicked endlessly around town, running from stray dogs, jumping fences, listening to classic albums, discussing cinema and art and dreaming about the future.  This friend would eventually become a bitter enemy and our hatred for one another would nearly consume us like raging forest fire.  But the memories before that happened are still pleasing to recall. 

I went home and cried and watched The American Friend 17 times in a row and then Repulsion 19 times in a row.  I also put on the album Una Pequena Parte Del Mundo by Amaral and listened to the song Cabecita Loca 114 times in a row while curled up in the fetal position and grinding my teeth through a banality induced migraine.  I often cry at the sheer waste of life I see in every corner of every room of every place I enter.  Yet there are strange and wonderful colors in her eyes which I have still been unable to identify and this is what is keeping me alive for the time. 

I am down in a deep, dark place and I have no idea how to climb out.  Often, I only feel good in the middle of the night when I am lying on the floor or bed or sofa and I start to detach from everything.  In wonderful darkness I can forget about my innumerable failures as a human being.  I am never happier than when asleep. 

“The government gives people drugs then makes big money then has to fix their own earth created people”.  Someone told this to me very recently.  I had no facts on my side with which to argue these points so I accepted it as the truth.  I have been seeing strange and horrifying things out of the corner of my eye these past few weeks.  I wonder if they are from another dimension.  I wonder where they are going to take me.  Please God I am so scared please don’t let them take me please fuck I’ll do anything I’ll fucking do anything just please don’t let them take me away oh God please I don’t want to go with them please (please)

Lucinda Williams self-titled (eponymous for all you highbrow folk) 1988 album was re-released on Tuesday and included remastered sound, incisive liner notes and an extra live disc.  Knowing nothing about this artist I decided to purchase it along with Springsteen’s new disc.  I am very happy I took this bold chance.  The album is yielding intense and unexpected pleasures.  Her voice is rich and her lyrics often excellent.  “Changed The Locks” is a fantastic song and momentarily makes me forget what an ugly, disgusting failure of a man I am.  I look forward to further exploring this artist and album.  I loathe myself so much.  Art is my only waking escape, the only thing that’s worth a damn.  And Nigella Lawson.

The other day I took my invisible dog (you can see a picture of him below) for a four mile walk and on the way back I thought about making a lightly seasoned slow roasted pork for a mid-afternoon snack.  However, my plans were swiftly curtailed due to the recipe calling for the juice of nine freshly squeezed lemons which I did not possess.  I sat in darkness for quite some time afterward, pondering the strange occurrences which led to my own bizarre and tortured existence. 

I like the idea of hanging myself with my own neck tie but I always vowed I would jump from a really high place when the moment of truth came. 

That's the deal my dear!

It was a very mixed moment early Monday when I learned of Shakira’s upcoming song Can’t Remember to Forget You featuring Rihanna, set for release January 13 as the first single of her new album.  Mixed for so many reasons that to discuss them all with any degree of accuracy would fill an entire library of 1000 page leather-bound volumes.  In the interest of brevity and fiscal responsibility I have decided to shave it down to a much more manageable paragraph or two. 

It can be truly said that Shakira is one of the most important artists to me.  To take it further the argument could easily be made (by myself when talking to myself about myself) that Shakira one of the two most important artists ever to me in terms of the development of my interest/obsession/passion with music and art.  I recall with face numbing clarity first hearing her music in an introductory level Spanish class.  I do not remember which song (though I suspect it was from her MTV Unplugged album) nor could I understand any of it at the time.  What I do remember is being struck at how incomparably beautiful it sounded.  It was like discovering an entire new world of artistry and aural pleasures, an altogether unexpected and different kind of beauty.  In that instant I realized for one to put any limits on the music to which s/he listens – or any type of limits on any art form – is unbelievably arrogant and stupid.  A tiny thing like a language barrier could not prevent me from feeling the glory contained in her voice.  I feel a great swell of pity for people who do let things like that stop them from exploring.  But I digress. 

Point being, suddenly there were no limits in the music I could and should savor and there are dozens of artists – some among my favorites – which I never would have given a chance, were it not for her.  So you see, Shakira represents something massive to me, something philosophical and ideological whose value could never fully be measured.  But even stripped of this she still remains one of my all-time favorite recording artists.  Her first disc – Pies Descalzos – is very likely a top 5 desert island type album for me.  Her discography is not massive and so the discovery of her artistry and my subsequent exploration of her catalogue did not take as long as a Prince or a Bob Dylan for instance. But as with anyone discovering and exploring an artist, the journey was uniquely rich and rewarding and hearing albums like Donde Estan Los Ladrones? and Laundry Service (purchased at the same time as Californication by the Red Hot Chili Peppers from the local Best Buy) for the first time, and then the hundredth time, rewinding part of songs – or sometimes just hitting repeat – like Que Vuelvas and Poem to a Horse just to hear certain amazing and wholly unique vocal inflections are wonderful musical memories. 

And of course came the anticipation of the next album which was special being the first one I was able to look forward to.  As such the bonding with Fijacion Oral Volumen 1 was particularly strong, as intense as the evolution she showed on that album and the experiments with bossa nova and synthesizers.  And with most any artist comes the inevitable disappointment, in this case the She Wolf album which I was never able to fully connect with as it seemed she was stripping away what made her unique in preference of more generic pop explorations.  My patience was rewarded however with the follow-up album entitled Sale El Sol which I view as one of the best of her career.  From the opening chord of the title track to the meringue of Addicted to You, the devastation of Lo Que Mas and the Gustavo Cerati co-written powerhouse Devocion [ an instant classic my vote for the rockingest song of 2009 (and that was a year with a new Iron Maiden album!)] the album retained all her unique characteristics while still moving her sound forward. 

Now a new Shakira album and accompanying era is upon us.  Even if the rest of her albums are complete garbage I will still be in this for the long haul for all her music has given me to this point. But I must say this: the presence of Rihanna gives me great pause. I try my damndest to remain open minded – especially about music.  Yet I think I would prefer just about anyone other than Rihanna to guest on this track.  I cannot recall ever actually enjoying a Rihanna song and this is sadly because her voice always sounds flat and awful to me.  Additionally, her songs always seem to mine the most generic, bland and uninteresting pop conventions imaginable.  I feel bad for saying this.  I do not personally know Rihanna and having avoided most press coverage for her I cannot attest to knowing anything about her work ideologies, ethics or anything which would normally be of interest to me about an artist.  It is easy to say my reactions are a tad premature since neither the album nor even the song is even available for listening. 

It is also true that singles are commonly not indicative of the album’s sound as a whole.  This is often true in Shakira’s case such as the aforementioned Fijacion Oral/Oral Fixation albums where duets like La Tortua with Alejandro Sanz and Hips Don’t Lie with Wyclef Jean were not representative – for better or worse depending on one’s perspective – of the overall sound of either of those respective albums.  It is also true that Shakira has long been savvy to trends and the importance of proper marketing and these have definitely been a priority since Laundry Service (that album makes me cry with joy).  Perhaps this single then is simply designed as a giant splash of a song to kick off this new era.  Though I do not think of her in the same way as Britney Spears (of whom I am also a fan), Shakira’s musical landscape undoubtedly functions differently from someone like Bruce Springsteen or Rush and requires different types of marketing and release strategies.  Though my ultimate fear is that Rihanna’s presence and this song will signify another She Wolf type album wherein I will have to patiently await the following release for my preferred Shakira fix. 

I pride myself in being emotionally honest at all times (impressive, I know) and especially in reaction to the works of my favorite artists be it writer, singer, director or whatever.  No one should force themselves to slavishly like something nor should any fan think they have an obligation to enjoy or support something.  Upon listening to this new song 59 times I like to think I will make an honest proclamation as to whether I think it is brilliant, horrible or somewhere in between.  I also like to think I will be honest in what things I enjoy or dislike about the song; if Rihanna’s part wins me over I hope to admit as such and if Shakira lets me down (no artist is infallible after all, both Mick Jagger and David Bowie thought it was a good idea to go Dancing in the Streets) I hope I can spit this out as well.  But if everything about it blows my mind I will throw a listening party at my posh flat and will invite all my readers and the whole block for drinks, hot-tubbing and claim jumping!    

In the final analysis I am still undoubtedly excited to have a new Shakira era upon us and a disc of new music to pour down my gaping waxy earhole.  Also, I never noticed until yesterday but Tu by Shakira sounds a heck of a lot like Open Arms by Journey.  Coincidence?

My Favorite Books of 2013

Hot on the sexy seamed-pantyhose encased gloriously aromatic heels of my Favorite Movies of 2013 list comes a more brisk nod to my favorite reads of 2013.  The criteria to this was so simple and permissive it almost seemed pointless to write it in the first place which is exactly what forced my hand and made me take fingers to keyboard and peck this out over one sweaty lunch session [in between watching some matches of good ol’ lucha libre featuring some of my favorite luchadoras (Swoon!  How they make my heart sing!)].  My reading habits are too oblong to compile a list of favorite written works released in 2013 so instead this offers 10 things I simply happened to read in that great yesteryear.  The result is something which I hope shows off my astonishingly eclectic taste and may perhaps shoot a recommend right into your eye.

10. Doctor Sleep by Stephen King: Good ol’ Steve King.  While my misspent youth was rife with Zatanna fantasies it was also filled with the works of everyone’s favorite horror maestro.  I’ve written at great length in other periodicals about the dangers of thinking King only writes horror but penning a follow-up to The Shining is definitely a move planted firmly in his roots.  Danny Torrence, the child with a psychic gift who narrowly escaped being pounded into oblivion by his alcoholic father while staying at the evil and haunted Overlook Hotel, is now all grown up and has a bit of an alcohol problem himself.  The idea of someone using booze to suppress their psychic gift (curse?) is quite clever and Dan’s story of befriending and protecting a child with a similar gift from a group of road traveling psychic vampires is one of King’s best books in years. The pages fly by with such speed it was like someone had slathered them in axel grease.  King’s lost none of penchant for sickening and thrilling within the same paragraph while Dan and Abra (the child being protected) are some of his most fully fleshed out characters in recent memory.  Not really a sequel or follow-up to The Shining in any traditional sense, this is very much its own tenacious beast.   

9. Bowie in Berlin by Thomas Jerome Seabrook: Those who know me best know I would die for David Bowie (I would even live for Bowie which in my case is a much harsher punishment).  They also know that of all his great eras – folk, glam, plastic soul, pop, neo classicist, among others – it is the Berlin era which is quite possibly my favorite.  Books about artists are a dime a baker’s dozen and I have read enough to know many of them are simply no damn good.  However author Thomas Jerome Seabrook has compiled an impressive amount of information on this era, its key players and the music and presented it in an immensely pleasurable and easy to read volume.  Keeping his opinions to a minimum, Seabrook illustrates Bowie’s life – and the life going on around him – at the time through quotes, testimony and facts and then takes an in depth look at this period’s albums (including the two Iggy Pop albums Bowie co-wrote and produced during this era) and each of their songs. It is not without its flaws (the Lodger album is sadly shortchanged) but for an in depth look into a fascinating and important time in the life of a fascinating and important artist wherein some truly timeless and brilliant music was produced this tome reads like an invaluably informative love letter. 

8. American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis: This book is just as searing now as it was when originally published where it was met with much hostility and outcries of misogyny.  The tale of late twenty-something-year-old corporate hotshot Patrick Bateman as he moves through the aristocratic world of 1980’s New York City, savoring expensive clubs and restaurants and committing extreme acts of sexual deviancies, torture and murder has lost none of its impact.  To memory this is the only book I have read which I had to take breaks from at times because the violence was too strong.  It is difficult to say why this story moves me so much.  The repetitions of certain unspeakable acts never become numbing which is surely a testament to Ellis’s skill and the pop culture references and stylized dialogue are often laugh-out-loud hilarious.  Bateman’s mind is at once repellant and fascinating in its existential (gotta throw this word in there so people think I’m smart) reflection of our collective self, a reflection which is still as prescient today.  Definitely not for the squeamish or faint of heart but there is something vital in these pages, something necessary Ellis tapped into which is at once naked, true, and horrifying. 

7. Rogue Angel: The Third Caliph by Alex Archer: My placement of this particular entry in the Rogue Angel series comes after American Psycho for a very specific reason.  After reading the previous tome I was in desperate need for something light and airy.  I happened upon this series whilst perusing the science fiction section in ye olde Barnes and Noble Booksellers.  The cover art intrigued because I like purdy gurls and on a drunken whim the purchase was made.  It seems I have yet another reason to be thankful for alcohol because this series is gangbusters as the kids like to say!  No gaudy urban fantasy or hackneyed erotic escapades here, these are actually clean, fun and old fashioned archeology themed adventure stories with our hero Annja Creed something of a female Indiana Jones.  Gold Eagle publishes a new book in this series every few months (the author Alex Archer is actually a pseudonym for a couple different authors) and they are addicting enough to warrant this.  I even learned a little history about something which I promptly forgot once I finished the book.  A little Witchblade, a little Tomb Raider, a little The Phantom and a lot of heart is how I would describe this escapist series and these books are definitely ones I will be snacking on in between the larger meals of more “serious” works. 

6. A Farewell to Arms by Earnest Hemingway: Hemingway’s classic (aren’t all his books classics?) about an American soldier serving in the Italian army during World War 1 and the life affirming and life destroying love he enters into with an on-duty nurse.  I will be frank in my ignorance here: my pitiful knowledge of World War 1 surely precluded me from understanding some of the deeper thematic elements here and likely prevented me from fully grasping certain character motivations.  That’s just what I get for having mashed potatoes inside my skull.  But I would posit the love story as being universal and the passion felt by those two characters as breaking free of any barriers linked to time or culture.  Most of all, I read Hemingway for the language, the prose.  Passages are constructed with an eloquence which seems all but forgotten in today’s world and the dialogue always leaves me short of breath for its splendor, which, while seeming effortless due to its purity, can be found nowhere else.  For the height of elegance in prose I have yet to find anyone who can outclass Hemingway.

5. How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents by Julia Alvarez: Julia Alvarez pens a sensitive and immensely rewarding story of four sisters who, along with their parents, must flee their home in the Dominican Republic and come to America.  Beginning in their adult lives, the story alternates chapters between each sister’s point of view and traces their tales back to childhood, commenting on relationships, gender politics, politics politics, racism and family along the way.  This book is something of a quiet storm which gradually overtakes the reader and the detail is so rich one cannot help but empathize regardless of how far removed they may be from the lives of these women.  The whole narrative is impeccably written and structured with precision and while the characters were so captivating that it became hard to say goodbye, it is the ending which stays with me most for its haunting and lyrical truth. 

4. Batman: The Court of Owls by Scott Snyder and Greg Capullo: When the new 52 began in earnest (my favorite month of the year) everyone was all hopped up on hashish and china white heroin in anticipation for what shiny new changes and innovative storytelling would be showcased in the hallowed pages of everyone’s favorite Dark Knight detective.  I don’t think I am being controversial in saying Detective Comics was the horse to bet on for being the home run hitter in the big boat race while the character’s self-titled series seemed more the undercard.  Yet as entertaining and as Tony S. Daniel’s Detective Comics was (and is) it is truly the Batman series which presented a tale for the ages and supplied my favorite story of the caped crusader since Grant Morrison’s Batman R.I.P. from some years back.  The Court of Owls begins with a conspiracy regarding a secret cabal who for over a century has been controlling corporate and criminal enterprises in Gotham City.  Their capacity for violence to obtain their goals is seemingly unmatched and their reach goes straight to the top as Batman and Bruce Wayne soon discover.  Unlike the aforementioned R.I.P., writer Scott Snyder does not seem interested in shattering the mold but rather using the classic framework of a superhero comic book tale – especially a Batman comic book – to provide a stunning example of the form.  An eminently creepy villain, thick noir atmosphere, a mystery which intrigues in equal measures as it deepens, pages allowing the supporting cast to shine, realistic and ingenious detective work, the most badass of all superheroes never giving up and all channeled through beautiful and fluid artwork by Greg Capullo. Sounds like a classic Batman story to me. 

3. The Call of Cthulhu and Other Dark Tales by H.P. Lovecraft: H. P. Lovecraft’s stories are the lifeblood of literary horror.  His prose is a seemingly impossible combination of pulp and renaissance.  His descriptions of otherworldly and surreal terror have never been matched and have proved near impossible to adapt in any other art form.  The fears he taps into – a sickening and dawning helplessness in the face of utter and chaotic evil – is so primal and fierce that his stories seem to forever alter the minds of his readers as much as the protagonists (in this case that is most definitely a good thing).  Truthfully, one cannot go wrong with any collection of his stories and it is well advised to read them all.  This collection is affordable and includes several classics such as (of course) The Call of Cthulhu and The Shadow Over Innsmouth (though if you’re limiting yourself you should also buy something with At the Mountains of Madness).  Whether dealing with the cosmic terror or the horror lurking in dreams the master is always in top form. Love me some Lovecraft!  That’s what I say to all my homies and all my G’s in lockdown: love me some Lovecraft!

2. Unbearable Lightness by Portia de Rossi: TV hounds will no doubt recognize Portia de Rossi from Ally McBeal and Arrested Development or perhaps as the real life wife of Ellen Degeneres.  But this is not a star bio or some type of glitzy vanity project. Rather, it is primarily concerned with recounting de Rossi’s severe struggles with anorexia and bulimia.  The work is elegant and frank and though it certainly draws correlations between this personal turmoil and the entertainment industry – her environment from an early age – it is not as interested in placing blame so much as recounting her experiences of self-inflicted horror and the ways she could finally escape and leave it behind. 

1. The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes: This is the shortest read on the list and also my favorite.  I will not divulge too much of the story here because the unfolding of this tale is of particular excellence.  Briefly, our protagonist is dealing with an unexpected visit from his past which leads him down a memory trail to question a pivotal – and fatal – event which occurred in his youth.  The more he recalls the more we start to question the difference between reality and perception.  Understand this book is not science fiction or anything of the sort.  This is an honest and devastating examination of emotion, free thinking and the consequences of our decisions – no matter how thought out or impulsive.  The narrative also functions as a candid look at memory and the way we repaint the fragments of our lives to best suit an imagined and ultimately hopeless ideal.  The book is so slim it can be read in a single day (something which I recommend).  The ending felt like a large hairy fisted man had punched me in the gut.  But this denouement is not a contrived twist or cheap shock but simply a richly appropriate and wrenching conclusion to a short but impeccably crafted masterstroke of the written word.

Two quick bonus books I read a while ago but wanted to include anyway: The Mothman Prophecies by John Keel is a creepy and addicting account of some very bizarre things which or may not have happened in Point Pleasant, West Virginia in the 1960’s.  Growing Stronger is Latin singer/actress Thalia’s autobiography and is a great and surprisingly touching look at fame, artistry and the unexpected changes one goes through after achieving the highest of goals. 

And boom!  Hot and easy, we are out of there.  Books (and comic books) are such groovy things and it makes me want to commit wanton acts of grisly violence that more people do not enjoy reading.  Truthfully, I understand.  We live in a hectic, sexy and fast paced world and sometimes at the end of a long miserable day it is shockingly difficult and tiring to move one’s eyes across lines of text for great periods of time (this is especially true if one likes to pour gallons of alcoholic beverages into their system after work in order to forget the futility of their life like yours truly).  But the art of literature is still classic and still as supremely satisfying as only it can be!  I encourage you all to read more this year; acquire knowledge, savor stories, read in dark place places with electronic devices or go the old fashioned route with lanterns and ink-stained fingers!  Also, be sure to smell the books before, during and after reading.  Books smell magical.  There’s only one thing I can think of which smells greater but I’m too polite to mention it.