You are a furry thing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please use the triangle choke!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can feel like a child

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kicking my ass would be a pleasure. 

Johnny wants to suck on a Coke

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was a rabbit wondering who I would be.

What are you feeding my dogs?

Something about this exchange which took place earlier today made me squeel with delight in the knowledge that I have at last begun to unravel every major mystery in the known universe. 

The last two episodes of the second season of television program Hannibal have included two of my favorite moments of the series and in recent television history.  Episode 11 – entitled Ko No Mono – contained such a beautiful, tear-inducing intimate conversation between Will and Hannibal, discussing Abigail, time and philosophy.  It summed up so much of the intellectual and emotional heart of the series which keeps me frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog who has just mauled a child because his government funded leech parents weren’t paying attention and let him run all over the damn neighborhood while they watched something on their 75” widescreen TV and chatted with their friends on their new iPhones for each new episode.  And then episode 12 – entitled Tome-wan – finally showed Mason’s fate.  It was something fans of the books and movies already knew would happen but that only made the anticipation greater.  And it was delightfully brutal, once again striking that perfect balance of horror, gore and absurd black comedy.  This show was made for me.  Tonight is the season 2 finale and I may cut off my own face in anxiousness.

 

I awoke on my sofa sometime after midnight after falling asleep while watching William Friedkin’s 1977 film Sorcerer.  This is no indictment against the film as I was quite tired at the time.  However I awoke with a very palpable feeling of dread.  I did not want to leave the living room for the bedroom but I was expected.  She was waiting but I was somehow certain there was going to be someone or something else other than her in that bedroom.  I heard a man’s voice from behind the door, guttural and almost mocking.   For some reason I still opened the door and only saw her lying on the bed, her face masked by the darkness.  Despite the familiarity of her presence I did not feel any comfort and part of me wondered if that was really her at all or she had been replaced by some kind of doppelganger.  I lay down next to her and tried my best not to cry.  Something else was in there with us.  A few minutes later she stood up from the bed and left the room without saying a word.  I knew what would happen next.  I know the door would fling back open again and things would come inside and they would join me on the bed.  I would be having sex with monsters and they would get inside my head and inside my body.  Their skin was red and they wore black robes.  I was too frightened to ever scream.  They chanted things I could not understand.  I think for a moment I was floating.  My hands clutched the sheets and trembled along hot and rough skin.

Astute followers of my work no doubt noted with much anguish the extensive preamble I gave to the film Dracula 3D in Monday’s blog post (here is a helpful link for any new fans http://creamybrandenblog.blogspot.com/2014/05/where-have-all-brides-gone.html   ) while not following through with a proper review. 

I continue to be stunned by the sheer amount of garbage we prioritize on a daily basis.  This cannot be what was intended.  So many artificial people running around and screaming and judging and fucking, everyone so deeply loves the exchange of body fluids.  You are so grotesque, so unbelievably disgusting but I guess that is true about the rest of us as well.  What useless things we all are.  How can anyone take pride in the bullshit they do every day when none of it means anything?  How can anyone care when it is all so empty?  Fucking pathetic, every last bit of it. 

Sunday I tuned in to the Billboard Music Awards despite my searing hatred for awards and billboards.  My chief motivation was to see Shakira perform her song “Empire”.  Upon deeper reflection and examining the darkness of my soul I now realize this was my sole motivation.  Yet my world was thrown into chaos as I did know when the Colombian songstress was going to perform.  As such it was by complete accident that I watched Iggy Azalea’s performance of her song “Fancy”.  My initial reaction was a frozen state of abject horror.  Yet after roughly one minute – 60 seconds for all you time fans out there (my jungle love!) – my subjugation (incorrect usage) swiftly turned into adoration.  Simply put, I fell in love with the song.  Everything from her 80’sesque flow to her gangsta tude’ to the sexy chorus by pop charmer Charli XCX all contributed to a song which left me in a state of hippity-hop delirium.  And yes, I am well aware that all the true hardened urban music loving homies and g’s out there will dismiss this tune as so much faux rap drivel but if I cared what they think then I wouldn’t have started that infamous gangland war in east L.A. last year where no less than 89 people lost their lives with over two hundred more being hospitalized and roughly 3.5 million dollars racked up in property damage.  But damnit, I still think we can bring back our fair city.  If we can just cut through all the bureaucracy and peck away at the knees of Big Business we can clean up the streets and make sure no child ever has to walk to school afraid ever again.  Basically, what I’m saying is that for the past 5 days I’ve done but walk around with a smirk and say “Who that? Who that?  I-G-G-Y.  Who that?  Who that?  I-G-G-Y.”  This made some of my co-workers band together and form an elaborate plan to discredit me in a public venue, frame me for embezzling millions of our tax dollars and insure that I end up in a federal prison where I will be penetrated covertly (just as our army does to Middle Eastern countries) on a nightly basis.  Azalea’s studio album debut is entitled The New Classic and it is a foregone conclusion that I will purchase this album and listen to it while driving in my car to go visit my formerly estranged daughter at her new ocean view penthouse where she lives with her fiancé who is a hotshot CEO at a cutting edge software company.  I’ll wrap my arms around her in a fatherly hug and tears will well up in my eyes as I beg for forgiveness yet again for all the softball games missed and all the letters not written during all those lonely Christmases. 

 “What do you think of the painting Lavender Mist by Jackson Pollock?” I asked.

“I like lavender,” she said.

Where have all the brides gone?

It seems I have reached an impasse. 

The other day while driving around and imagining how mutilated my corpse would look depending on what nigh-unmovable structure I chose to slam the car into I decided to take a pause and head on over to Ye Olde Best Buy.  Upon arrival I sprinted to the movie section with all the grace of a man literally on fire sprinting for a ham sandwich at an all-night diner but I eventually arrived relatively unscathed.  Even though I knew full well where stood the horror section I still asked a kind-faced, khaki wearing clerk for directions to test his mettle.  His immediate verbal direction and accompanying pointing finger was as humbling as it was helpful. 

And so I stood there gazing at the racks, waiting until it leapt out as I knew it would.  There it was: Dracula 3D as directed by Italian horror maestro Dario Argento – he of such classics such The Bird with the Crystal Plumage, Deep Red and of course Suspiria.  The film had bounced around the convention circuit for the better part of last year before finally making its way to blu-ray in this year of our Lord twenty-fourteen.  I virtually heard nothing but horrible things about this flick.  Literally everything from the acting to the special effects, set design, lighting, general direction and 3D effects (which sadly I would not be able to enjoy due to my heartbreakingly impoverished lifestyle which does not permit me to buy a 3D television set) had received the most trenchant of criticism.  This alone would have ensured a purchase by yours truly but what made it a particularly special and personal kind of buy was my love for the director.  Those aforementioned films (and many others) have provided me with untold hours of enjoyment.  It is true that his status of a horror master faded years ago and the quality of his output for the past two decades would make anyone call into the question the validity of his famed and respected reputation.  Yet I am someone who can savor Mother of Tears as much as Inferno and so this purchase was made with refreshingly un-ironic love and fandom.  The fact that it stars his daughter Asia Argento – whom I have been in love with for untold centuries – also surely helped in making this buy a wholly satisfying experience. 

And so it was that I sat down on my bourgeois sofa (after playing a game of hide-and-seek with  a woman of Colombian and Arabic descent) and began consuming a short stack of blueberry pancakes while viewing Dracula 3D. 

My above sentence reminds of the fantastic first 10 issues or so of Ben Edlund’s comic book The Tick.  If any of my dear readers have any interest whatsoever in things which will enrich their lives they owe it to themselves to seek out this work (in one of its many editions) and read it cover to cover.  Beautiful line work and masterful comic – both in the comedic and in the sequential art sense of the word - writing.  I recall loving the cartoon as a child but do not remember much of it at all.  However I do recall there were some fantastic action figures which were released when the cartoon was in its day of hay.  There was even a special bendable gold colored Tick figure which was individually numbered and limited to only 2,500.  One of the great personal tragedies of my life is I actually saw one of these figures at a Toys R’ Us department store and failed to act.  It was a gorgeous thing to behold and I coveted its greatness; I wanted to own it.  Yet for some reason I opted not to make the purchase.  I cannot recall if this was due to a simple fiscal dilemma such as the then continually decreasing value of the American Dollar or if I was too intimidated by its beauty; my avarice failing to compensate for my other glaring inadequacies.  Regardless of the reason – and I think it is quite telling that the reason has left my memory while the yearning ache still remains strong as ever – I left the Gold Tick there on the rack and I would never see it again.  This failure has haunted all my days.  Very recently I discovered a Gold Tick on the online auction and shopping website eBay.  Once again I was faced with the same choice, the same chance to shape my destiny into something greater.  But once more I decided against making the purchase.  However this time I had a reason and the decision not to make the buy was a self-imposed punishment that I may never forget the consequences of cowardice and hesitation.  Thusly, I remain entrenched in my own personal hell where the brilliant sight of a Gold Tick always remains in the distance; teasing and taunting, I hear its siren song but know it can never truly be mine.

Here is a link for you to see a Gold Tick with your own eyes.  Look.  Look and see.  See what I've denied myself.  See what I've lost....

http://www.ebay.com/itm/The-Tick-Gold-Metallic-Bendable-Action-Figure-from-Gordy-Toy-Limited-2500-Made-/171310317197?pt=US_Action_Figures&hash=item27e2e3fe8d

I recently purchased the new Lacuna Coil album and listened to it while coming home from a brief trip wherein I decided the fates of no less than 5 people.  It can be truly said my first exposure to this band came from a woman who was living in a tee-pee in a park at the time and scarcely had more than a pair of shoes and a very expensive water purifier to her name.  I look back on her with fond, wistful sentiment.  I know now she is in a more economically stable point in her life.  But is it a better point?  That is the sort of question which keeps me up well into the blackest hours of the night. 

One thing in one of these paragraphs is a complete lie but I am far too much of a gentleman to specify.  Though if any of my followers have the guts to corner me on the street and stick a knife in my engorged belly I may have no choice but to elucidate. 

Did the world just explode?

The poodles never bothered me

The real problem is that almost no one truly knows what they want or what is good for them.  More government interference and control is necessary.  I would like to record a concept album extolling the virtues of increased government control.  There are too many distortions present in mass media today and I am constantly afraid of people I see on the streets, people who live near me. 

So many terrible truths revealed. 

I am forgetting the face of my father.  I am knowingly living in sin.  There are no deals which can be made and I will not allow myself to believe otherwise.  I have disappointed you and I repeatedly disobey and tarnish everything you have created.  I sometimes like to consider the first time you smiled upon me. 

Also, Ang Lee’s Hulk from 2003 with Eric Bana is light years better than Louie Leterrier’s The Incredible Hulk with Ed Norton from 2008.  I honestly challenge anyone and everyone in the entire world to watch both of these within a week and try and say with a straight face that The Incredible Hulk is a superior film.  In these days where superhero blockbusters run serious dangers of becoming nothing more than anonymous corporate chuff the original Hulk movie feels even more unique and more like a genuine artistic statement while the newer – and already more forgotten – film feels as weightless and sluggish as the worst of these movies.  The original was very much ahead of its time.  I will take all comers and welcome much discussion.  If need be I’ll devote 10,000 words to why I feel Lee’s film is greater. 

I see changes all around me, everything moving so much faster than before.  There is a wildfire coming for us.  Life has become like glass.  I cut myself and the skin does not heal as it did before and I do not know why.  They came into my room again last night and I screamed but I could not move and they took me with them. 

The dynamism and influence of Jack "King" Kirby’s work can never be overstated.  Kirby’s art is the exact opposite of my life: it is vital, beautiful and necessary. 

Can you feel my power?  I screamed this over and over again.  They all looked so terrified.  Sometimes I have moments where I forget who I am and sometimes I have moments where I become someone else.  There is such mutilation.  Why do I see these things?  There was a tiger looking at me last night as while I lay in bed.  I think it was a tiger.  I cry and my hands shake.  Someone is putting these things inside of me they are inside of me and they make my head hurt and my stomach hurt and they make awful things happen and I am so scared I do horrible disgusting things because of them and my body stains everything please let me go please don’t make me do this again please don’t come inside of me anymore I don’t know what to do no one believes me but they want to take me away to where they are from they have changed my body and my sex and I am something else and my face is burning. 

I must confess I have only ever read one comic strip of Mother Goose and Grimm but I find the art style to absolutely delightful and it makes me want to read all the thousands of strips which have been produced since its inception. Perhaps one day I will have the courage to do so.  The strip above is genius.  

I have seen you before.  It begins in the span of a few seconds.  I wonder how long it took for her to create the universe.   We travel across the dimensions and our trajectory marks out a line which divides them all.  You made a garment from the clouds and how it longed to finally cling to your body.  Are my desires so improper?  Is it ever supposed to be just one?  Where were you at the moment of my birth?  When I entered this world were you looking down upon me?  Were you smiling and did you hold me in your arms?  Was it your kiss which created everything beautiful inside of me?  Temptation is a wonder.  Our bodies are entwined and we dance to sweet music of angels.  There is harmony and bliss and I realize I have never known such splendor.  The morning stars heard her voice and all began to sing.  The children danced as my heart wept with joy.  Everything beginning again.   

Last night I purchased the James Bond movie Thunderball on blu-ray at a local conglomerate.  It has been years since I first viewed this feature film and I cannot remember anything other than the fantastic titular song by Tom Jones so I am not sure if I will even enjoy this film.  Still, something buried deep within compelled me to make the purchase, something big and mean and scary.  Speaking of which, many of the classic Godzilla movies – all iterations from the black-and-white original classic to the recent Millennium series – were released on blu-ray this Tuesday and I scooped up 5 of those films.  Godzilla movies make me so happy.  I am still cautiously optimistic about the new flick which opens next week.  I know I will be there opening day with my eyebrows shaved and sporting my Godzilla thong underwear.  I hope it does not disappoint.  So much of my life has been marked by disappointment.  That is why I so frequently imagine tying barbells to my legs and jumping into the river.  I enjoy the thought of looking up as I sink ever deeper in the murky depths and seeing the sun gradually eclipsed by an inescapable darkness.  I knew an old sailor once.  He told me he went overboard, tangled in the sails.  They pulled him out but it took him 5 minutes to cough.  He said it was like going home. 

When the mystery is over everyone dies. 

My compliments to the chef

Last week’s episode of Hannibal – entitled “Futamono” – has taken the place of “Sorbet” from Season 1 as my favorite episode of the series.  It was a perfect mix of elegant horror, beautiful gore, compelling and plausible character development, genuinely intriguing revelations and absurdist humor.  The last dinner scene in particular may be my favorite scene of the series thus far and showcased this blend of humor, horror and classicist sensibilities which fills me with joy.  I am still stunned by how cinematic this show is, top to bottom from the production design to the score to the photography it is a gorgeous thing to behold.  It is impossible to know how the quality of this program will change as time goes (if it lasts more than this season) and also impossible to know how my critical eye will view it years from now after all is said and done.  However at this moment I can say with certainty that Hannibal is one of the most artistic, beautiful and fully realized shows I have ever seen in my life.  I doff my hat to Bryan Fuller for his design and all actors involved – particularly the trio of Hugh Dancy, Mads Mikkelsen (swoon) and Lawrence Fishburne for their impeccable work.   

In the bedroom they lie next to each other.  Clay is naked with the sheets only partially covering him.  The only light coming into the room is what has leaked in from the part in the curtains.  He can see enough of himself to remember former feelings of shame when in this state.  He still does not prefer the lights to be on for this.  Janine still has her shirt on for some reason and she is lying on her stomach.  Her head is against the coverless pillow and her bleached hair has spilled across her face, somehow leaving one eye perfectly uncovered.  The sounds of the room include their breathing and faint music coming from laptop speakers. 

The scattered, almost incoherent pastiche feel of The Beatles’ White Album and gives my brain a comfortable tickle.  Sometimes when my day devolved into a pure pile of smelly shit I like to listen to “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da”, screaming the lyrics until it feels like my throat is going to tear apart and pounding my chest like King Kong.  This always makes me feel better.  What is especially is that the follow-up song is “Wild Honey Pie” which makes me want to slit my wrists in a vertical fashion and then and then try to eat a tall stack of pancakes with its awesomeness.  Pancakes are my life.  Though I do truly love The White Album I think I prefer that feel just a little more from Trout Mask Replica by Captain Beefheart.  I strongly encourage fans of either album (but not necessarily artist) to check out the other.   

It’s become detrimental to other people in the neighborhood. Losing penance because these particular remnants cannot sing a song.  Back alley glove compartment is looking for false allegations.  A beach dwelling super gang with futuristic weapons from another world is working with the glove compartment. When I get all cohorts back, we will be germinating these cognacs. 

Everything stems from successful communication and it is my honor and privilege to be a part of this ever expanding field. I hope that one day I can use my experiences and opportunities to further advance this and contribute to a stronger, more aware society.

My sophomore year of college, I decided to take a class about Hispanic culture. It was in an effort to learn more about myself and my history, but the experience turned into something much more.  It tore a hole in our universe.  I feel so scared when the voices from there start to speak to me.  I start to cry and I hide under a table and I close my eyes and I pray she will come to protect me.  Why can’t everybody just leave me alone?! I want to start the play off with talk about steak, then segue to talk about women, racism, and politics; this play is about an application transaction and the many foibles of love’s unedifying spirit.  It is also about the time I rode my 59 speed dirt bike to the top of the mountain, looked down and realized everything I thought existed was actually an elaborate hoax perpetrated by cabals of government agents who wore slick black suits and whose speech patterns were slash are replete with outdated slang.  They are everything.  

Once I thought my dreams were dead so I baked them in a loaf of bread.  I owe that mistake to none other than gubernatorial candidate and fresh faced filmmaker Steven Spielberg.  Sometimes I laugh so hard my brain actually liquefies and stains my hand woven argyle socks which were made by strange little in faraway places.  Of course he would ask me what it is all for when we can alter biology and I would only repeat the same line over and over again until we were both beating each other with newly purchased spaghetti strainers.  I’ve become so buff these past thousand weeks or so, I can’t believe how jacked I am, my muscles are so large they take up the spacial equivalent of the majestic Yorkshire blue whale (boilerplate boilerplate).

There used to be so many words and they flowed so freely.  I have taken a trip to a dark and promising past and I have wept uncontrollably for a darker and meaningless present.  Where has he gone?  I don’t think I will ever see him again.    It is no secret that people who are at younger age, younger meaning when they are coming into their own physically during their formative years, are better suited to produce children.  After all there is a reason those years between a person being a teenager and going into their twenties are referred to as their “physical prime”.  My sweet Pearl, where did you go?  Are you happy now?  Do you remember what I made for you during those long, hot nights where I thought of nothing more than you and I?  How brief the encounter.  I have never been able to keep anything for very long.  I can feel myself starting to slip away little by little.  My mind is no longer my own.  My life never was. I ran out of excuses a long time ago. 

My caloric intake seems to be in the safe range with respect to DRIs but I do have a problem with binging on the weekends and then the numbers increase to unsafe levels. Obviously, I have more free time on weekends so I need to concentrate on other things rather than excessive eating. Additionally my nutrient intake is about half good, half bad. I am often low on fiber and most of the vitamins. I know this is because my diet is severely lacking in fruits and vegetables so those are things I need to make a strong effort to incorporate more into my eating habits.  Sometimes I even put on a chicken and run around my living room screaming out profanity laced rants against psychotic left wing extremists who want to turn the country into a pink land of unshaved faces and hip t-shirt slogans.  Every single night I realize how alone I truly am.  I scream every day and every night and no one hears and my face is starting to fall off and I feel anxious and frightened all the time and I don’t think I know what anything means anymore.   

Only Leonard’s Concrete can make support this sexy.