Summer came around again and I decided to rent an apartment and stay in Lincoln. I finally made more than one friend and had something to do with my free time, and the homesickness for Bridgeport was gone, never to return. I found a junky little basement apartment that was relatively cheap. It was ugly as fuck, I had no furniture except for a three-legged chair and an air mattress, the bathroom had no door, but it was my first apartment, and I loved it. I needed a job. My parents were helping out with the rent until I found a job and my "walking around money," as Ray Smuckles calls it, was zero. I tried hard to find a job. I scoured the want ads, filled out dozens of applications, dropped them off, and sat around the apartment, waiting. The phone did not ring. I repeated the process. The phone did not ring. I repeated the process. The phone did not ring. I repeated the process. The phone did not ring. I repeated the process. The phone did not ring. Will I get tired of typing the same two sentences before you get tired of reading them? Answers in next week's USA Weekend. Was I that unemployable? I was having the worst luck of my life, to date, in finding a job. My parents were getting tired of covering my ass, and I was tired of getting my ass covered (though I have no current problems with receiving handouts. If you'd like to chip in, leave your e-mail address in comment form under this post. I will get back to you about receiving the handout. Thanks in advance.). Desperation led me, once again, to telemarketing. But don't worry, everybody. Dry your beautiful eyes. This would prove to be the shortest rest stop on the trail of tears that is my resume. I worked for this telemarketing "outfit," as my father refers to every business, for a whopping three days. Three days of pain, misery, and degradation that made the Vietnam War look like a blowjob and a refreshing glass of cider. (At least for me. Vietnam was extraordinarily easy for me, due to the withdrawal of U.S. troops four years before my birth. Thanks, America. You're alright.) The advertisement for the job taunted me for about a month. I knew it would be easy to get. My financial woes and freeloading could end, and I could buy books and CDs again. But I would have to put the enormous veiny swollen member of phone sales back in my mouth and swallow its bitter issue. After two and a half months of unsuccessfully looking for a job, I got on my knees. (Why is this post so phallocentric? Could it be the surplus of vodka in the apartment, rendering all dick jokes hilarious? Answers in next week's "Cheers and Jeers" in TV Guide. Prediction: jeers.) I drove to the building's location. It was a strip mall in a part of town I'd never been to before. This part of town was hideous. I saw lots of children in the neighborhood, and they were all phenomenally ugly. This sentence should mean something, because I think most small children are cute and adorable and refreshingly honest and spontaneous and all that other bullshit. These kids were monstrosities, however, born from some colossal mutation in a genetic code apparently confined to a single zip code. The other businesses in the strip mall included a sporting goods store, a toy store, and a bail bondsman. They hired me without an interview and told me to start right away. The office had lots of empty carboard boxes stacked around the very small room. This should have been a sign. What kind of a sign, I don't know, but lots of empty boxes scattered haphazardly around a room sends me some kind of signal. My interpretation: Your paycheck will bounce. Run away. Fast. My boss had a mustache. (Another boss with a mustache or goatee? What the fuck? This would be the final occurrence of that particular coincidence. All my future bosses were either fully bearded, clean-shaven, or women.) I was given a script and told to sit at the only empty phone. The other three phones were occupied. Yeah, that's right. Three phones out of four. For a job that had been advertised for a month before I applied. My stomach dropped. At least I was selling something that didn't make me feel like a worm: tickets for a charity dinner for the fire department. This also seemed odd, however. The dinner was a month away, but the job was advertised as an ongoing, permanent type of gig. What else did they sell? I was never told.
I remember very little about two of the other three telemarketers, except that they were middle-aged women who kept to themselves. The third guy, however, was a titanic asshole. He looked like he was maybe ten years older than me, and he had a mullet. I bring this up reluctantly and feel it's important as a means of physical description, but, please, can we think up another word for "mullet" and stop laughing about it? The word "mullet" got to the "show me the money" stage at least two years ago, and is more nauseating each day. People lacking in wit, timing, humanity, and interest throw the word around constantly, hoping for a quick, empty, undeserved laugh from their peers. The word is boring. The jokes are boring. Move on to something else. (I suggest dick and fart jokes. Timeless, baby, timeless.) Anyway, this guy hit my shitlist the second the first night's shift ended. He leaned over to me, and said, in a silky radio-friendly voice that completely contradicted his redneck metalhead look, "Hey, Josh. Listen, Josh, you're doing real good, but just a quick word of advice. Josh, you need to just slow down a little bit. You're coming at 'em just a little bit fast, Josh." First of all, anybody who doesn't know you intimately and uses your first name liberally is a complete piece of shit as a human being and is only out to sell you something, abuse you, steal your identity, and/or attempt to control your life. Stay away from these people. Secondly, he was not a manager or a boss. He was a fellow co-worker. Maybe I was reading the spiel a little too rapidly. Maybe he was right. Let's assume everything he said was right on, down to the four references to me by my first name. He's still a cocksucker who needs to have his face beaten into pulp by a steel pipe. The next two days were the same. The morning before my fourth shift, I got a call from a grocery store I had interviewed with a week earlier. They offered me a job, starting whenever I wanted. I quit the telemarketing place over the phone via answering machine message, the only time in my life I've dropped anyone or anything over the phone. They retaliated by never sending my paycheck. I called back several times. No answer. I finally got through. They told me they sent the check and that I should have it within the week. I never got it. I drove down there, to pick it up in person. The boss' wife gave it to me. It was already addressed. They'd never mailed it. I cashed it immediately. Amazingly, it didn't bounce. No more telemarketing for me.
I watched these movies last week:
Fast Company (David Cronenberg) The DVD also had Cronenberg's two early shorts, Stereo and Crimes of the Future, on it. These are probably the three weakest Cronenberg films, the first one because it has none of the themes that dominate the rest of his work and because it's kind of a silly, exploitation script, the latter two because they're early, naive, and pretentious attempts at what he would perfect later, but all three are full of interesting shots and ideas and are worth your time if you're as fanatical about his films as I am.
The Disenchanted (Benoit Jacquot)
Treasure of the Sierra Madre (John Huston)
Palombella Rossa (Nanni Moretti)
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Working for the weekend: Job 5
My incredibly sexy days of burger-flipping behind me, I was back at school with not enough disposable income and lots of music I wanted to buy. I saw an ad in the college newspaper for a telemarketing job. It paid fairly well for a shit job and I got to set my own hours. I decided to apply. I had no idea what kind of degradation awaited me.
The telemarketing company's offices were in a large, cavernous building full of escalators, rental space, and other businesses' offices. The building smelled like rubber. I don't know why. It was always kind of dark until you reached your destination. I don't know if the building's owner was trying to lower his electricity bill or what, but the only comfortably lit areas were the occupied offices. I had to ride the escalator up to the second floor, get on another escalator, ride that to the third floor, then go through three pairs of glass doors and a reception area, then another glass door, to get to my workstation. That's a long time to think about how shitty the next few hours were going to be before you even got to the place that was going to make those hours shitty. I felt like I was willingly walking into an ambush. "Just turn around and go home," my inside voice told me every time I stepped into the building.
Guess what I sold over the phone? NASCAR videotapes. I could make a lot of easy jokes about the people who watch NASCAR, the people I sold these videotapes to, but I'm sure you've heard it all before. Anyway, I hate to make sweeping generalizations. Okay, I'll do it anyway. The average NASCAR fan is a moron. Also, most of the people I called were drunk or had already purchased the videotapes and complained about how shoddy they were.
The telemarketing company (whose name I can't even remember) supplied us with helpful cheat sheets so we could lie convincingly to the customer. These sheets had the name of every NASCAR driver, his number, his nickname, and his hometown. We were to use these sheets as follows:
Me: Hi, I'm calling you to sell you this terrible fucking NASCAR videotape. I hear it's a real piece of shit. You're a jackass who has previously purchased other terrible items from us. Please overpay us now. You will get your shitty video sometime in the next 78 weeks.
Sucker: Well, it sure sounds good, but I don't know...
Me: It's got the NASCAR seal of approval. Say, who's your favorite driver?
Sucker: There's only one driver in NASCAR as far as I'm concerned, and that's Dickless Todd McGinty.
Me, looking furiously through my notes for McGinty's information: Yeah! Dickless Todd! "The Sodomizer"! Number 48! Alright, you and me are on the same page. He's my favorite, too! Watching the race on Sunday?
Sucker: Hell, yeah. I'll take 25 tapes.
There were many things to hate about this job:
1) Talking on the phone for hours is not really my bag.
2) Selling things is also not really my bag.
3) NASCAR, in addition, is not one of my passions.
4) The turnover rate was so high that anyone who lasted a few months got promoted to manager, or "team leader" in the asshole vernacular common in demeaning work, if they wanted the promotion. Team leaders were unbearable creeps. They were super-extroverts, loud, obnoxious, prone to yelling things like "Come on, team. Let's sell!" If you sold a lot of the worthless garbage, incentives were offered. These incentives were supposed to make things fun! and exciting! and improve office morale, while bringing us together as a team. Anyone who tells you things like these deserves to be stabbed in both eyeballs and set on fire. Incentives were often an extra five dollars for the shift, getting an extra break, shooting Nerf basketball for ten minutes every hour, candy bars, Cokes, etc. One team leader didn't grasp the concept. Her incentives were shit. One of them was a chance to contribute to a list of the top ten reasons why she was a ditz, pasted on the bulletin board. Another incentive was an opportunity to work an hour of overtime. What the hell was wrong with her?
5) They were convinced that when we sold a lot of product, we had discovered some magic new technique. They would hover around us and ask us lots of questions about what we were doing and why we thought it was so successful. Then, they would make us stay late and keep selling. We got overtime, but I've never really given a shit about overtime. I figure that when I work later than my schedule dictates, you're stealing valuable living time from me that I will never get back. On the flipside, when we had a slow night, they seemed to think we were purposefully fucking with them. This was usually followed by a lecture and a disgusted look. If we were really having a slow night, we would get sent home early. They didn't dock our pay, though, so I've never figured out how this was supposed to make us feel bad. Send me home early every night, jerks. Idiots.
6) The big boss man looked like he was in his early thirties, with short brown hair and a goatee. Every day, he walked around the floor a few times, looked at us with contempt, and walked back into his office. The whole time I worked there, I only saw him wear four things: a dark suit, a brown sweater, a white t-shirt with an elephant on it that said "Bob Dole for President," and a white t-shirt with an elephant on it that said "Nebraska Republican Party." Both elephants were starred and striped.
My last day on the job came as a surprise to me. I wasn't planning on quitting. I was bored, selling useless NASCAR shit as usual, when an announcement was made. We were done selling NASCAR videos. We had a new client, and here were our new scripts. Now, we were promoting the Republican Party and calling random homes, urging them to vote for the Republican Party candidates. I am a lot of things, not all of them good, but I am definitely not a member of the Republican Party. I didn't feel comfortable shilling for them for pay, and I was pissed off that they didn't ask if we had any objections and hadn't told us during the job interview that we might be shilling for a political party. I sat there for a minute, wondering what the hell to do. I called several numbers, and got yelled at by a lot of people who shared my political leanings. I distinctly remember one man yelling, "You're a worthless cocksucker." "He's right," I thought to myself. "I'm definitely sucking Republican cock if I keep making these calls." I got up and left. No one noticed (there were a lot of people working there). The next day, I didn't come to work. They called several hours after I was supposed to be there, asking me why I didn't show up. "I quit," I said. They didn't sound surprised. Not even slightly. About 15 people quit working there every single day.
Telemarketing sucks.
I watched these movies last week:
The Leopard (Luchino Visconti)
Gang of Four (Jacques Rivette)
Yaaba (Idrissa Ouedraogo)
Lost and Found Video Night, Vol. 2 (various)
The telemarketing company's offices were in a large, cavernous building full of escalators, rental space, and other businesses' offices. The building smelled like rubber. I don't know why. It was always kind of dark until you reached your destination. I don't know if the building's owner was trying to lower his electricity bill or what, but the only comfortably lit areas were the occupied offices. I had to ride the escalator up to the second floor, get on another escalator, ride that to the third floor, then go through three pairs of glass doors and a reception area, then another glass door, to get to my workstation. That's a long time to think about how shitty the next few hours were going to be before you even got to the place that was going to make those hours shitty. I felt like I was willingly walking into an ambush. "Just turn around and go home," my inside voice told me every time I stepped into the building.
Guess what I sold over the phone? NASCAR videotapes. I could make a lot of easy jokes about the people who watch NASCAR, the people I sold these videotapes to, but I'm sure you've heard it all before. Anyway, I hate to make sweeping generalizations. Okay, I'll do it anyway. The average NASCAR fan is a moron. Also, most of the people I called were drunk or had already purchased the videotapes and complained about how shoddy they were.
The telemarketing company (whose name I can't even remember) supplied us with helpful cheat sheets so we could lie convincingly to the customer. These sheets had the name of every NASCAR driver, his number, his nickname, and his hometown. We were to use these sheets as follows:
Me: Hi, I'm calling you to sell you this terrible fucking NASCAR videotape. I hear it's a real piece of shit. You're a jackass who has previously purchased other terrible items from us. Please overpay us now. You will get your shitty video sometime in the next 78 weeks.
Sucker: Well, it sure sounds good, but I don't know...
Me: It's got the NASCAR seal of approval. Say, who's your favorite driver?
Sucker: There's only one driver in NASCAR as far as I'm concerned, and that's Dickless Todd McGinty.
Me, looking furiously through my notes for McGinty's information: Yeah! Dickless Todd! "The Sodomizer"! Number 48! Alright, you and me are on the same page. He's my favorite, too! Watching the race on Sunday?
Sucker: Hell, yeah. I'll take 25 tapes.
There were many things to hate about this job:
1) Talking on the phone for hours is not really my bag.
2) Selling things is also not really my bag.
3) NASCAR, in addition, is not one of my passions.
4) The turnover rate was so high that anyone who lasted a few months got promoted to manager, or "team leader" in the asshole vernacular common in demeaning work, if they wanted the promotion. Team leaders were unbearable creeps. They were super-extroverts, loud, obnoxious, prone to yelling things like "Come on, team. Let's sell!" If you sold a lot of the worthless garbage, incentives were offered. These incentives were supposed to make things fun! and exciting! and improve office morale, while bringing us together as a team. Anyone who tells you things like these deserves to be stabbed in both eyeballs and set on fire. Incentives were often an extra five dollars for the shift, getting an extra break, shooting Nerf basketball for ten minutes every hour, candy bars, Cokes, etc. One team leader didn't grasp the concept. Her incentives were shit. One of them was a chance to contribute to a list of the top ten reasons why she was a ditz, pasted on the bulletin board. Another incentive was an opportunity to work an hour of overtime. What the hell was wrong with her?
5) They were convinced that when we sold a lot of product, we had discovered some magic new technique. They would hover around us and ask us lots of questions about what we were doing and why we thought it was so successful. Then, they would make us stay late and keep selling. We got overtime, but I've never really given a shit about overtime. I figure that when I work later than my schedule dictates, you're stealing valuable living time from me that I will never get back. On the flipside, when we had a slow night, they seemed to think we were purposefully fucking with them. This was usually followed by a lecture and a disgusted look. If we were really having a slow night, we would get sent home early. They didn't dock our pay, though, so I've never figured out how this was supposed to make us feel bad. Send me home early every night, jerks. Idiots.
6) The big boss man looked like he was in his early thirties, with short brown hair and a goatee. Every day, he walked around the floor a few times, looked at us with contempt, and walked back into his office. The whole time I worked there, I only saw him wear four things: a dark suit, a brown sweater, a white t-shirt with an elephant on it that said "Bob Dole for President," and a white t-shirt with an elephant on it that said "Nebraska Republican Party." Both elephants were starred and striped.
My last day on the job came as a surprise to me. I wasn't planning on quitting. I was bored, selling useless NASCAR shit as usual, when an announcement was made. We were done selling NASCAR videos. We had a new client, and here were our new scripts. Now, we were promoting the Republican Party and calling random homes, urging them to vote for the Republican Party candidates. I am a lot of things, not all of them good, but I am definitely not a member of the Republican Party. I didn't feel comfortable shilling for them for pay, and I was pissed off that they didn't ask if we had any objections and hadn't told us during the job interview that we might be shilling for a political party. I sat there for a minute, wondering what the hell to do. I called several numbers, and got yelled at by a lot of people who shared my political leanings. I distinctly remember one man yelling, "You're a worthless cocksucker." "He's right," I thought to myself. "I'm definitely sucking Republican cock if I keep making these calls." I got up and left. No one noticed (there were a lot of people working there). The next day, I didn't come to work. They called several hours after I was supposed to be there, asking me why I didn't show up. "I quit," I said. They didn't sound surprised. Not even slightly. About 15 people quit working there every single day.
Telemarketing sucks.
I watched these movies last week:
The Leopard (Luchino Visconti)
Gang of Four (Jacques Rivette)
Yaaba (Idrissa Ouedraogo)
Lost and Found Video Night, Vol. 2 (various)
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Ice vs. Fire
I was looking at craigslist today, seeing if any exciting job opportunities had been posted, and I stumbled across this beauty: http://austin.craigslist.org/tlg/58508127.html
Please click on it and read it.
I decided I had to reply. Here is my reply (please read craigslist posting first):
So, ICE-MAN,
You believe your rather large inheritance will be enough to produce a formidable ice-army filled with cold-blooded ice-sidekicks. To this I reply, what an ice-joke! You see, I have also recently inherited an incredible fortune, from not one, but 12, deceased and massively wealthy forebears. They died in suspicious circumstances while attending the Super Bowl halftime show, but that is neither here nor there. The purpose of this missive is to challenge you, once you assemble your team of ice-warriors, to a dangerous and ridiculous extreme battle challenge in the park near my apartment. If you accept this challenge, I will reveal the park's location in an e-mail sent at midnight on the next full moon. Oh yes, ice-nuts, here's something else you should know. My group of sidekicks likes to play with ... fire! I am known as The Inferno, and my fiery group of playmates includes such worthy fighters as Fireball McGee, Hot Pants Mendoza, Matchstick, Firecracker Tony, The Electric Blanket, Chinese Firedrill, Spicy Meatball Visconti, the indie-rock band Hot Hot Heat, The Roman Candle, Burner Left On Too Long Wilson, and Huge Motherfucking Explosion. Do you accept the challenge? Are you and your sidekicks ice-cold enough to put out this fire? Bring the freeze, my friend, and we'll bring the heat. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! I look forward to your retort. Have a pleasant Valentine's Day.
The Inferno
I sure hope he replies.
Please click on it and read it.
I decided I had to reply. Here is my reply (please read craigslist posting first):
So, ICE-MAN,
You believe your rather large inheritance will be enough to produce a formidable ice-army filled with cold-blooded ice-sidekicks. To this I reply, what an ice-joke! You see, I have also recently inherited an incredible fortune, from not one, but 12, deceased and massively wealthy forebears. They died in suspicious circumstances while attending the Super Bowl halftime show, but that is neither here nor there. The purpose of this missive is to challenge you, once you assemble your team of ice-warriors, to a dangerous and ridiculous extreme battle challenge in the park near my apartment. If you accept this challenge, I will reveal the park's location in an e-mail sent at midnight on the next full moon. Oh yes, ice-nuts, here's something else you should know. My group of sidekicks likes to play with ... fire! I am known as The Inferno, and my fiery group of playmates includes such worthy fighters as Fireball McGee, Hot Pants Mendoza, Matchstick, Firecracker Tony, The Electric Blanket, Chinese Firedrill, Spicy Meatball Visconti, the indie-rock band Hot Hot Heat, The Roman Candle, Burner Left On Too Long Wilson, and Huge Motherfucking Explosion. Do you accept the challenge? Are you and your sidekicks ice-cold enough to put out this fire? Bring the freeze, my friend, and we'll bring the heat. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! I look forward to your retort. Have a pleasant Valentine's Day.
The Inferno
I sure hope he replies.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
What sucks worse? Having a job or not having one?
I started the job search this week. Still haven't decided whether to go to grad school or not, but I'm going to have to get a job either way. My life is kind of directionless and fucked up at the moment, but I'm definitely glad to be free of my last job. Regardless, looking for a job sucks. Will I ever be able to have a job that doesn't crush my zest for life? No, probably not. Could I use the word "job" more times in one post? Yes, but I certainly did use it too much. I watched some movies recently. I don't feel like writing about them, so I'm going to give them a numerical rating based on a scale of 1 to 10.
On video:
I watched Wetherby (David Hare) three weeks ago, but I forgot to mention it. 7.0
The Adventures of Robin Hood (Michael Curtiz, William Keighley) 7.9
Little Vera (Vasili Pichul) 7.0
Day of the Dead (George A. Romero) 8.5
Black Rain (Shohei Imamura) 8.0
On the big screen:
Vera Drake (Mike Leigh) 9.0
Million Dollar Baby (Clint Eastwood) 9.5
Currently reading: Banvard's Folly by Paul Collins
I really like this book, but I've got to admit something. I talk a lot of shit about the McSweeney's writers, most recently on this blog, but this guy is one of those McSweeney's writers. That's tantamount to me saying I really liked an album on the Saddle Creek label (my other arch-nemesis). Collins' book is a little different, though. It's historical nonfiction, for one thing, and it's direct and passionate instead of clever and ironic. Dave Eggers has a couple of blurbs on the book, he supplied the cover art, and he was the first publisher to take any interest in Collins' book (the first two chapters appeared in McSweeney's after getting rejected elsewhere), so I suppose I have to give Eggers a little credit for helping to make this book possible. However, one of Eggers' two blurbs about the book illustrates exactly why he nauseates me so much. Check this out:
"If you read (Collins') sublimely odd, frequently funny, and better yet, thrillingly factual book I will softly pet your furry pets, though my skin says I am allergic."
What a douchebag.
On video:
I watched Wetherby (David Hare) three weeks ago, but I forgot to mention it. 7.0
The Adventures of Robin Hood (Michael Curtiz, William Keighley) 7.9
Little Vera (Vasili Pichul) 7.0
Day of the Dead (George A. Romero) 8.5
Black Rain (Shohei Imamura) 8.0
On the big screen:
Vera Drake (Mike Leigh) 9.0
Million Dollar Baby (Clint Eastwood) 9.5
Currently reading: Banvard's Folly by Paul Collins
I really like this book, but I've got to admit something. I talk a lot of shit about the McSweeney's writers, most recently on this blog, but this guy is one of those McSweeney's writers. That's tantamount to me saying I really liked an album on the Saddle Creek label (my other arch-nemesis). Collins' book is a little different, though. It's historical nonfiction, for one thing, and it's direct and passionate instead of clever and ironic. Dave Eggers has a couple of blurbs on the book, he supplied the cover art, and he was the first publisher to take any interest in Collins' book (the first two chapters appeared in McSweeney's after getting rejected elsewhere), so I suppose I have to give Eggers a little credit for helping to make this book possible. However, one of Eggers' two blurbs about the book illustrates exactly why he nauseates me so much. Check this out:
"If you read (Collins') sublimely odd, frequently funny, and better yet, thrillingly factual book I will softly pet your furry pets, though my skin says I am allergic."
What a douchebag.
Friday, January 28, 2005
Working for the weekend: Job 4
I quit working at the grocery store a few weeks before I started college on the other side of the state in Lincoln at the University of Nebraska. I saved half of each paycheck to help pay for college, and I had enough to cover a big chunk of the first year. My parents chipped in the rest. I decided not to find a job that first year, but it didn't seem to make things any easier. While I eventually grew to love Lincoln, my first year and a half of school may have been the most miserable period in my life. I got stuck in a shitty dorm with a roommate I hated, my classes were complete wastes of time, I had nothing to do on the weekends, and I only made one good friend the entire year. I was kind of numb about it, shocked. It seemed like some kind of cruel prank. College was supposed to be right up my alley. I hated high school. I hated living in the small town. I wanted something to finally happen for once. College was where things happened. I would have nothing but exciting, unusual experiences for the next four to five years. I was an idiot. Exciting, unusual experiences weren't even happening to the people on my television. I had been lied to. College was a dreary grind just like everything else. When the year was done, I decided to go back home for the summer instead of staying in Lincoln. Most of my high school friends were coming back to town and I was homesick for my room, my family, and something to do on Friday and Saturday nights. Driving country back roads after finding someone to buy us a case of beer and talking the same shit we did the year before (in a slightly more deflated way) was still superior to sitting in a small white room, wishing I knew some people to hang out with. (My college years got a lot better about halfway through my sophomore year, almost living up to the hype, so it's not such a tragic story. Oh, woe is me. I can't find someone to hang out with. This is worse than ten tsunamis and Vietnam combined.) It turned out to be a pretty decent summer, and would be the last time I hung out with my high school friends for any extended period of time, but I did manage to snag another lousy job.
Job #4, aka Shitty Job #2: A friend of my uncle's bought a Hardee's franchise that was set to open about a month after I got back to town. It would be the first fast food restaurant chain in my hometown's history (there are now two). I let him know I needed a job, and before I knew it, I was working (temporarily, thank God) in the high-stakes world of fast food. Since the store wouldn't open for another month, I spent that first month training at the Hardee's in nearby Scottsbluff and cleaning dust and debris and unloading equipment at the recently built house of greasy burger filth in Bridgeport. I didn't mind the cleaning and unloading, but I hated the training in Scottsbluff. I had to get up at 5 a.m. and carpool 38 miles away with my boss and the two managers, one a likeable middle-aged lady who liked to drink, tell dirty jokes, and listen to classic rock, the other a worthless redneck bitch who was two years older than me and hated me because I was in college. She was already married to another worthless redneck, who apparently told her what to think about everything, judging from her conversation during the drives ("My husband says Rush Limbaugh's about the only one you can trust to get your news," "My husband says there's too many people on welfare and we need to stop supporting other people too lazy to work with our tax dollars," "My husband says we ought to throw all the fags out of this country," "My husband says blah blah ad nauseaum on and on etc.") Once we got to Scottsbluff, it didn't get much better. The owner of the Scottsbluff franchise was into fast food. Big time. He was PASSIONATE about fast food, the way Hank Hill is passionate about propane. He was an extremely short man with dark black hair, glasses, and a mustache, and was something of a philosopher, pontificating on the intangibles and unknowns of the fast food business while gazing wistfully into the distance. I remember one day when we were asking about the lunchtime rush and how much food to prepare in advance, he stroked his chin and looked out the window meaningfully. (I'm not making this up. He actually did this.)
"Well," he said. "Every day the lunch rush is a little different. I've been working in fast food for 23 years and have a pretty good idea about what kind of a crowd to expect at lunchtime. Still, some days we end up with too much food, and other days we don't make enough. If I could figure out exactly how many burgers to make on any given day, I'd be a rich man."
It took a mighty act of God, or maybe just a conscience strained to its breaking point, to keep me from laughing in the poor man's face.
One month later, we were officially open, and I had my duty. I grilled burgers in the kitchen. All day. That's pretty much all I did. It was the best place to be, as far as I was concerned. The people I liked the best (the employees consisted mostly of high school kids and adults fallen on hard times) worked in the kitchen, I didn't have to deal with the public, and no customers could see the grill or more importantly me in my embarrassing, uncomfortable uniform.
Here are some things that sucked about the job:
The uniform: I mentioned this already. It does not need elaboration.
The redneck: I mentioned her already. I forgot to mention her favorite catchphrase, uttered several hundred times a day while she encouraged us to make about a million more burgers than we needed to: "Come on. These people are hungry. They want their food fast." I really hope this woman is dead now.
The Hardee's corporate men: Since our store was brand spankin' new, two corporate representatives of Hardees, Inc. observed and mentored us in the first couple of weeks of business. These guys were a couple of assclowns. One was a chain-smoking, effeminate, Southern dandy whose tongue lolled around in his mouth when he talked and whose head wobbled precariously on his oversized neck when he moved. The other was a chain-smoking, salt and pepper-mustachioed, overly gregarious car salesman type who pretended to be our friend but could barely contain his seething contempt for us, the job, himself, and life.
Getting up at 4 a.m. when you were unlucky enough to pull a breakfast shift: Sucked.
Smelling like grease every day: Sucked as well.
Cleaning the grill: Super-sucked.
The revolting and highly immoral waste of perfectly edible food: They had a rule about how long a burger could sit in the queue, uh, shelf, erm, bin? (What's the word I'm looking for here?) It wasn't very long. We threw away maybe 40-50 sandwiches a day. By the third day, it made me despise myself.
Good things about it:
Seeing the results of my work: I had some raw meat. I grilled it. It was cooked. Results, baby, results.
Making fun of the people working up front: The kitchen staff had contempt for the register staff. We invented a fake gang war, calling ourselves "East Side," and them "West Side." The boss found out and made us stop, saying that though he understood it was a joke, the entire Hardee's organization is a team and divisions between areas are unacceptable.
You know how people see Jesus' image in pancakes, etc.: One night after closing, I was cleaning the grill. I poured the cleaning solution on the hot grill and it formed a perfect likeness of Abraham Lincoln, as seen from the side. Oh my god, that's Honest Abe, I said to myself. A co-worker walked by. "Oh my god, that's Abraham Lincoln!" he shouted. Then the cleaning solution trickled across the grill, ruining the miracle. Nobody believed us. I still wonder what Abe was trying to tell me.
Torturing pickles: The grill was set up in an unusual way. There was a normal grill, which you placed the patty on, but there was also another hot grill surface called a platen that you lowered on top of the grill to cook both sides of the burger at once. One night we were bored and started throwing vegetables in there to see what would happen. Nothing much happened until we tried a pickle. Once the platen was lowered on the pickle, the pickle emitted a high-pitched shrieking noise, similar in tone to a screaming human. Hundreds of pickles lost their lives before the gag got old.
I would have to return to college to find an even more demeaning job, but that's Part 5.
Job #4, aka Shitty Job #2: A friend of my uncle's bought a Hardee's franchise that was set to open about a month after I got back to town. It would be the first fast food restaurant chain in my hometown's history (there are now two). I let him know I needed a job, and before I knew it, I was working (temporarily, thank God) in the high-stakes world of fast food. Since the store wouldn't open for another month, I spent that first month training at the Hardee's in nearby Scottsbluff and cleaning dust and debris and unloading equipment at the recently built house of greasy burger filth in Bridgeport. I didn't mind the cleaning and unloading, but I hated the training in Scottsbluff. I had to get up at 5 a.m. and carpool 38 miles away with my boss and the two managers, one a likeable middle-aged lady who liked to drink, tell dirty jokes, and listen to classic rock, the other a worthless redneck bitch who was two years older than me and hated me because I was in college. She was already married to another worthless redneck, who apparently told her what to think about everything, judging from her conversation during the drives ("My husband says Rush Limbaugh's about the only one you can trust to get your news," "My husband says there's too many people on welfare and we need to stop supporting other people too lazy to work with our tax dollars," "My husband says we ought to throw all the fags out of this country," "My husband says blah blah ad nauseaum on and on etc.") Once we got to Scottsbluff, it didn't get much better. The owner of the Scottsbluff franchise was into fast food. Big time. He was PASSIONATE about fast food, the way Hank Hill is passionate about propane. He was an extremely short man with dark black hair, glasses, and a mustache, and was something of a philosopher, pontificating on the intangibles and unknowns of the fast food business while gazing wistfully into the distance. I remember one day when we were asking about the lunchtime rush and how much food to prepare in advance, he stroked his chin and looked out the window meaningfully. (I'm not making this up. He actually did this.)
"Well," he said. "Every day the lunch rush is a little different. I've been working in fast food for 23 years and have a pretty good idea about what kind of a crowd to expect at lunchtime. Still, some days we end up with too much food, and other days we don't make enough. If I could figure out exactly how many burgers to make on any given day, I'd be a rich man."
It took a mighty act of God, or maybe just a conscience strained to its breaking point, to keep me from laughing in the poor man's face.
One month later, we were officially open, and I had my duty. I grilled burgers in the kitchen. All day. That's pretty much all I did. It was the best place to be, as far as I was concerned. The people I liked the best (the employees consisted mostly of high school kids and adults fallen on hard times) worked in the kitchen, I didn't have to deal with the public, and no customers could see the grill or more importantly me in my embarrassing, uncomfortable uniform.
Here are some things that sucked about the job:
The uniform: I mentioned this already. It does not need elaboration.
The redneck: I mentioned her already. I forgot to mention her favorite catchphrase, uttered several hundred times a day while she encouraged us to make about a million more burgers than we needed to: "Come on. These people are hungry. They want their food fast." I really hope this woman is dead now.
The Hardee's corporate men: Since our store was brand spankin' new, two corporate representatives of Hardees, Inc. observed and mentored us in the first couple of weeks of business. These guys were a couple of assclowns. One was a chain-smoking, effeminate, Southern dandy whose tongue lolled around in his mouth when he talked and whose head wobbled precariously on his oversized neck when he moved. The other was a chain-smoking, salt and pepper-mustachioed, overly gregarious car salesman type who pretended to be our friend but could barely contain his seething contempt for us, the job, himself, and life.
Getting up at 4 a.m. when you were unlucky enough to pull a breakfast shift: Sucked.
Smelling like grease every day: Sucked as well.
Cleaning the grill: Super-sucked.
The revolting and highly immoral waste of perfectly edible food: They had a rule about how long a burger could sit in the queue, uh, shelf, erm, bin? (What's the word I'm looking for here?) It wasn't very long. We threw away maybe 40-50 sandwiches a day. By the third day, it made me despise myself.
Good things about it:
Seeing the results of my work: I had some raw meat. I grilled it. It was cooked. Results, baby, results.
Making fun of the people working up front: The kitchen staff had contempt for the register staff. We invented a fake gang war, calling ourselves "East Side," and them "West Side." The boss found out and made us stop, saying that though he understood it was a joke, the entire Hardee's organization is a team and divisions between areas are unacceptable.
You know how people see Jesus' image in pancakes, etc.: One night after closing, I was cleaning the grill. I poured the cleaning solution on the hot grill and it formed a perfect likeness of Abraham Lincoln, as seen from the side. Oh my god, that's Honest Abe, I said to myself. A co-worker walked by. "Oh my god, that's Abraham Lincoln!" he shouted. Then the cleaning solution trickled across the grill, ruining the miracle. Nobody believed us. I still wonder what Abe was trying to tell me.
Torturing pickles: The grill was set up in an unusual way. There was a normal grill, which you placed the patty on, but there was also another hot grill surface called a platen that you lowered on top of the grill to cook both sides of the burger at once. One night we were bored and started throwing vegetables in there to see what would happen. Nothing much happened until we tried a pickle. Once the platen was lowered on the pickle, the pickle emitted a high-pitched shrieking noise, similar in tone to a screaming human. Hundreds of pickles lost their lives before the gag got old.
I would have to return to college to find an even more demeaning job, but that's Part 5.
Monday, January 24, 2005
Part 2
Here are the other movies I watched:
A Year of the Quiet Sun (Krzysztof Zanussi) There's something lacking in this movie. I'm not sure what. The cinematography is unusual and compelling, the actors do a good job, there's nothing egregiously wrong with any of it, but it just kind of sits on the screen dully and heavily.
Time of the Gypsies (Emir Kusturica) This movie is great. It's a vaguely surreal comedy/tragedy/gangster film acted by nonprofessional gypsies (I don't mean to suggest that there are professional gypsies, I just mean they aren't professional actors and are actual gypsies) and the first movie ever filmed in the Romany language, which is spoken by only a few hundred people in the world.
A Short Film About Killing (Krzysztof Kieslowski) This is an expansion into feature length of an episode from Kieslowski's "Decalogue." The added details, mostly in the first twenty minutes, add to the mood without detracting from the power of the original cut. This is well worth your time in either version.
Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song (Melvin Van Peebles) I don't know what the hell to think. I've been interested in seeing this movie for a long time, mostly for its reputation as one of the first black-financed, black-directed, black-acted independent films and its supposed influence on most of the blaxploitation films of the seventies. Now that I've seen it, I can see how it influenced movies like "Shaft," "Cleopatra Jones," etc., but I can also see that it has more in common with independent American films from the 1950s and 1960s, French new wave, westerns, and B-grade violent thrillers and splatter movies. Unfortunately, some of it is really inept, clumsy, frustrating, and boring. Sexist, too. Ridiculously sexist. So sexist it borders on the surreally absurd. I can't completely dismiss it, though, and not just because of its historical importance. I've never seen anything like it. This is one weird, weird movie. There is nothing on this planet even vaguely approximating it, and that's something I can get behind. Parts of the film are dreadfully dull, but other moments have a weird energy and an excitement in putting something on the screen that hasn't been there before.
I saw these on the big screen:
Bukowski: Born Into This (John Dullaghan) Bukowski is slightly unfashionable in our current cultural climate. He's something you're supposed to have outgrown, like Rage Against the Machine and "A Clockwork Orange." This may have more to do with his persona (womanizing drunk with bad temper who gets in lots of fights, bets on the horses, talks about his bodily functions a lot, and sleeps in flophouses) and the zealous hero worship from knucklewalkers with literary pretensions and freshman English major fanboys (mostly getting vicarious thrills and believing that being a womanizing drunk is a worthy aspiration that somehow magically transforms you into being a writer). Is there more to Bukowski than his persona? I hoped so. I was a Bukowski fanboy in high school and the first couple of years of college. I read maybe 14 or 15 of his books, loved them, then moved on to other stuff. I've been afraid to go back because what if I have outgrown him? Why deflate something that gave me a lot of pleasure in my teen years? Why rain on my own parade? Then this documentary opened in theaters. Aha, I thought. This might be a way to rekindle my interest or put it to bed without going to the trouble of rereading one of his books. When it started, my heart sank. One person after another told a story about Bukowski getting drunk, punching a cop, waving his dick around, etc., etc. This is going to be a long two hours, I said to myself. Then, it got a lot better, even though they interviewed fucking BONO, for chrissakes, whose anecdote began, "It was a long drunken night in Italy with Sean Penn..." (At least they didn't talk to Henry Rollins. I think makers of documentaries on 20th and 21st century American cultural figures are contractually obligated to interview either Bono or Henry Rollins, no matter how tenuous their connection to the subject.) After the movie was over, I felt like reading some Bukowski. A few days later, I did. What did I think? I'm not sure. I think it's not quite as good as I experienced it initially, but it's of too much worth to be so casually dismissed by the arbiters of modern cultural taste. And, in a time when we're being McSweeneyed, Dave Eggered, Foster Wallaced, and Neal Pollacked to death, it's nice to read somebody who's not above his material, but of it.
Hyenas (Djibril Diop Mambety) This movie was shown as part of the Austin Film Society's African series. I loved it. I don't have a lot to say about this one because I don't think I've completely digested it yet, but I loved everything about it.
The Big Red One: The Reconstruction (Samuel Fuller) Samuel Fuller was a reporter, then he enlisted and fought on the front lines in WWII. He started directing movies after he returned. He made this one in 1980 based on his actual experiences in the war. The studio hacked it down and added a voice-over. Fuller died in 1997, but now film critic Richard Schickel has assembled a longer version based on Fuller's notes, his screenplay, and existing footage. It's not a director's cut (even though it's being advertised that way), some of the voice-over is still there, some footage had been lost, but it's a lot closer to the way Fuller wanted it. This is a great movie. It's also appalling how much of this movie has been stolen and watered down by Spielberg in "Saving Private Ryan." Spielberg gets showered with glory and his mediocre, dishonest, manipulative, flagwaving film is praised. Fuller, who was actually there, makes an honest, insightful, unusual, exciting film and it gets hacked up and forgotten. Maybe it's because Fuller is disinterested in heroism, only survival, and puts forth the idea that a war's survivors, regardless of which side they fought on, have more in common with each other than the people they're fighting for.
A Year of the Quiet Sun (Krzysztof Zanussi) There's something lacking in this movie. I'm not sure what. The cinematography is unusual and compelling, the actors do a good job, there's nothing egregiously wrong with any of it, but it just kind of sits on the screen dully and heavily.
Time of the Gypsies (Emir Kusturica) This movie is great. It's a vaguely surreal comedy/tragedy/gangster film acted by nonprofessional gypsies (I don't mean to suggest that there are professional gypsies, I just mean they aren't professional actors and are actual gypsies) and the first movie ever filmed in the Romany language, which is spoken by only a few hundred people in the world.
A Short Film About Killing (Krzysztof Kieslowski) This is an expansion into feature length of an episode from Kieslowski's "Decalogue." The added details, mostly in the first twenty minutes, add to the mood without detracting from the power of the original cut. This is well worth your time in either version.
Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song (Melvin Van Peebles) I don't know what the hell to think. I've been interested in seeing this movie for a long time, mostly for its reputation as one of the first black-financed, black-directed, black-acted independent films and its supposed influence on most of the blaxploitation films of the seventies. Now that I've seen it, I can see how it influenced movies like "Shaft," "Cleopatra Jones," etc., but I can also see that it has more in common with independent American films from the 1950s and 1960s, French new wave, westerns, and B-grade violent thrillers and splatter movies. Unfortunately, some of it is really inept, clumsy, frustrating, and boring. Sexist, too. Ridiculously sexist. So sexist it borders on the surreally absurd. I can't completely dismiss it, though, and not just because of its historical importance. I've never seen anything like it. This is one weird, weird movie. There is nothing on this planet even vaguely approximating it, and that's something I can get behind. Parts of the film are dreadfully dull, but other moments have a weird energy and an excitement in putting something on the screen that hasn't been there before.
I saw these on the big screen:
Bukowski: Born Into This (John Dullaghan) Bukowski is slightly unfashionable in our current cultural climate. He's something you're supposed to have outgrown, like Rage Against the Machine and "A Clockwork Orange." This may have more to do with his persona (womanizing drunk with bad temper who gets in lots of fights, bets on the horses, talks about his bodily functions a lot, and sleeps in flophouses) and the zealous hero worship from knucklewalkers with literary pretensions and freshman English major fanboys (mostly getting vicarious thrills and believing that being a womanizing drunk is a worthy aspiration that somehow magically transforms you into being a writer). Is there more to Bukowski than his persona? I hoped so. I was a Bukowski fanboy in high school and the first couple of years of college. I read maybe 14 or 15 of his books, loved them, then moved on to other stuff. I've been afraid to go back because what if I have outgrown him? Why deflate something that gave me a lot of pleasure in my teen years? Why rain on my own parade? Then this documentary opened in theaters. Aha, I thought. This might be a way to rekindle my interest or put it to bed without going to the trouble of rereading one of his books. When it started, my heart sank. One person after another told a story about Bukowski getting drunk, punching a cop, waving his dick around, etc., etc. This is going to be a long two hours, I said to myself. Then, it got a lot better, even though they interviewed fucking BONO, for chrissakes, whose anecdote began, "It was a long drunken night in Italy with Sean Penn..." (At least they didn't talk to Henry Rollins. I think makers of documentaries on 20th and 21st century American cultural figures are contractually obligated to interview either Bono or Henry Rollins, no matter how tenuous their connection to the subject.) After the movie was over, I felt like reading some Bukowski. A few days later, I did. What did I think? I'm not sure. I think it's not quite as good as I experienced it initially, but it's of too much worth to be so casually dismissed by the arbiters of modern cultural taste. And, in a time when we're being McSweeneyed, Dave Eggered, Foster Wallaced, and Neal Pollacked to death, it's nice to read somebody who's not above his material, but of it.
Hyenas (Djibril Diop Mambety) This movie was shown as part of the Austin Film Society's African series. I loved it. I don't have a lot to say about this one because I don't think I've completely digested it yet, but I loved everything about it.
The Big Red One: The Reconstruction (Samuel Fuller) Samuel Fuller was a reporter, then he enlisted and fought on the front lines in WWII. He started directing movies after he returned. He made this one in 1980 based on his actual experiences in the war. The studio hacked it down and added a voice-over. Fuller died in 1997, but now film critic Richard Schickel has assembled a longer version based on Fuller's notes, his screenplay, and existing footage. It's not a director's cut (even though it's being advertised that way), some of the voice-over is still there, some footage had been lost, but it's a lot closer to the way Fuller wanted it. This is a great movie. It's also appalling how much of this movie has been stolen and watered down by Spielberg in "Saving Private Ryan." Spielberg gets showered with glory and his mediocre, dishonest, manipulative, flagwaving film is praised. Fuller, who was actually there, makes an honest, insightful, unusual, exciting film and it gets hacked up and forgotten. Maybe it's because Fuller is disinterested in heroism, only survival, and puts forth the idea that a war's survivors, regardless of which side they fought on, have more in common with each other than the people they're fighting for.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
I forgot to tell you about the movies I've watched in the past two weeks (as if you give a shit)
Two weeks have come and gone without any evaluations of the movies I've watched. So, I'm going to unload on you now. Get ready, baby. I know you've been waiting with baited breath. If that means you've been holding your breath, I'm sorry that my inertia has caused your untimely death. My maid is sending a wreath as we speak. I've had a lot of mixed drinks tonight, so bear with me if this post is all rambly-tambly and makes very little sense. I'm typing with an ink pen clenched between my teeth in a vaguely cigarette manner of clench and bad music on the stereo, just to put you in the mindset, and I'm in no shape to do anything about either of these developments (now the music is good, it took me a long time to type this sentence). Last night I was watching a documentary about the Concorde on PBS at 1 a.m. and they were interviewing various dignitaries (Robert McNamara, Henry "I make Dick Cheney look like Cesar Chavez" Kissinger, various French and British engineers, pilots, and high-ranking aviation officials). Then they spoke briefly of the anti-Concorde environmental activists, whose opposition was never clearly explained. (It was a very Concorde-friendly documentary. The activists' main beef seemed to be that the sonic booms would keep people awake at night, which seemed to be kind of a lackluster argument, but everybody loves sleeping, am I right?) Anyway, the most active activist they kept referring to seemed to be deceased, though they interviewed his children, who were still involved in protesting Concorde up to its final flight. One of the children was Josephine Wiggs, better known as the former bassist of the Breeders. How fucking weird is that? And they never mentioned that she was in the Breeders, even though they also interviewed The Stranglers because they had a British hit single with an anti-Concorde song. You see the oddest things when you don't have cable and are a reclusive drunk. Anyway, I watched these movies some time in the last 14 days:
Bubba Ho-Tep (Don Coscarelli) Who would have thought that a movie about Elvis Presley (after swapping identities with an Elvis impersonator upon becoming disillusioned with fame) (or is he really an Elvis impersonator who lost his shit) and a black man who thinks he's JFK teaming up to fight a reanimated Egyptian mummy soulsucker in a west Texas nursing home would be, at heart, a movie about older people trying to keep their dignity when their health is failing? This is a subject that, however omnipresent, seems to be completely underutilized in our culture's art and entertainment. How many times have you seen the elderly being condescended to and patronized in nursing homes, restaurants, hospitals, businesses, etc.? If I'm lucky enough to live a long life, and I hope I am, I'm also a little worried about the bullshit I'm going to have to deal with when I get old from assholes who think just because someone's sick and hard of hearing they need to be addressed as though they were four years old. This movie, despite losing some of its momentum halfway through, is a nice little reminder to the rest of us that a lot of old people are not, duh, stupid. It's also nice to see real, hand-crafted special effects instead of that CGI bullshit.
The Dead (John Huston) Huston's last movie is kind of awe-inspiring. It's an adaptation of the final story in James Joyce's "Dubliners," and a peaceful acceptance of the approach of death that's mostly admirable. Huston was on his last legs with emphysema, even directing some scenes sucking on oxygen, when he filmed this mostly plotless story of a society dinner party and the soul-searching it causes in one couple in attendance after the party has ended. I think it stands as one of the best Huston films. He's made a lot of shitty movies. There are reports that Huston wasn't even on the set for some of his bad films, using the location as an excuse for sight-seeing and hunting, letting his assistants take over for him. Still, he's made some great, great movies, even if he was too erratic to be a truly great director. If you haven't seen "Fat City," for example, you're missing out on some really excellent stuff. This is one of the good ones.
Bird (Clint Eastwood) I detest bio-pics, filmed biographies, stories of famous people's lives. These films are absolutely, without a doubt, the worst, the lousiest, lies, horseshit. They have no value. They have nothing to teach us about human nature, or even about one person's actual experience on this planet. They perpetuate the myth that every human's being life can be reduced to a two-hour greatest hits of special occasions and accomplishments. This movie avoids most of those problems. It's deeply interested in a twenty-year period in one man's life and the music he played, and though it has a handful of flaws, it feels like life instead of legend.
Yellow Submarine (George Dunning) For some reason, I'd never seen this until last weekend, but it was a good time. This movie is really, really dated, but if you've done any psychedelic drugs recently, it might have a little bit of resonance (though it also perpetuates myths of its own, like the one that psychedelic drugs are always a wonderfully enlightening, light-hearted, and fun way to spend an evening, even though, in my experience, the enlightening to frightening ratio is about 50/50). The animation is excellent, the Beatles' songs are (mostly) good (especially George Harrison's, who kicks the shit out of his compatriots' offerings), and the kaleidoscope of '60s imagery manages to stay interesting until about the last 15 minutes.
To be continued...
I've got seven more movies to talk about, but I'm starting to get bored, which means you were bored hours ago. See you later, sexies.
Your friend,
Steve Guttenberg
Bubba Ho-Tep (Don Coscarelli) Who would have thought that a movie about Elvis Presley (after swapping identities with an Elvis impersonator upon becoming disillusioned with fame) (or is he really an Elvis impersonator who lost his shit) and a black man who thinks he's JFK teaming up to fight a reanimated Egyptian mummy soulsucker in a west Texas nursing home would be, at heart, a movie about older people trying to keep their dignity when their health is failing? This is a subject that, however omnipresent, seems to be completely underutilized in our culture's art and entertainment. How many times have you seen the elderly being condescended to and patronized in nursing homes, restaurants, hospitals, businesses, etc.? If I'm lucky enough to live a long life, and I hope I am, I'm also a little worried about the bullshit I'm going to have to deal with when I get old from assholes who think just because someone's sick and hard of hearing they need to be addressed as though they were four years old. This movie, despite losing some of its momentum halfway through, is a nice little reminder to the rest of us that a lot of old people are not, duh, stupid. It's also nice to see real, hand-crafted special effects instead of that CGI bullshit.
The Dead (John Huston) Huston's last movie is kind of awe-inspiring. It's an adaptation of the final story in James Joyce's "Dubliners," and a peaceful acceptance of the approach of death that's mostly admirable. Huston was on his last legs with emphysema, even directing some scenes sucking on oxygen, when he filmed this mostly plotless story of a society dinner party and the soul-searching it causes in one couple in attendance after the party has ended. I think it stands as one of the best Huston films. He's made a lot of shitty movies. There are reports that Huston wasn't even on the set for some of his bad films, using the location as an excuse for sight-seeing and hunting, letting his assistants take over for him. Still, he's made some great, great movies, even if he was too erratic to be a truly great director. If you haven't seen "Fat City," for example, you're missing out on some really excellent stuff. This is one of the good ones.
Bird (Clint Eastwood) I detest bio-pics, filmed biographies, stories of famous people's lives. These films are absolutely, without a doubt, the worst, the lousiest, lies, horseshit. They have no value. They have nothing to teach us about human nature, or even about one person's actual experience on this planet. They perpetuate the myth that every human's being life can be reduced to a two-hour greatest hits of special occasions and accomplishments. This movie avoids most of those problems. It's deeply interested in a twenty-year period in one man's life and the music he played, and though it has a handful of flaws, it feels like life instead of legend.
Yellow Submarine (George Dunning) For some reason, I'd never seen this until last weekend, but it was a good time. This movie is really, really dated, but if you've done any psychedelic drugs recently, it might have a little bit of resonance (though it also perpetuates myths of its own, like the one that psychedelic drugs are always a wonderfully enlightening, light-hearted, and fun way to spend an evening, even though, in my experience, the enlightening to frightening ratio is about 50/50). The animation is excellent, the Beatles' songs are (mostly) good (especially George Harrison's, who kicks the shit out of his compatriots' offerings), and the kaleidoscope of '60s imagery manages to stay interesting until about the last 15 minutes.
To be continued...
I've got seven more movies to talk about, but I'm starting to get bored, which means you were bored hours ago. See you later, sexies.
Your friend,
Steve Guttenberg
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Transform your ugly face
If you're looking for an interesting diversion, check out the Face Transformer Image Upload (http://www.dcs.st-and.ac.uk/~morph/Transformer/index.html). You can download a .jpg or .gif of your own face (or any other non-copyrighted face) and the web site morphs it into a baby, child, teenager, old person, various different ethnicities, opposite sex, manga character, apeman, etc. Hour(s) of fun.
Currently reading: Stanley Elkin's Greatest Hits by Stanley Elkin
Currently reading: Stanley Elkin's Greatest Hits by Stanley Elkin
Friday, January 14, 2005
Guest Post
Hey, everybody. Today we have a very special guest post by none other than CNN's Larry King. Take it away, Larry:
Havarti is a quality cheese.
Currently reading:
Dr. Mystery is currently reading Movie Wars: How Hollywood and the Media Limit What Movies We Can See by Jonathan Rosenbaum. Dr. Mystery says: "This book will fire you up and make you angry about a lot of stuff you can't change, but it's a great book anyway. Instead of blaming the audience, which is what most critics seem to do when they criticize the dumbing down of our culture, Rosenbaum places the blame on the people and systems who need it most and who have been given a free pass so far whenever this argument arises. Namely, the corporations, distribution systems, studios, mainstream critics, entertainment news reporters and programs, and mainstream media and journalists. The audience can't be expected to make good decisions when it's not even given a choice. To make an analogy, let's say most grocery stores in the country only carry gruel. People buy gruel because what else are they going to eat? Someone finally asks the gruel producers, 'Hey, why are you pushing gruel on the public? We're tired of gruel.' The gruel producers respond, 'Our sales reports show that you're not tired of gruel. As a matter of fact, gruel is selling like crazy.' The same guy who asks the gruel producers this question turns around and says, 'Yeah, I guess you gruel producers are right. The public just keeps lapping up that gruel. Stupid public. You're just giving those idiots what they want. May I have another bowl of gruel, please?' It's obvious how insane the film distribution system is in this country, so obvious that we don't even see it, and Rosenbaum holds it up to us plainly and clearly. I've never seen a book better articulate what's wrong with the film business and the effect this has on the choices we're given."
Larry King is currently reading Booty Food: A Date by Date, Course-By-Course, Nibble-By-Nibble Guide to Cultivating Love and Passion Through Food
by Jacqui Malouf. Larry says: "I've sure had a lot of heart attacks, and a lot of wives."
Havarti is a quality cheese.
Currently reading:
Dr. Mystery is currently reading Movie Wars: How Hollywood and the Media Limit What Movies We Can See by Jonathan Rosenbaum. Dr. Mystery says: "This book will fire you up and make you angry about a lot of stuff you can't change, but it's a great book anyway. Instead of blaming the audience, which is what most critics seem to do when they criticize the dumbing down of our culture, Rosenbaum places the blame on the people and systems who need it most and who have been given a free pass so far whenever this argument arises. Namely, the corporations, distribution systems, studios, mainstream critics, entertainment news reporters and programs, and mainstream media and journalists. The audience can't be expected to make good decisions when it's not even given a choice. To make an analogy, let's say most grocery stores in the country only carry gruel. People buy gruel because what else are they going to eat? Someone finally asks the gruel producers, 'Hey, why are you pushing gruel on the public? We're tired of gruel.' The gruel producers respond, 'Our sales reports show that you're not tired of gruel. As a matter of fact, gruel is selling like crazy.' The same guy who asks the gruel producers this question turns around and says, 'Yeah, I guess you gruel producers are right. The public just keeps lapping up that gruel. Stupid public. You're just giving those idiots what they want. May I have another bowl of gruel, please?' It's obvious how insane the film distribution system is in this country, so obvious that we don't even see it, and Rosenbaum holds it up to us plainly and clearly. I've never seen a book better articulate what's wrong with the film business and the effect this has on the choices we're given."
Larry King is currently reading Booty Food: A Date by Date, Course-By-Course, Nibble-By-Nibble Guide to Cultivating Love and Passion Through Food
by Jacqui Malouf. Larry says: "I've sure had a lot of heart attacks, and a lot of wives."
Working for the weekend: Job 3
I was 15 when I got my first real, taxable, working-for-a-boss kind of job. It was easy for a teenager to get work in Bridgeport, but the choices didn't exactly make me want to break out in spontaneous eruptions of joyful song. My options were: a) farm work b) washing dishes in one of the handful of restaurants or c) bagging groceries in one of the two grocery stores. The choice was easy. I had little aptitude for or interest in farm work. One of my friends washed dishes for a restaurant and didn't get off work until eleven or midnight, then finished his homework afterward. The grocery stores closed at seven. What choice did I have? I applied for, and was hired at, Jack and Jill, and I spent the remainder of my high school years working there. I bagged groceries, stocked shelves, and mopped and swept the floors. I hated it. I was introduced to a world of boredom beyond my understanding. This boredom was more intense, more prolonged, more severe than I had prepared myself to expect. It was a boredom that dwarfed previous boredom champions school and church and destroyed my perception of employment as an honorable and respectable way to spend my time. This is something pounded into all of us by anyone in a position of authority, but it became pretty obvious to me after only one day at Jack and Jill that the only honorable and respectable work is work you love. If I'm doing something I hate for money, I feel like a whore. But how do I stop being a whore and get some dignity and satisfaction out of what I have to do to eat and pay the rent? I haven't been able to answer that question in my life yet, but I'm still holding out hope.
Anyway, the grocery store was owned by a divorced, middle-aged, conservative Christian with a mustache. He also cut all the meat and spent most of the day in the meat department, but he would periodically dart in and out of the aisles, making sure we (the high school help) were doing our jobs and not goofing off. He was one of those bosses who believed that even if there was no work to do, we should pretend like we were busy. I'm reminded of that Bill Hicks joke where the boss tells the employee to pretend to work and the employee (Hicks) says, "You make more money than me. How about you pretend I'm working?" Twice a week, freight was delivered. These were items we had sold out of that needed to be restocked. Freight days were the only days when there was something to do, so they were good days to be at work. Time actually leisurely strolled on freight days instead of crawling agonizingly and sickeningly to workday's end like a legless, dying turtle. Instead of pretending to stock shelves, on freight days we actually got to stock them. Oh, what a glorious adventure. My boss, let's call him Shalamar to avoid any libel suits, was a big fan of Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson. However, his spirit of Christian giving didn't extend to his employees. I made minimum wage the entire time I worked for him and was never given a raise, though he told me more than once that he was pleased with my work. None of my fellow teenage workers got a raise, either, except for B., a favorite of the boss and the manager and the only one of the high school help who worked full-time in the summers. He was given a ten-cent raise during his last year on the job. Shalamar was on top of everything that needed to be done in the store, but the interactions with his employees were clumsy and awkward. He was kind of a wimp, especially when it came to the store manager (let's call her Vulva). Shalamar, despite everything I've said about him, was basically a nice guy and treated me well (except for my salary). Vulva, on the other hand, was a sack of shit of a human being. She decided, shortly after I started working there, that she didn't like me. I'm not really sure why, but part of her animosity may be attributed to the utter lack of interest/ability I had in showering her with praise and buttering her up. She thoroughly enjoyed getting her ass kissed, but I am genetically incapable of putting my lips on my superior's anuses. This may have sealed my fate, but her patronizing and mean-spirited treatment baffled me. To offer just one example of her behavior, one Saturday morning I overslept and was late for work. My mother called the store for me, so I could hurry up, get ready, and be on my way. When I arrived at the store, she said to another employee loudly enough for me to hear, "He had to have his mommy call for him." This kind of thing happened about once every couple of months the whole time I worked there. I did my best to ignore it and do my job. Besides, Shalamar liked me and the mini-drama at least made the job a little more interesting. When I started working at the store, Shalamar and Vulva were dating. Within months, Vulva dumped Shalamar for the guy who delivered the Snapple. I'm laughing as I type these words. Oddly enough, Vulva kept working there and Shalamar let her keep manipulating him. All of us lowly grocery baggers found this drama compelling, hilarious, pathetic, and a little sad. Shalamar became a completely dejected sadsack, and he even fell so low that he let Vulva talk him into giving the Snapple guy some weekend hours at the store stocking shelves with us. It was a painfully awkward extended trainwreck of human misery, but it made the job more interesting for a few months. Shalamar eventually snapped out of it, fooled around with a married woman, then got a regular girlfriend. Vulva married Snapple, he moved into her house, and later dumped her and moved away.
Customers. How could I forget to talk about the customers? They made the job even worse. To digress for a second, I'm a huge proponent of humanist art. I spend a lot of time listening to music, going to concerts, watching films, reading books, looking at art and photography, reading comics and cartoons, taking an interest in comedy, and having drinks with friends because I want to connect with other human beings, I love what human beings are capable of, and I generally like people. I don't have much time for irony, cynicism, and dead-end nihilism in art and life because I think it distances us from our humanity. But, I gotta admit, I fucking hate the public. The "public" as an entity, especially when your job is to serve them, blows. Some people are just assholes, especially if you are selling a product they need. Especially old people. It's good that they're going to die soon, because a lot of them are jerks. The public at large is capable of doing things like: Keeping you waiting while they shop even though closing time was an hour ago (and they damn well know it, too, because they keep apologizing for keeping you waiting), buying $300 worth of groceries and telling you to fit it all in two bags but "don't make them too heavy, hon, I'm old and I can't carry heavy bags," making you wrap ice cream in three paper bags and two plastic ones even though it's winter time and 15 degrees outside "so it doesn't melt all over the place," bawling me out for ten minutes because the old bastard asked for a case of Coke and I accidentally brought him a 12-pack, etc., etc., etc.
Work is fun!!!!!!
Anyway, the grocery store was owned by a divorced, middle-aged, conservative Christian with a mustache. He also cut all the meat and spent most of the day in the meat department, but he would periodically dart in and out of the aisles, making sure we (the high school help) were doing our jobs and not goofing off. He was one of those bosses who believed that even if there was no work to do, we should pretend like we were busy. I'm reminded of that Bill Hicks joke where the boss tells the employee to pretend to work and the employee (Hicks) says, "You make more money than me. How about you pretend I'm working?" Twice a week, freight was delivered. These were items we had sold out of that needed to be restocked. Freight days were the only days when there was something to do, so they were good days to be at work. Time actually leisurely strolled on freight days instead of crawling agonizingly and sickeningly to workday's end like a legless, dying turtle. Instead of pretending to stock shelves, on freight days we actually got to stock them. Oh, what a glorious adventure. My boss, let's call him Shalamar to avoid any libel suits, was a big fan of Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson. However, his spirit of Christian giving didn't extend to his employees. I made minimum wage the entire time I worked for him and was never given a raise, though he told me more than once that he was pleased with my work. None of my fellow teenage workers got a raise, either, except for B., a favorite of the boss and the manager and the only one of the high school help who worked full-time in the summers. He was given a ten-cent raise during his last year on the job. Shalamar was on top of everything that needed to be done in the store, but the interactions with his employees were clumsy and awkward. He was kind of a wimp, especially when it came to the store manager (let's call her Vulva). Shalamar, despite everything I've said about him, was basically a nice guy and treated me well (except for my salary). Vulva, on the other hand, was a sack of shit of a human being. She decided, shortly after I started working there, that she didn't like me. I'm not really sure why, but part of her animosity may be attributed to the utter lack of interest/ability I had in showering her with praise and buttering her up. She thoroughly enjoyed getting her ass kissed, but I am genetically incapable of putting my lips on my superior's anuses. This may have sealed my fate, but her patronizing and mean-spirited treatment baffled me. To offer just one example of her behavior, one Saturday morning I overslept and was late for work. My mother called the store for me, so I could hurry up, get ready, and be on my way. When I arrived at the store, she said to another employee loudly enough for me to hear, "He had to have his mommy call for him." This kind of thing happened about once every couple of months the whole time I worked there. I did my best to ignore it and do my job. Besides, Shalamar liked me and the mini-drama at least made the job a little more interesting. When I started working at the store, Shalamar and Vulva were dating. Within months, Vulva dumped Shalamar for the guy who delivered the Snapple. I'm laughing as I type these words. Oddly enough, Vulva kept working there and Shalamar let her keep manipulating him. All of us lowly grocery baggers found this drama compelling, hilarious, pathetic, and a little sad. Shalamar became a completely dejected sadsack, and he even fell so low that he let Vulva talk him into giving the Snapple guy some weekend hours at the store stocking shelves with us. It was a painfully awkward extended trainwreck of human misery, but it made the job more interesting for a few months. Shalamar eventually snapped out of it, fooled around with a married woman, then got a regular girlfriend. Vulva married Snapple, he moved into her house, and later dumped her and moved away.
Customers. How could I forget to talk about the customers? They made the job even worse. To digress for a second, I'm a huge proponent of humanist art. I spend a lot of time listening to music, going to concerts, watching films, reading books, looking at art and photography, reading comics and cartoons, taking an interest in comedy, and having drinks with friends because I want to connect with other human beings, I love what human beings are capable of, and I generally like people. I don't have much time for irony, cynicism, and dead-end nihilism in art and life because I think it distances us from our humanity. But, I gotta admit, I fucking hate the public. The "public" as an entity, especially when your job is to serve them, blows. Some people are just assholes, especially if you are selling a product they need. Especially old people. It's good that they're going to die soon, because a lot of them are jerks. The public at large is capable of doing things like: Keeping you waiting while they shop even though closing time was an hour ago (and they damn well know it, too, because they keep apologizing for keeping you waiting), buying $300 worth of groceries and telling you to fit it all in two bags but "don't make them too heavy, hon, I'm old and I can't carry heavy bags," making you wrap ice cream in three paper bags and two plastic ones even though it's winter time and 15 degrees outside "so it doesn't melt all over the place," bawling me out for ten minutes because the old bastard asked for a case of Coke and I accidentally brought him a 12-pack, etc., etc., etc.
Work is fun!!!!!!
Monday, January 10, 2005
Jerry Lewis: Captain Beefheart of comedy or blubbering dummy? Answer in next week's Parade magazine!
I watched four more movies in the last couple of days. The one that really stood out was "Yeelen" (Souleymane Cisse), but the others were "Guardian of the Night" (Jean-Pierre Limosin) and "The Big Mouth" and "Cracking Up" (both Jerry Lewis). I've been on a weird little Jerry Lewis kick for the past few months, mostly because I have no idea whether his movies are good or bad. One thing I do know about them is that they are some of the weirdest goddamn things I've ever seen. If you've never seen an old Jerry Lewis movie (I'm talking about the ones he directed), try one some time. Or maybe don't. I can't truly recommend any of them, but if you die without seeing at least one, you're missing out on something. What you're missing out on, however, I'm not exactly sure. The films' pacing and sense of comic timing are the strangest I've ever seen. I'm not sure how to even describe what I mean, but I'll try. The tempo of the films is both languid and kinetic, and Lewis' directing style is simultaneously tight and economic (sometimes even bringing to mind the crime films of Don Siegel and Robert Aldrich in the 1950s) and indulgent and sloppy. He's also a fan of long, awkward pauses in conversation, something you don't find in most other slapstick comedy. Most of the jokes are painfully unfunny and generic (though a few are actually hilarious), but he drags them out for such ridiculously absurd lengths of time that you have to laugh or at least admire his audacity. There's something a little queasy and off-putting about his acting and comic timing, but I have yet to pinpoint exactly what it is. That these films were popular in our culture at one time is pretty astonishing. It's some of the most uncommercial stuff I've seen, a little disturbing and sick and a whole lot weirder than super-contrived shit like "Napoleon Dynamite," a movie that never stops trying to sell you on how oddball it is. Jerry Lewis is the real deal, a sick fuck who thinks he's making "normal" films but is actually giving audiences a guided tour through a deranged mind. Either that, or they're just a bunch of really stupid films full of tired jokes given an odd sense of pacing due to inept, egotistical direction. I only get this feeling once in a while, but even if it's true, these films are stupid, tired, and inept in ways previously unknown to man. Idiot or genius? This question can only be answered by Kathleen Hanna on the next Le Tigre hit, "What's Yr Take on Jerry Lewis?"
Currently Reading: The Last Picture Show by Larry McMurtry
Saturday, January 08, 2005
I'm back
I have been back in town for a week, but I haven't felt like posting anything. I still don't feel like it. But I will probably feel like it soon. I still need to write about the other eight jobs I had. Also, I watched several movies while I was away from the blog, four on video/cable, two on the big screen. Three of these movies sucked ("Napoleon Dynamite," "Laurel Canyon," and "Sex: The Annabel Chong Story"). Three of these were good, with some reservation ("Bowling for Columbine," "The Aviator," and "The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou"). Full report later. I still have half a case of Busch beer in cans (I'm unemployed, dudes) left to drink. Keep it real.
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
So long, suckers
Hey there everyone,
This will be probably be my last post until early January because I'm heading out for the big Nebraska road trip early Friday morning. We're going to drive to Lincoln, hang out there for a week, then drive across the state to see my mom and dad (which will also involve a lot of driving because my mother and father live in different towns), then drive back across the state to spend New Year's Eve in Lincoln, then drive back to Austin a few days later. Lots of driving. I'll be writing a lot more about my previous jobs when I come back from the road trip.
I watched four more movies this week. Here they are:
After the Rehearsal (Ingmar Bergman)
The Family Jewels (Jerry Lewis)
Frat House (Todd Phillips, Andrew Gurland)
Red Line 7000 (Howard Hawks)
Merry Christmas, jerks. See you soon.
Currently reading: Mainlines, Blood Feasts, and Bad Taste by Lester Bangs
This will be probably be my last post until early January because I'm heading out for the big Nebraska road trip early Friday morning. We're going to drive to Lincoln, hang out there for a week, then drive across the state to see my mom and dad (which will also involve a lot of driving because my mother and father live in different towns), then drive back across the state to spend New Year's Eve in Lincoln, then drive back to Austin a few days later. Lots of driving. I'll be writing a lot more about my previous jobs when I come back from the road trip.
I watched four more movies this week. Here they are:
After the Rehearsal (Ingmar Bergman)
The Family Jewels (Jerry Lewis)
Frat House (Todd Phillips, Andrew Gurland)
Red Line 7000 (Howard Hawks)
Merry Christmas, jerks. See you soon.
Currently reading: Mainlines, Blood Feasts, and Bad Taste by Lester Bangs
Monday, December 13, 2004
Can you still call it the weekend when you're unemployed?
I had a pretty good weekend, give or take a couple of bad movies and some unsolicited criticism of my personal appearance (see comments under "Unemployment Journal: Day Five" post). My life is so much fuller and busier now that I'm unemployed, oddly enough, and my sugar mama wife treated me to not one, but two, concerts: The Magnetic Fields on Friday and Neko Case backed by Kelly Hogan and The Sadies (the latter's opening set was pretty stunning as well) on Saturday. I even ran into friends from the old job and their equally friendly significant others at both shows. Ah, the glories of being a kept man. Also got to see the James Agee/Walker Evans exhibit at the Harry Ransom Center on the UT campus on Friday and had some drinks with the old co-worker friends on Thursday night. I don't miss the job, but I miss seeing the fine people that work there. On the movie front, I'm going to start with the two disappointing films:
Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (Peter Weir) Not particularly terrible, and opening with some intriguing scenes of the everyday routines on a British warship during the Napoleonic Wars, the film ultimately gets bogged down in the cartoonish simplicity of the characters, confusingly edited battle sequences, and sluggish pacing. The open-ended conclusion is too obviously a plea for a sequel rather than an interestingly ambiguous touch.
Yankee Doodle Dandy (Michael Curtiz) This is a wildly overpraised musical biography of super-patriot George M. Cohan, Broadway actor and writer of the flag-waving anthems "Yankee Doodle Dandy," "Over There," "Grand Old Flag," ad nauseum, that changes most of the facts to suit the story. James Cagney plays Cohan and is pretty great in the role. There are some nice moments at the beginning of the film showing Cohan's rise to fame on the vaudeville circuit as part of a traveling act including his sister and his parents. Even with Cagney's performance and a handful of good scenes, the movie is mostly vulgar, stupid, boring propaganda. Filmed and released shortly after our involvement in World War II, the film was obviously meant as a morale booster, but is so cloying in its rah-rah jingoism I'm surprised we won the war. If you really want to vomit, watch the scenes of Cohan receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor from a patronizingly smug FDR lookalike. And those songs. Ugh. Imagine Lee Greenwood's "Proud to be an American" or "God Bless the U.S.A." or whatever the hell it's called given a John Phillips Sousa arrangement. Then imagine about thirty more songs that sound exactly the same. This movie is interminable and even a force of nature like James Cagney can't save it.
Leave it to those freedom-hating Saddam-lovers, the French, to keep my movie-watching weekend from being a total bust:
Story of Women (Claude Chabrol) Isabelle Huppert is so good in this movie, and her character is beyond complex. Trying to figure out the motivations for her behavior in this film could be a full-time job. The other actors are wonderful, too, and the period recreation (the movie is set in Occupied France during World War II) is flawless. It's not like I was in France in the early 1940s, but the film seems like a document of a living, breathing corner of the world, not a hollow, stagey movie recreation.
Under the Sun of Satan (Maurice Pialat) This might be a great movie, but I think I need to see it a few more times to decide. And seeing it a few more times might not be much fun. This is a somber, austere, cerebral, dense, joyless film. Gerard Depardieu plays a humorless, zealous priest who feels the world is manipulated by Satan, not God, and is constantly tormented by this belief. This is such an artfully composed, deeply felt film, but its lack of humor and narrative confusion throw some obstacles in the viewer's way. Like its most obvious influence, Bresson's "Diary of a Country Priest," the movie is based on a George Bernanos novel.
Currently reading: Werner Herzog's original script for his movie "Fitzcarraldo"
Just finished: The Partly Cloudy Patriot by Sarah Vowell
Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (Peter Weir) Not particularly terrible, and opening with some intriguing scenes of the everyday routines on a British warship during the Napoleonic Wars, the film ultimately gets bogged down in the cartoonish simplicity of the characters, confusingly edited battle sequences, and sluggish pacing. The open-ended conclusion is too obviously a plea for a sequel rather than an interestingly ambiguous touch.
Yankee Doodle Dandy (Michael Curtiz) This is a wildly overpraised musical biography of super-patriot George M. Cohan, Broadway actor and writer of the flag-waving anthems "Yankee Doodle Dandy," "Over There," "Grand Old Flag," ad nauseum, that changes most of the facts to suit the story. James Cagney plays Cohan and is pretty great in the role. There are some nice moments at the beginning of the film showing Cohan's rise to fame on the vaudeville circuit as part of a traveling act including his sister and his parents. Even with Cagney's performance and a handful of good scenes, the movie is mostly vulgar, stupid, boring propaganda. Filmed and released shortly after our involvement in World War II, the film was obviously meant as a morale booster, but is so cloying in its rah-rah jingoism I'm surprised we won the war. If you really want to vomit, watch the scenes of Cohan receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor from a patronizingly smug FDR lookalike. And those songs. Ugh. Imagine Lee Greenwood's "Proud to be an American" or "God Bless the U.S.A." or whatever the hell it's called given a John Phillips Sousa arrangement. Then imagine about thirty more songs that sound exactly the same. This movie is interminable and even a force of nature like James Cagney can't save it.
Leave it to those freedom-hating Saddam-lovers, the French, to keep my movie-watching weekend from being a total bust:
Story of Women (Claude Chabrol) Isabelle Huppert is so good in this movie, and her character is beyond complex. Trying to figure out the motivations for her behavior in this film could be a full-time job. The other actors are wonderful, too, and the period recreation (the movie is set in Occupied France during World War II) is flawless. It's not like I was in France in the early 1940s, but the film seems like a document of a living, breathing corner of the world, not a hollow, stagey movie recreation.
Under the Sun of Satan (Maurice Pialat) This might be a great movie, but I think I need to see it a few more times to decide. And seeing it a few more times might not be much fun. This is a somber, austere, cerebral, dense, joyless film. Gerard Depardieu plays a humorless, zealous priest who feels the world is manipulated by Satan, not God, and is constantly tormented by this belief. This is such an artfully composed, deeply felt film, but its lack of humor and narrative confusion throw some obstacles in the viewer's way. Like its most obvious influence, Bresson's "Diary of a Country Priest," the movie is based on a George Bernanos novel.
Currently reading: Werner Herzog's original script for his movie "Fitzcarraldo"
Just finished: The Partly Cloudy Patriot by Sarah Vowell
Thursday, December 09, 2004
We live in a scary world
This is really creepy. I'm sure a lot of you have read about the shooting of ex-Pantera guitarist Dimebag Darrell while he was performing onstage, a bodyguard, a club employee, and a fan by a lunatic who was later killed by police in Columbus, Ohio last night. I'm disturbed by the news, partly because it makes me feel like we're basically unsafe anywhere, partly because a bunch of people got killed for no reason, mostly because I was at that same club less than two months ago seeing Guided By Voices. Here's the AP story about the whole frightening incident for those who haven't heard about it yet.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Oh yeah
I saw an excellent movie tonight at the Alamo Drafthouse downtown as part of the Austin Film Society's Recent Spanish Directors series. It's called Lovers of the Arctic Circle (Julio Medem), and it's a great love story with a tough ending that doesn't give you what you want. Instead, it gives you something much better, harsher, and more thoughtful. A magical realist fable, the film is a sweet romance but never ignores the disappointments, darknesses, and brutalities that fill our lives.
Working for the weekend: Job 2
I can't remember how old I was when I started mowing my grandparents' lawn. Maybe it started before the babysitting thing, which would make it Job 1, but I already wrote that one so fuck it. I would ride my bike to this job as well, eight blocks this time. My grandparents lived on the other side of town, which was the three or four blocks west of Main Street. My hometown is very small. Don't make fun of it. I have heard (and said) it all before. Some people brag about escaping my hometown (by the way, it's Bridgeport, Nebraska), but everyone who leaves has little choice. There are only so many jobs in a town of 1,500. No college, no record store, no movie theater (though there was a drive-in theater open in the summer that closed only about four or five years ago), no bookstore, nine or ten churches, not many interesting people, an unhealthy fixation on high school sports, lots of white houses, and a hatred and fear of anything slightly different or new, unless it was something like the new Super Wal-Mart in nearby Scottsbluff. If this was even remotely not your cup of tea, you had little choice but to get the motherfucking fuck out of there once you graduated. Maybe three or four people from each graduating class stay in town. The rest get out. After some time passes, four or five more usually come back. That's about it. There are some good things about the place. It's very safe (houses and cars stay unlocked most of the time), which made it an exciting place to be a little kid. You had the run of the town, even after dark. There is a really nice lake, some wonderful rock formations a few miles outside of town that are great for climbing, the aforementioned drive-in theater where I saw on-screen boobs for the first time ("Police Academy") and got drunk and stoned in my friend Clint's blue van with tinted windows. And I would be lying if I didn't say that some really great, interesting people live there (though there aren't many of them). Luckily, much of my family and friends from Bridgeport are in this category When I remember my childhood, my memories of the way the town looked contrast sharply with the way it looks to me now. It seems so gray, empty, deserted, narrow, unfriendly to outsiders, ugly, plain, ridiculous, backwards, laughable. I feel a haughty sense of superiority to it, which makes me feel ugly about myself. The way I remember it is different. As a child, Bridgeport seemed healthy, happy, green, expansive, full of possibilities, friendly. Then puberty hit, everyone turned into an asshole, the town seemed to shrink, I had to drive to Scottsbluff to buy music and books, I learned about all the stuff I was missing from the music and books, I felt lonely and unhappy, blah blah blah. Basic teenager shit, but at least you city teens had a little more at your disposal to fuel the angst and loathing. (A digression: one positive aspect of being from the small town and living in the city, though I'll never feel totally comfortable in either place, is that the city always seems so exciting and new to me. I still get excited knowing I can see bands I like in concert, buy CDs the day they come out, go to great movies, buy great books, meet new people in unexpected circumstances, eat in different restaurants, etc. This seems like a privilege and a thrill, and even though I've lived in cities for nine years, the novelty hasn't worn off.)
What does all this have to do with mowing my grandparents' lawn? Not much. It's just that the transition from small, happy, small-town Josh to teenage, unhappy, small-town Josh occurred while I was mowing their lawn. Thinking about riding my bike to their house made me think about what I saw when I rode my bike, which got me reminiscing about all that hometown shit. That job wasn't bad either. Mowing a lawn isn't much fun, but it's physical, not too hard, and you actually accomplish something, unlike the job I just quit. I show up. The grass is too high. I cut the grass. Not an amazing feat, but fulfilling in its own small way. A far cry from the endless bureaucratic loop of my last four years, in which I would a) proofread a document b) document would undergo slight, usually meaningless revision c) document would return d) I would proofread document again e) rinse and repeat. Sure, the grass grows back, but that's what grass does. It's nature, baby. A document won't revise itself. It takes an army of jackasses to handle that one.
Also, after I finished mowing, my grandmother would give me a ham and cheese sandwich and strawberry soda. If they were out of strawberry soda, I would have a Coke. Then I would get a five dollar bill from my grandfather. Not too shabby.
What does all this have to do with mowing my grandparents' lawn? Not much. It's just that the transition from small, happy, small-town Josh to teenage, unhappy, small-town Josh occurred while I was mowing their lawn. Thinking about riding my bike to their house made me think about what I saw when I rode my bike, which got me reminiscing about all that hometown shit. That job wasn't bad either. Mowing a lawn isn't much fun, but it's physical, not too hard, and you actually accomplish something, unlike the job I just quit. I show up. The grass is too high. I cut the grass. Not an amazing feat, but fulfilling in its own small way. A far cry from the endless bureaucratic loop of my last four years, in which I would a) proofread a document b) document would undergo slight, usually meaningless revision c) document would return d) I would proofread document again e) rinse and repeat. Sure, the grass grows back, but that's what grass does. It's nature, baby. A document won't revise itself. It takes an army of jackasses to handle that one.
Also, after I finished mowing, my grandmother would give me a ham and cheese sandwich and strawberry soda. If they were out of strawberry soda, I would have a Coke. Then I would get a five dollar bill from my grandfather. Not too shabby.
Monday, December 06, 2004
Working for the weekend: Job 1
Is there anything worse than terrible world music? Right now I'm listening to a multinational clusterfuck of badly overproduced swill on an otherwise decent compilation album. It's the aural equivalent of Peter Gabriel rubbing his engorged member on every item in your local Pier 1 Import. Sorry about the digression, but I can't stomach that shit. Remember, protesters, globalisation is also to blame for the horrible miscegenation of 1987 stadium rock production values and watered-down, scrubbed-up indigenous musics located in the record collections of pseudo-intellectual (often pony-tailed) assholes who think culture is something you can purchase. Also, at least one of these guys owns a ferret. I know, because he brought it into the record store with him every time he decided to buy some masterpiece like "Sting and Youssou N'Dour Celebrate the Music of Bulgaria: All-Gregorian Chant Version." I don't care how many Putamayo compilations you own, no self-respecting woman is going to sleep with you if you walk around with a ferret on your shoulder. Fuck those guys.
Anyway, my first job was pretty good. I rode my bike three blocks to my aunt and uncle's house whenever they called me, and babysat my cousins Mariah, Andy, and Gunnar. My uncle has a large television and a great record collection. In addition, the kids were easy to watch and usually well-behaved. Their favorite game was to turn some music on pretty loud, turn off the lights, and run around like crazy people. That suited me since I could bring over a bunch of my favorite music, play it loud on awesome speakers, and wait for the kids to get tired and fall asleep. I thought most of the music I listened to then was deeply on the cutting edge. I'm embarrassed by it now, albeit affectionately embarrassed (Red Hot Chili Peppers, Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains, Murphy's Law, Follow For Now, Infectious Grooves, Metallica, a predilection for slap bass in a heavy metal context, etc.) I'm glad I also explored my uncle's record collection (Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Beatles, Stones, Hendrix, Howlin' Wolf, Alice Cooper, Zeppelin, Stevie Wonder, etc.), which elevated my musical taste a few notches. Once I found a dirty joke book in my uncle's room. I read it and memorized as many jokes as I could. I had great material for the entirety of eighth grade study hall. Solid gold. That was a pretty good job. Better than most. Mariah's getting married soon. Gunnar just finished his first semester of college. He's majoring in physical therapy. Andy's in Iraq. He's already been there longer than he should have been, and he has to go back again next year. I'm sorry this post ended like "American Graffiti."
Tomorrow, or whenever I get around to it: Mowing my grandparents' lawn.
Anyway, my first job was pretty good. I rode my bike three blocks to my aunt and uncle's house whenever they called me, and babysat my cousins Mariah, Andy, and Gunnar. My uncle has a large television and a great record collection. In addition, the kids were easy to watch and usually well-behaved. Their favorite game was to turn some music on pretty loud, turn off the lights, and run around like crazy people. That suited me since I could bring over a bunch of my favorite music, play it loud on awesome speakers, and wait for the kids to get tired and fall asleep. I thought most of the music I listened to then was deeply on the cutting edge. I'm embarrassed by it now, albeit affectionately embarrassed (Red Hot Chili Peppers, Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains, Murphy's Law, Follow For Now, Infectious Grooves, Metallica, a predilection for slap bass in a heavy metal context, etc.) I'm glad I also explored my uncle's record collection (Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Beatles, Stones, Hendrix, Howlin' Wolf, Alice Cooper, Zeppelin, Stevie Wonder, etc.), which elevated my musical taste a few notches. Once I found a dirty joke book in my uncle's room. I read it and memorized as many jokes as I could. I had great material for the entirety of eighth grade study hall. Solid gold. That was a pretty good job. Better than most. Mariah's getting married soon. Gunnar just finished his first semester of college. He's majoring in physical therapy. Andy's in Iraq. He's already been there longer than he should have been, and he has to go back again next year. I'm sorry this post ended like "American Graffiti."
Tomorrow, or whenever I get around to it: Mowing my grandparents' lawn.
Sunday, December 05, 2004
Unemployment Journal: Day Five
Things haven't been very productive on the writing front, excuses being sickness, lost mail, minor but affordable car trouble (timing not so great, am I right?), ennui and self-loathing, worrying about money, doing a lot of reading, buying music and listening to it, watching movies. Sometimes I think I might have made a mistake quitting the comfortable state job, but I didn't quit my job because I want to be comfortable. Patterns need to be broken for life to move forward. Discomfort, unease, change, uncertainty. These are your friends. You can't spend your life doing something you don't want to do because you're worried about insurance and a steady paycheck. Money is meaningless. Money isn't worth shit. You don't need that much to eat. All you can do with money is spend it. You can save it, but then you end up spending it later. If you never spend it, someone else will spend it after you die. That dollar in your wallet is eventually going to be spent. What else can it do? Nothing. At the same time, I realize that I grew up in the middle class, I'm white, I'm an American, and I have a college education. It's a privilege that I get to quit my job, that I have enough to tide me over three or four months until I'm forced to prostitute myself for rent and turkey sandwiches again. Instead of having a horrible life, I was lucky enough to be born into mediocrity. Hooray for me!
I watched these movies during the weekend:
Intervista (Federico Fellini)
M. Butterfly (David Cronenberg)
Four Adventures of Reinette and Mirabelle (Eric Rohmer)
Written on the Wind (Douglas Sirk)
I bought some music (already budgeted in before I quit the job):
Various-Dave Godin's Deep Soul Treasures Vol. 1
Dramatics-The Best of the Dramatics
John Frusciante/Josh Klinghoffer-A Sphere in the Heart of Silence
Kaada/Patton-Romances
Oneida-Nice/Splittin' Peaches
I'm also growing my beard again. Right now it's at the stage where it itches and I look like a fucking derelict. Another week or two and maybe I won't look like trash.
I watched these movies during the weekend:
Intervista (Federico Fellini)
M. Butterfly (David Cronenberg)
Four Adventures of Reinette and Mirabelle (Eric Rohmer)
Written on the Wind (Douglas Sirk)
I bought some music (already budgeted in before I quit the job):
Various-Dave Godin's Deep Soul Treasures Vol. 1
Dramatics-The Best of the Dramatics
John Frusciante/Josh Klinghoffer-A Sphere in the Heart of Silence
Kaada/Patton-Romances
Oneida-Nice/Splittin' Peaches
I'm also growing my beard again. Right now it's at the stage where it itches and I look like a fucking derelict. Another week or two and maybe I won't look like trash.
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
Working for the weekend: a tragedy in ten acts
I have had ten paying jobs in my life.
1. Babysitting my cousins Mariah, Andy, and Gunnar.
2. Mowing my grandparents' lawn.
3. Stocking shelves and bagging groceries at Jack and Jill.
4. Flipping burgers at Hardee's.
5. Telemarketing Part One: Working for assholes, selling subpar NASCAR videos to big dummies.
6. Telemarketing Part Two: Selling tickets to a charity dinner for firemen.
7. Bagging groceries and cashiering at Russ's Market.
8. Cashiering at Homer's Music and Gifts, a record store.
9. Writing and copy editing for The Daily Nebraskan, my college newspaper.
10. Proofreading for the Texas Legislative Council.
I will get into the specifics of each job, and which ones deserve their own little corners of hell, each night for the next couple of weeks.
1. Babysitting my cousins Mariah, Andy, and Gunnar.
2. Mowing my grandparents' lawn.
3. Stocking shelves and bagging groceries at Jack and Jill.
4. Flipping burgers at Hardee's.
5. Telemarketing Part One: Working for assholes, selling subpar NASCAR videos to big dummies.
6. Telemarketing Part Two: Selling tickets to a charity dinner for firemen.
7. Bagging groceries and cashiering at Russ's Market.
8. Cashiering at Homer's Music and Gifts, a record store.
9. Writing and copy editing for The Daily Nebraskan, my college newspaper.
10. Proofreading for the Texas Legislative Council.
I will get into the specifics of each job, and which ones deserve their own little corners of hell, each night for the next couple of weeks.
Unemployment Journal: Day One
I thought today, my first day as a free man, would be awesome. It was decidedly not. I woke up feeling a little sickly, which I assumed was the remnant of last night's boozefest with my pallies from the former job, but it took such a turn for the unbelievably sickly that I had to rule out the hangover theory. I had a headache so intense that it made me vomit up a little bit of bile and remained intense even after taking four Ibuprofen. I was also nauseous, too hot, and too cold. I didn't accomplish any of the day's goals, which included going to the grocery store, getting an oil change, and doing some writing and revising on a few stories. I did drift in and out of consciousness, drool on several pillows, clutch my head in agony, punch myself in the forehead a few times, and curse everything. In addition, the wife and I have been stressed out about post office woes. We were out of town last week and had the post office hold our mail. Except they didn't hold our mail. They fucked up. There was mail in the box when we got home. When Kristy went to the post office to see why there was mail in our box, they were holding what they claimed was the rest of the mail. It was three magazines. We should have also received some packages, bills, etc. They couldn't find those. Then we find out that our regular mail carrier was on vacation, and the substitute carrier set the packages down in front of our door. These packages were stolen. This is the tenth time we've had trouble with this particular post office. I hope the motherfucking place burns down with the incompetent staff inside. Back to today. The combination of post office stress and sickliness pretty much turned me into a nasty little prick. Needless to say, I had a fight with my wife. Then I felt a little better, so I vacuumed the apartment. This made me feel a little nauseous again. Then my wife started feeling sick and went to bed early. There is no way tomorrow could be worse. I'm still looking forward to the unemployment experiment, but day one sucked a horse cock.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
This is the Big Easy, baby. We do things a little differently down here.
Today is my last day at work. As of 6:00 p.m. tonight, I will be unemployed. I am happy about this. Also scared. So I'm going to change the format of the blog to reflect this change in my life. I'll still tell you about movies I watch and absurdities I witness, but the focus of the blog will primarily be a journal of my unemployment and my thoughts about working for a living. I will also be soliciting bad and absurd work stories from you instead of having a Robot of the Week contest. Tally ho.
I guess I need to pick a robot winner
Let's put this Robot of the Week contest to bed. It's been two weeks plus since I put up the robot. So, the winner is Kristy for her name Trumpetino, the Tiny Tooter. Congratulations, Kristy. Hopefully, Blogspot hasn't posted a link to any advertisement this time. Cocksuckers.
I'm going to kick this blog's ass
Weird. I just noticed that certain words in old posts (e.g. "guitars," "no plans," "t-shirts") have been turned into links directing you to sales of guitars and t-shirts and, weirdly, a search for the phrase "no plans." I attempted to erase these links and repost the posts, but it didn't work. Is this some insidious, underhanded attempt by Blogspot to insert advertisements in my blog against my wishes and without notice, or am I being hacked? Anyway, if you click on a link and it leads you to an advertisement, I apologize. It's not my fault and it's not what I want. And fuck you, Blogspot.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
I'm back, M.F.'s
I'm back in town after a week in the wilds of western Nebraska, my homeland, for Thanksgiving. I'll spare you the details except to mention that my five-year-old cousin Dylan came home from school a few weeks ago, walked into the house, and calmly announced to his parents, "George Bush has lied to the American people." Excellent. He also unwittingly coined a fantastic new phrase, to be uttered when you are stunned by someone's unexpected behavior (in this case, my aunt squirting canned whipped cream into people's mouths after sprucing up the pumpkin pie): "Man, I can't even talk to that!"
I saw a wonderful movie tonight, and if you live in the Austin area, you have one more chance to see it at the Alamo Drafthouse downtown on Tuesday night. It's called Los Angeles Plays Itself (Thom Andersen), and it's a three-hour essay film about the city Andersen grew up in and how it has been portrayed on film. For those of you who are turned off by the phrase "three-hour essay film," let me mention that it flies by, is accessible, engaging, and funny, is filled with clips from nearly 200 movies set in Los Angeles, and, if you've spent any time thinking about film, architecture, Los Angeles, Hollywood, memory and nostalgia, a city's gradually changing landscape, and the disparity of wealth between classes in the United States and the effect of your class status on the way you observe art, this movie can change the way you think and the way you watch movies. I'm serious. This is a phenomenal achievement, and one of the greatest pieces of film criticism this country has produced. If you're interested in any of this stuff, see this movie. See it, see it, see it. Tuesday night. I'm not being paid. It's just really fucking good. Alamo Drafthouse downtown. Come on. See it. 9:30 p.m. I know that's kind of late for a three-hour movie, but take your diaper off and go see it. It's not on video or DVD, and so far there are no plans for a DVD release. What the hell happens on a Tuesday anyway? Nothing.
I saw a wonderful movie tonight, and if you live in the Austin area, you have one more chance to see it at the Alamo Drafthouse downtown on Tuesday night. It's called Los Angeles Plays Itself (Thom Andersen), and it's a three-hour essay film about the city Andersen grew up in and how it has been portrayed on film. For those of you who are turned off by the phrase "three-hour essay film," let me mention that it flies by, is accessible, engaging, and funny, is filled with clips from nearly 200 movies set in Los Angeles, and, if you've spent any time thinking about film, architecture, Los Angeles, Hollywood, memory and nostalgia, a city's gradually changing landscape, and the disparity of wealth between classes in the United States and the effect of your class status on the way you observe art, this movie can change the way you think and the way you watch movies. I'm serious. This is a phenomenal achievement, and one of the greatest pieces of film criticism this country has produced. If you're interested in any of this stuff, see this movie. See it, see it, see it. Tuesday night. I'm not being paid. It's just really fucking good. Alamo Drafthouse downtown. Come on. See it. 9:30 p.m. I know that's kind of late for a three-hour movie, but take your diaper off and go see it. It's not on video or DVD, and so far there are no plans for a DVD release. What the hell happens on a Tuesday anyway? Nothing.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Gone for a few days
Hey everybody. There will probably be no new posts until a week from Monday because I'm going home for Thanksgiving. I might be able to get to a computer this week, but most likely not. Here are the movies I watched over the weekend:
Wedding in Galilee (Michel Khleifi) This was the first, and maybe only, Israeli-filmed movie with a Palestinian perspective.
Lost & Found Video Night Vol. 4: All Music Edition (Various) Awesome.
Woman in the Dunes (Hiroshi Teshigahara) Creepy, beautiful, excellent.
The Color of Money (Martin Scorsese) Great entertainment, but not really up there with Scorsese's best stuff. Lots of interesting supporting players. There is something weirdly unsettling about young Tom Cruise.
Currently reading: The Immediate Experience: Movies, Comics, Theatre, and Other Aspects of Popular Culture by Robert Warshow
Wedding in Galilee (Michel Khleifi) This was the first, and maybe only, Israeli-filmed movie with a Palestinian perspective.
Lost & Found Video Night Vol. 4: All Music Edition (Various) Awesome.
Woman in the Dunes (Hiroshi Teshigahara) Creepy, beautiful, excellent.
The Color of Money (Martin Scorsese) Great entertainment, but not really up there with Scorsese's best stuff. Lots of interesting supporting players. There is something weirdly unsettling about young Tom Cruise.
Currently reading: The Immediate Experience: Movies, Comics, Theatre, and Other Aspects of Popular Culture by Robert Warshow
Friday, November 19, 2004
Adventures after hours
Last night was pretty good for a Thursday. After work, I went to a happy hour and had some drinks with work friends. When I got home, my friend Aaron left a message saying to call him back no matter the lateness of the hour because he needed to know if the singers involved in "We Are the World" wore sweaters or t-shirts. My gut instinct told me sweaters, but I had to call him back after checking it out on the Internet. (Answer: sweaters and t-shirts. Everybody won.) Then I felt like having another beer even though I had three giant ones at the happy hour, so I walked to the creepy convenience store two blocks from my apartment. The convenience store is creepy because there is a thin film of dust over everything except the beer, transients like to hang out in the alley next to it, the owner relentlessly hits on my wife when she goes there so she doesn't go there anymore, and I'm pretty sure I caught the aftermath of a drug deal gone bad when I was there once because a drunken, bearded man wearing camouflage was arguing with the owner about why they didn't get their "shit" from another party and how he was pissed off and willing to do something about it. Anyway, I was glad I went last night because I was privy to this wonderful scene:
(Young blonde kid, maybe 19 years old at the absolute most, walks into the convenience store with a big grin on his face.)
Kid: Do you have a beer garden here?
Owner: A beer garden?
Kid: Yeah, a fuckin' garden with beer in it.
Owner: We have beer in the cooler back there, but I don't know what you're talking about with a beer garden.
Kid: Cool.
(Kid walks to the cooler where I am already standing, trying to decide what beer to buy. Kid is looking at the cooler full of 4os. Kid grins even wider and nods head rhythmically. He looks at me and smiles and nods his head even more.)
Kid, in Spicoli tone: Yeahhhhh. Alright. Ha ha. Yeahhhhh. Yeahhhh. Alright.
(Kid grabs two 40s and walks to counter. I grab six pack and stand behind him in line. Kid is still smiling, saying "Yeahhh" and "alright" and nodding vigorously. Kid looks out front door of convenience store, nods, smiles, and waves. I look out door and see an even younger kid, maybe 17, sitting in a Bronco. Younger kid smiles, nods, and waves back. Kid stretches arms out in guitar shape, a 40 in one hand and a 40 in the other, and plays air guitar on his beers.)
Owner: You have some ID?
Kid, in exuberantly exaggerated game show host style: Yes, I certainly do!
(Kid plunks ID down on counter, buys beer, and leaves.)
(Young blonde kid, maybe 19 years old at the absolute most, walks into the convenience store with a big grin on his face.)
Kid: Do you have a beer garden here?
Owner: A beer garden?
Kid: Yeah, a fuckin' garden with beer in it.
Owner: We have beer in the cooler back there, but I don't know what you're talking about with a beer garden.
Kid: Cool.
(Kid walks to the cooler where I am already standing, trying to decide what beer to buy. Kid is looking at the cooler full of 4os. Kid grins even wider and nods head rhythmically. He looks at me and smiles and nods his head even more.)
Kid, in Spicoli tone: Yeahhhhh. Alright. Ha ha. Yeahhhhh. Yeahhhh. Alright.
(Kid grabs two 40s and walks to counter. I grab six pack and stand behind him in line. Kid is still smiling, saying "Yeahhh" and "alright" and nodding vigorously. Kid looks out front door of convenience store, nods, smiles, and waves. I look out door and see an even younger kid, maybe 17, sitting in a Bronco. Younger kid smiles, nods, and waves back. Kid stretches arms out in guitar shape, a 40 in one hand and a 40 in the other, and plays air guitar on his beers.)
Owner: You have some ID?
Kid, in exuberantly exaggerated game show host style: Yes, I certainly do!
(Kid plunks ID down on counter, buys beer, and leaves.)
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Wads vs. Warts
Last Saturday, the old lady and I felt slightly shitty, on the verge of fevers and/or colds, and it was rainy outside, so we ordered Chinese food for lunch instead of going out to eat or whipping something up. "Weird Science" was on TV, and we watched it while we ate. It was edited for television, so all the profanity was cleaned up (e.g. "tits" became "bosoms," "shit" became "shoot," etc.). So far, so predictable. Then came the most baffling network censorship decision I've seen in some time. Bill Paxton, playing Chet, says "You're stewed, butt wad," in the original version. For some unexplainable reason, this line was changed to "You're stewed, butt wart." Why? Can someone explain this to me? If you are the kind of person who gets offended by the phrase "butt wad," wouldn't "butt wart" also cause you much consternation and chagrin? Would anyone watching "Weird Science" on Saturday afternoon be offended by either term? Is "wad" on the network blacklist? What the fuck? What the fuck indeed?
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
I was unaware of this fetish and still do not know exactly how it is performed
My friend Matt received a porno spam e-mail with this subject heading yesterday:
"Sluts suck cock through slice of pizza"
"Sluts suck cock through slice of pizza"
Splat! Bort! Zert!
Hey, everybody. Go over to my friend Joolie's blog and check out the dick puncher button. You'll be glad you did.
I saw Only Angels Have Wings (Howard Hawks) last night at the Alamo Drafthouse. It was pretty great, which didn't really surprise me since every Howard Hawks film I've seen has been great. It was part of the Austin Film Society's Jean Arthur retrospective, but it wasn't one of Arthur's best roles. She seems a little too polite and subdued to be a Hawks woman. She has a couple of really funny scenes, but the reason to see the movie is Cary Grant and his interactions with Thomas Mitchell and Richard Barthelmess.
You know, I always mention what movies I've been watching, but I never mention what books I read or music I listen to. This is probably because music is such an ongoing constant around the apartment that it would be too hard to effectively document and name-dropping a bunch of authors could make me look like a pretentious twat. But, this blog is also a way for me to keep a record of what I've been doing, something I can go back to and check out what I was listening to/watching/reading at a particular time. So I should mention that other stuff too.
Currently reading: Searches & Seizures by Stanley Elkin
Last big music splurge: Doug Gillard-Salamander, John Frusciante-Inside of Emptiness, Isis-Panopticon, Flat Earth Society-Isms, Ted Leo + Pharmacists-Shake the Sheets, Neko Case-The Tigers Have Spoken, and The Residents-Commercial Album.
I saw Only Angels Have Wings (Howard Hawks) last night at the Alamo Drafthouse. It was pretty great, which didn't really surprise me since every Howard Hawks film I've seen has been great. It was part of the Austin Film Society's Jean Arthur retrospective, but it wasn't one of Arthur's best roles. She seems a little too polite and subdued to be a Hawks woman. She has a couple of really funny scenes, but the reason to see the movie is Cary Grant and his interactions with Thomas Mitchell and Richard Barthelmess.
You know, I always mention what movies I've been watching, but I never mention what books I read or music I listen to. This is probably because music is such an ongoing constant around the apartment that it would be too hard to effectively document and name-dropping a bunch of authors could make me look like a pretentious twat. But, this blog is also a way for me to keep a record of what I've been doing, something I can go back to and check out what I was listening to/watching/reading at a particular time. So I should mention that other stuff too.
Currently reading: Searches & Seizures by Stanley Elkin
Last big music splurge: Doug Gillard-Salamander, John Frusciante-Inside of Emptiness, Isis-Panopticon, Flat Earth Society-Isms, Ted Leo + Pharmacists-Shake the Sheets, Neko Case-The Tigers Have Spoken, and The Residents-Commercial Album.
Monday, November 15, 2004
A new friend
I would like to direct everyone to the blog of my new friend, Bobo Teebo. He moved to Austin from the remote Teebo islands last month and is very anxious to make new friends. Say hello to Bobo at www.bobolovesyou.blogspot.com and feel the positivity. He's a very positive fellow, and a true gentleman.
Iron Man
I forgot to mention I was summoned for jury duty. Pretty exciting, eh? Since I work for the Texas Legislature, I am exempt from jury duty, but I will be free and easy (unemployed) when they call me in, so I couldn't get out of it. I am confused/excited/irritated/curious/angry about this so-called "jury duty." I searched Google for my judge to find out what kind of juryin' I am expected to supply and was dismayed/relieved to find out he presides over civil, not criminal, court. I was also momentarily excited to find out my judge was involved in this bizarre incident, before realizing it was probably someone else with the same name.
Am I Going Insane (Radio)
Nothing much to say, just wanted to use another Black Sabbath song as a post title. Here are a few more of my favorite Black Sabbath song titles:
Supertzar
Children of the Grave
National Acrobat
Spiral Architect
Electric Funeral
Fairies Wear Boots
Supertzar
Children of the Grave
National Acrobat
Spiral Architect
Electric Funeral
Fairies Wear Boots
Sabbath Bloody Sabbath
Here are the movies I watched this week, lightning round-style:
On the big screen:
Undertow (David Gordon Green) He's 29 years old and he's already made three distinctly original, flawed but wonderful movies. I would be resentful and jealous if I didn't like what he was doing so much.
On video:
Miller's Crossing (Joel Coen) I've seen this a few times, but my wife (that's still weird to say) hadn't seen it yet. I have mixed feelings about the artistic worth of the Coen brothers, but I do love some of their movies and am always entertained. I like this one a lot.
King Lear (Jean-Luc Godard) Confusing as hell, frustrating, sometimes illuminating. As far as I know, this is Godard's only entirely English-speaking film, and the cast is really bizarre: theater director Peter Sellars, film director Leos Carax, Godard himself, Norman Mailer, Molly Ringwald, Burgess Meredith, and Woody Allen.
35 Up (Michael Apted) A film crew interviewed a group of British schoolchildren from different class backgrounds when they were 7, and director Apted has been back every seven years to see what's happened to them. All the films are compelling, but I found this one less interesting than either "28 Up" or "42 Up." Most of the subjects at the age of 35 were settled into a routine, most had small children, and had found a career they wanted to stick with, so it wasn't exactly cinematic dynamite. Still, to be able to see footage of people at ages 7, 14, 21, 28, and 35 is a rare opportunity that made me think about what I'm doing with my own life.
Summer (Eric Rohmer) This seems fluffy and inconsequential, and the heroine seems whiny and melodramatic, but it slowly turns into yet another excellent film from a guy who's made 70 billion of them, mostly with similar themes. How does he do it? Rohmer is in his nineties now and still making good films, the majority about young, attractive women and their ethical and emotional problems. And most of them are distinctly different from each other, funny, and visually exciting.
On the big screen:
Undertow (David Gordon Green) He's 29 years old and he's already made three distinctly original, flawed but wonderful movies. I would be resentful and jealous if I didn't like what he was doing so much.
On video:
Miller's Crossing (Joel Coen) I've seen this a few times, but my wife (that's still weird to say) hadn't seen it yet. I have mixed feelings about the artistic worth of the Coen brothers, but I do love some of their movies and am always entertained. I like this one a lot.
King Lear (Jean-Luc Godard) Confusing as hell, frustrating, sometimes illuminating. As far as I know, this is Godard's only entirely English-speaking film, and the cast is really bizarre: theater director Peter Sellars, film director Leos Carax, Godard himself, Norman Mailer, Molly Ringwald, Burgess Meredith, and Woody Allen.
35 Up (Michael Apted) A film crew interviewed a group of British schoolchildren from different class backgrounds when they were 7, and director Apted has been back every seven years to see what's happened to them. All the films are compelling, but I found this one less interesting than either "28 Up" or "42 Up." Most of the subjects at the age of 35 were settled into a routine, most had small children, and had found a career they wanted to stick with, so it wasn't exactly cinematic dynamite. Still, to be able to see footage of people at ages 7, 14, 21, 28, and 35 is a rare opportunity that made me think about what I'm doing with my own life.
Summer (Eric Rohmer) This seems fluffy and inconsequential, and the heroine seems whiny and melodramatic, but it slowly turns into yet another excellent film from a guy who's made 70 billion of them, mostly with similar themes. How does he do it? Rohmer is in his nineties now and still making good films, the majority about young, attractive women and their ethical and emotional problems. And most of them are distinctly different from each other, funny, and visually exciting.
War Pigs (aka robot of the week)
This week's robot of the week winner is Nick for F. Scott McGizmo Nuts. Congratulations, Nick. Here is the new Robot of the Week. This is the second-to-last chance to name a robot. At the conclusion of the next monthly contest, I am retiring the Robot of the Week contest. The novelty has run its course.
Black Sabbath Monday
Hey, everybody. I work for the Texas Legislature. They are in session every other year. When the legislature meets, we have more work than our small staff can handle so a shitload of temporary workers are hired. Most of them have started now. My little office, which is just the right size for little ol' me, is now home to four people. They're all nice, but it super-sucks. I like my alone time to read, surf the Web, stare at the wall, etc. It's not really possible with four people in a room, so I have limited blogging time today. That's why I'm declaring it Black Sabbath Monday. Today, my posts will all have Black Sabbath songs for titles. Also, my posts will be very short.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Obligatory post
Hey,
I don't have much to say, but it's been a few days, so I should probably post something. I've been feeling sluggish and surly for a few weeks, not much enthusiasm, anti-social. I still hate my job even though I put in my notice and will no longer be working there as of December 1. You'd think this would make it easier to come to work knowing the end was in sight, but I still have to give myself a pep talk every morning to get out of bed. Also, I hate the president. And the vice president. And his cabinet. And Congress. And all the titty-baby Democrats who have no guts. I'm tired of what I eat for lunch. I'm trying to keep the misanthropy at bay, but it's taken hold for now. It will eventually leave and I'll like people again, but it's really going to take a while this time. I had yesterday off, that was something. And I watched a couple of movies I liked a lot, Forbidden Zone (Richard Elfman) and The Son (Luc and Jean-Pierre Dardenne). Both movies made me feel good, momentarily: "Forbidden Zone" for its enthusiasm toward old Tex Avery-style cartoons and musicals and its offbeat sense of humor, and "The Son" for its minimalism, an emphasis on forgiveness instead of revenge, and its ability to be hopeful without any sentimentality or manipulation. It's funny how much I like humanist art but how little I like actual humans, including myself. Nah, that's not entirely true. People, you're alright. Except for the fundamentalist Christians. You can eat shit. Sorry for the incoherent post, everybody. Goodnight, and God bless.
I don't have much to say, but it's been a few days, so I should probably post something. I've been feeling sluggish and surly for a few weeks, not much enthusiasm, anti-social. I still hate my job even though I put in my notice and will no longer be working there as of December 1. You'd think this would make it easier to come to work knowing the end was in sight, but I still have to give myself a pep talk every morning to get out of bed. Also, I hate the president. And the vice president. And his cabinet. And Congress. And all the titty-baby Democrats who have no guts. I'm tired of what I eat for lunch. I'm trying to keep the misanthropy at bay, but it's taken hold for now. It will eventually leave and I'll like people again, but it's really going to take a while this time. I had yesterday off, that was something. And I watched a couple of movies I liked a lot, Forbidden Zone (Richard Elfman) and The Son (Luc and Jean-Pierre Dardenne). Both movies made me feel good, momentarily: "Forbidden Zone" for its enthusiasm toward old Tex Avery-style cartoons and musicals and its offbeat sense of humor, and "The Son" for its minimalism, an emphasis on forgiveness instead of revenge, and its ability to be hopeful without any sentimentality or manipulation. It's funny how much I like humanist art but how little I like actual humans, including myself. Nah, that's not entirely true. People, you're alright. Except for the fundamentalist Christians. You can eat shit. Sorry for the incoherent post, everybody. Goodnight, and God bless.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
The Man Who Refused to Take His Gorilla Mask Off, Part 10
(This segment to be read aloud in the tone perfected by friendly elderly narrators of made-for-TV Christmas specials, especially those involving claymation reindeer)
It has been a whirlwind month for our hero, dear readers, a whirlwind month indeed. Steve Smithers, a former office worker, an Average Joe if you will, has transformed himself into an ape in shining armor, a rescuer of children, two little children not unlike yourselves. His days are filled with praise and glory, with adulation, with parades and ceremonies and commercial endorsements and carnivals and complimentary meals. The citizens of Fancytown have embraced Apeman Steve. They've adopted him as their mascot. Mayor Brannigan even gave him the key to the city, an honor bestowed on only a fraction of those who live in our glorious metropolis. Yes, children, Apeman Steve's life has taken quite an interesting turn. Just a quick peek at what he has been up to in the last four weeks is enough to make your kindly old narrator's head spin. Let's gaze into our crystal ball at just a few of his recent activities, children. Look, everyone. There he is as the grandmaster of the annual Fancytown parade. Doesn't he look wonderful? Local billionaire Jackson Whittaker Harkington allowed Steve to ride his famous Clydesdale, Old Fuckface, and Steve proved himself a worthy horseman. Look at his poise astride the huge beast, kids. He cuts an almost presidential figure, wouldn't you say? What's this? A podium at the end of the parade route? And Mayor Brannigan again? How fantastic. The mayor is making a very special announcement. He's declaring it Apeman Steve Day in Fancytown. He says there will be a carnival on this date next year. Shifting my gaze on the crystal ball, I see Steve in front of a camera crew, holding an enormous sandwich. And who's that standing next to him, children? Why, it's none other than former NFL great John Elway. Steve is appearing with Mr. Elway in a commercial for Crazy Louie's Really Big Sandwiches. This commercial is going to be broadcast all over Fancytown. Isn't that wonderful, kids? And what do we have here? Steve is appearing onstage at the Fancytown Municipal Auditorium. He's been given the incredible honor of introducing the nationally acclaimed extreme gymnastics and dance troupe Keep It Real Tony & The Just Say Yes To Life Dancers. What an honor. Look at those kids move. They're quite an amazing troupe, aren't they? Now look at Steve walk down the street. Everyone waves to him and calls out his name. He's become quite the local celebrity. Ooh, now we're in Apeman Steve's apartment. It's a nice little place, not too fancy but a comfortable and attractive home nonetheless. Steve's taking his shoes off and relaxing in his favorite chair. Now he gets up from the chair and takes a few items from the cupboard. Here's where we cut the shit, kids. Apeman Steve is drinking vodka from the bottle, straight, through a silly straw. He's also looking at pornography. Deviant pornography. He wants you and all the others in Fancytown to know, children, that you can stick your accolades and attention right up your ass. He's tired of your insincere flattery and self-serving starfuckery. He wants you to know that John Elway was a boring dick, the Clydesdale was poorly behaved, and the dance troupe completely sucked. He's an apeman, kids, and he needs an apewoman. Guess what else, children? Maybe he needs to get out of Fancytown to find her. Maybe Apeman Steve will take his commercial endorsement money and hit the road. Maybe Apeman Steve wants to see what this crazy country really looks like. Maybe he wants to get in adventures, stay in hotels, get in bar fights, and feel the open road. And maybe, just maybe, Apeman Steve will find love. But that's another story for another time. Until then, keep reaching for the stars. Goodnight, children, and get the fuck out of my house.
It has been a whirlwind month for our hero, dear readers, a whirlwind month indeed. Steve Smithers, a former office worker, an Average Joe if you will, has transformed himself into an ape in shining armor, a rescuer of children, two little children not unlike yourselves. His days are filled with praise and glory, with adulation, with parades and ceremonies and commercial endorsements and carnivals and complimentary meals. The citizens of Fancytown have embraced Apeman Steve. They've adopted him as their mascot. Mayor Brannigan even gave him the key to the city, an honor bestowed on only a fraction of those who live in our glorious metropolis. Yes, children, Apeman Steve's life has taken quite an interesting turn. Just a quick peek at what he has been up to in the last four weeks is enough to make your kindly old narrator's head spin. Let's gaze into our crystal ball at just a few of his recent activities, children. Look, everyone. There he is as the grandmaster of the annual Fancytown parade. Doesn't he look wonderful? Local billionaire Jackson Whittaker Harkington allowed Steve to ride his famous Clydesdale, Old Fuckface, and Steve proved himself a worthy horseman. Look at his poise astride the huge beast, kids. He cuts an almost presidential figure, wouldn't you say? What's this? A podium at the end of the parade route? And Mayor Brannigan again? How fantastic. The mayor is making a very special announcement. He's declaring it Apeman Steve Day in Fancytown. He says there will be a carnival on this date next year. Shifting my gaze on the crystal ball, I see Steve in front of a camera crew, holding an enormous sandwich. And who's that standing next to him, children? Why, it's none other than former NFL great John Elway. Steve is appearing with Mr. Elway in a commercial for Crazy Louie's Really Big Sandwiches. This commercial is going to be broadcast all over Fancytown. Isn't that wonderful, kids? And what do we have here? Steve is appearing onstage at the Fancytown Municipal Auditorium. He's been given the incredible honor of introducing the nationally acclaimed extreme gymnastics and dance troupe Keep It Real Tony & The Just Say Yes To Life Dancers. What an honor. Look at those kids move. They're quite an amazing troupe, aren't they? Now look at Steve walk down the street. Everyone waves to him and calls out his name. He's become quite the local celebrity. Ooh, now we're in Apeman Steve's apartment. It's a nice little place, not too fancy but a comfortable and attractive home nonetheless. Steve's taking his shoes off and relaxing in his favorite chair. Now he gets up from the chair and takes a few items from the cupboard. Here's where we cut the shit, kids. Apeman Steve is drinking vodka from the bottle, straight, through a silly straw. He's also looking at pornography. Deviant pornography. He wants you and all the others in Fancytown to know, children, that you can stick your accolades and attention right up your ass. He's tired of your insincere flattery and self-serving starfuckery. He wants you to know that John Elway was a boring dick, the Clydesdale was poorly behaved, and the dance troupe completely sucked. He's an apeman, kids, and he needs an apewoman. Guess what else, children? Maybe he needs to get out of Fancytown to find her. Maybe Apeman Steve will take his commercial endorsement money and hit the road. Maybe Apeman Steve wants to see what this crazy country really looks like. Maybe he wants to get in adventures, stay in hotels, get in bar fights, and feel the open road. And maybe, just maybe, Apeman Steve will find love. But that's another story for another time. Until then, keep reaching for the stars. Goodnight, children, and get the fuck out of my house.
Monday, November 08, 2004
Am I a bad person because I don't like office potlucks?
I guess I'm the devil, but I fucking hate organized, forced leisure activities and potluck dinners, especially those of the holiday variety. Maybe I'm an antisocial prick, but I just get so grumpy when stuff like this happens. Whoopee, it's not bad enough that I have too many organized family dinners, now I have to figure something out for work, too! I can't really cook Thanksgiving food, I've never been a big fan of Thanksgiving food, I don't like anything that's been planned and/or organized, and I just want to go to work in peace without a lot of forced whoop-de-doo. I also get really anxious when there's more than, say, five people in a room unless they happen to be really good friends or I'm pretty drunk, so the idea of 50 people standing around the conference room, exchanging pleasantries and/or witticisms while holding paper plates full of holiday food fills me with complete and utter dread. Maybe I'm an asshole, but why do extroverts and planner-types get to control the world, and why do I look like a dickhead when I don't want to participate?
Robot of the Week contest winner and new Robot of the Week
The contest winner this week is Cuttyblacksow and his robot name, the McSweeney Dick Kisser 5.0. Congratulations, Cutty! Here is our new Robot of the Week. Give it a name, for the love of Christ. I'm considering retiring the robot of the week contest after the next monthly winner in two weeks. I will probably still post pictures of robots from time to time, but I'm getting tired of the old robot-naming game. Maybe I'll think up a new contest.
Films: The Movie (dinner version)
Hey, kids. I watched some more movies this weekend. I don't feel like writing about them, though, so I'm going to rate each film by assigning it a particular food item. Maybe you can guess whether I liked these films or not based on their corresponding meals.
First up, on the big screen at the Arbor:
Sideways (Alexander Payne) Cheese enchiladas with poblano sauce, rice, tortillas, and whole black beans.
On video:
The Legend of Suram Fortress (Sergei Paradjanov, Dodo Abishidze) Asparagus and broccoli.
Umberto D (Vittorio de Sica) Bobos de camarao a.k.a. shrimp and yucca with rice in a tomato cream sauce.
The Sacrifice (Andrei Tarkovsky) New Orleans-style shrimp po'boy, red beans and rice, and homemade macaroni and cheese.
Mystic River (Clint Eastwood) Supreme pizza, but the last couple of slices taste fucked up.
Jonathan Rosenbaum's review of "Mystic River" gets at some of the problems I had with the film and says it better than I could. His review has even more relevance in our Bush-reelected present than it did when he wrote it last year. Read it, if you're interested in that sort of thing.
First up, on the big screen at the Arbor:
Sideways (Alexander Payne) Cheese enchiladas with poblano sauce, rice, tortillas, and whole black beans.
On video:
The Legend of Suram Fortress (Sergei Paradjanov, Dodo Abishidze) Asparagus and broccoli.
Umberto D (Vittorio de Sica) Bobos de camarao a.k.a. shrimp and yucca with rice in a tomato cream sauce.
The Sacrifice (Andrei Tarkovsky) New Orleans-style shrimp po'boy, red beans and rice, and homemade macaroni and cheese.
Mystic River (Clint Eastwood) Supreme pizza, but the last couple of slices taste fucked up.
Jonathan Rosenbaum's review of "Mystic River" gets at some of the problems I had with the film and says it better than I could. His review has even more relevance in our Bush-reelected present than it did when he wrote it last year. Read it, if you're interested in that sort of thing.
The poetry of the streets
I was watching "Blind Date" either late Friday or Saturday night while lying in bed, and I was introduced to a couple of ass-kicking colloquialisms that had hitherto escaped me. The first of the show's two dates went horribly awry, and, during the post-date interview segment, the woman on the date said she would "rather be sucked up by a tornado of farts" than go on a date with the man again. During the second date, the woman asked the man how many women he'd been with, and he answered: "I've been with them all, age eight to eighty, dumb, crippled, and crazy." The U.S.A. may be okay after all.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
I'm going to have a stomach ache for the next four years
Things couldn't have gone worse yesterday. It's almost unbearable to think we have four more years of that arrogant, dangerous prick. I hope I'm out of the office when the nuclear holocaust starts. On the plus side, I could be wrong. Boy, will I look stupid four years from now when terrorism has been vanquished from the earth, money drops from the trees, and the Middle East is an exotic resort. Until then, I'll be in my room crying, drinking whiskey, and putting a gun in my mouth.
Monday, November 01, 2004
I just saw something totally whacked out, dudes
I was returning to my office after getting a seafood salad sandwich at a local sandwich shop (sometimes I get an odd craving for the vaguely mysterious "seafood blend" of non-seafood restaurant fame and must acquiesce, i.e. I am filthy) when I saw something disturbing/endearing. A family of three (middle-aged couple, maybe 13-year-oldish son) were waiting for the light to turn green at the crosswalk so they could cross ... and all three were riding Segway scooters! Part of me wanted to vomit and the other part of me was touched by the cute family of nerds riding their nerdmobiles. I was sweetly horrified.
I watch a lot of movies instead of actually going out and doing stuff
Hey, everybody. I watched some more movies over the weekend. I also went to a Halloween party. FYI, cherry-flavored blood capsules are also shit-flavored.
First up, I saw a movie on the big screen, Tarnation (Jonathan Caouette), at the Arbor. This is one of the most unbearably disturbing films I've seen, so unbearable at times that I wanted to run from the theater. It's also a hopeful, positive experience. Just the fact that it was even made is a positive action. Caouette's mother was given electro-shock therapy as a young girl, setting off a chain reaction of madness, abuse, fragmentation of family, drug use, suicide attempts and many other awful things that extended to her son and flowed back up to her parents. Caouette documented a lot of this on video since he was 11 years old and weaves this home movie footage, answering machine messages, old TV and movie clips, pop songs, white noise, recorded conversation, computer graphics, nightmare imagery, and text into an experimental narrative that gets closer than any film I've seen to externalizing a person's internal life.
On video:
The Shining (Stanley Kubrick) I admire Kubrick as an artist, but I'm not a big fan. I like his films, but he is too disinterested in human beings and too concerned with Big Ideas for me to feel much connection to his work. There are two Kubrick movies, however, that I love without much reservation: "The Killing" and "The Shining." I've read a lot about how "The Shining" is really about Kubrick and the tyranny of artistic control, with Jack Nicholson as the Kubrick/tortured artist character, but I don't really believe it. Even if it's true, I'm not that interested. The reason I don't believe it is because very few scenes are filmed from Jack Nicholson's perspective. Most of the action is filmed from the little boy's perspective, or that of the hotel itself. It's basically a simple story of a little boy terrified of his drunken, violent father and the wide open spaces of a strange environment. Now I want to get a sandwich so I'm going to cut this short.
Therese (Alain Cavalier) True story of the French saint and Carmelite nun done in a series of vignettes with a blank, gray background. It's a lot more exciting than that description made it sound.
Trouble in Paradise (Ernst Lubitsch) Great old romantic comedy about thieves that is full of explicit-by-1932-standards references to sex since the film was pre-Code. The criminals get away with it, too, which is great.
Mauvais Sang (Leos Carax) This is one of those rare films that is heavily stylized and interested in its human characters. It's a vaguely futuristic crime thriller with lots of nods to silent films, classic Hollywood, and French New Wave that takes lots of detours away from its plot. I liked it a lot.
First up, I saw a movie on the big screen, Tarnation (Jonathan Caouette), at the Arbor. This is one of the most unbearably disturbing films I've seen, so unbearable at times that I wanted to run from the theater. It's also a hopeful, positive experience. Just the fact that it was even made is a positive action. Caouette's mother was given electro-shock therapy as a young girl, setting off a chain reaction of madness, abuse, fragmentation of family, drug use, suicide attempts and many other awful things that extended to her son and flowed back up to her parents. Caouette documented a lot of this on video since he was 11 years old and weaves this home movie footage, answering machine messages, old TV and movie clips, pop songs, white noise, recorded conversation, computer graphics, nightmare imagery, and text into an experimental narrative that gets closer than any film I've seen to externalizing a person's internal life.
On video:
The Shining (Stanley Kubrick) I admire Kubrick as an artist, but I'm not a big fan. I like his films, but he is too disinterested in human beings and too concerned with Big Ideas for me to feel much connection to his work. There are two Kubrick movies, however, that I love without much reservation: "The Killing" and "The Shining." I've read a lot about how "The Shining" is really about Kubrick and the tyranny of artistic control, with Jack Nicholson as the Kubrick/tortured artist character, but I don't really believe it. Even if it's true, I'm not that interested. The reason I don't believe it is because very few scenes are filmed from Jack Nicholson's perspective. Most of the action is filmed from the little boy's perspective, or that of the hotel itself. It's basically a simple story of a little boy terrified of his drunken, violent father and the wide open spaces of a strange environment. Now I want to get a sandwich so I'm going to cut this short.
Therese (Alain Cavalier) True story of the French saint and Carmelite nun done in a series of vignettes with a blank, gray background. It's a lot more exciting than that description made it sound.
Trouble in Paradise (Ernst Lubitsch) Great old romantic comedy about thieves that is full of explicit-by-1932-standards references to sex since the film was pre-Code. The criminals get away with it, too, which is great.
Mauvais Sang (Leos Carax) This is one of those rare films that is heavily stylized and interested in its human characters. It's a vaguely futuristic crime thriller with lots of nods to silent films, classic Hollywood, and French New Wave that takes lots of detours away from its plot. I liked it a lot.
Robot of the Week contest winner and new Robot of the Week
Hey. This week's Robot of the Week contest winner is Archivaria for her name, Assimo. Congratulations, Archivaria. Here is our new Robot of the Week. Give him a name, leave it as a comment under this post, and you could win the glory of a weekly victory and/or the prizes of a monthly victory.
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