4 Years And Counting

I didn't realize until about two hours ago that today is my sobriety anniversary. Four years, a decent start. Let's keep going, I think I will.

I was talking about it with a few friends a week ago and someone mentioned that it hasn't been the easiest time. I wanted to correct him and say it wasn't a big deal and then decide to think about it a bit. Here is some sorta-kinda math.

Great: 8 months
Good: 13 months
Bad: 1 month
Horrible: 1 Month

That's shy quite a few months. I think the rest of it was pretty much just life. Nothing incredible and nothing horrific. Just living like any other human does on this orbiting rock. That's two years and one month living my life. That's pretty good considering that's the goal. To feel human again. Not normal, I'll never be and never have been that, but I have been existing in the moment.


Someone asked me how is it possible? How can a person go through their life and deal with all of the shit without wanting to drink. The answer is there are times when I want to drink. I have always admitted, it's the drugs I miss more. Every so often, the idea of getting high sounds like a lot of fun. Then I think about where it will undoubtedly lead and stop myself. But, If I drink or if I don't drink, the shit-times are simply going to happen. Everyone feels stress and fear, anger and hate. They are valid emotions that run through anyone who isn't a sociopath. I just keep going moving on until the moments have passed and the regular rock-n-roll of life comes back into play. The pendulum keeps on swinging. I just refuse to let go right now.

The second year, that was the suckiest year. I don't recommend having to go through that one again. Just sayin'.

So what's up next? Gotta find a job and I gotta finish these scripts that I have been working on. This past year has been my most active when it comes to writing and that is a good thing. Let's see where I'm at when I report back in a year. It's never what I expect, maybe it'll be a good thing.

Sync Whole

My mind is racing and going nuts. There is this verge of panic rushing through me, but I know it's just a brief phase. It's never fun to go through because it slows down my ability to get anything done, hence I make no progress, hence it stimulates the cycle of panic.

I pulled an all night editing session. I take these little gigs for the cash of course, but they aren't exactly healthy. The way it works is some bullshit company throws a party for their bullshit product, or chosen fashionable charity. This entails inviting a d-list of celebrities who are interviewed on a red carpet, get a goodie bag of expensive things, then sneak out the back door with the loot. My job is to take the footage, cut it down to a 10 minute show reel and it is then sent out to media outlets who use clips and D-lister quotes on news or entertainment programs. The party is thrown at 8PM and the reel needs to be done and out the door by 8AM. Therefore I work all night.

So I get no sleep, I'm jacked on caffeine, nicotine and candy bars. I grow out of sync with the real world. That is saying I'm in sync with the real world the rest of the time. This is up for debate, of course.

No one else is in my tree. I mean it must be high or low. That is you can't, you know, tune in but it's all right. I mean I guess it's not too bad.

Music quotes running wild.

So, I'm sitting here trying to get a grip when really I just need to give up on the day, relax, sleep sound tonight and get a fresh start in the morning. A tough thing to do for someone who is always trying to think or take in information, or output information. My sense of control goes on spring break and my concious ridicules me for it. Rather silly actually.


It all makes me wish I had a small office somewhere. A place I could go to work, so home could be home. Even if I slack off at the office, I'm there. When I slack off at home, I feel I should be doing something that will help me and my situation.

I just need to rest. Where the hell is the mailman with my Netflix?

The Fire Visits Home

It's fire season again and like every summer, it feels like the entire state is burning up. So last night, really early this morning at 3:00AM I started to smell smoke. My room is torn up with heat, so I'm already struggling to sleep. At first I'm thinking there must be a wind that is carrying smoke from the fires down to the city and it's strong. Then I realize it's bullshit. There is no way it could smell this strong from that great off a distance.

I look out my window and see nothing, but my paranoia of the apartment burning down wins and I get up. My urge to urinate beats out my curiosity about the fire, so the bathroom gets priority. That's when I notice I don't smell any smoke in the bathroom. Am I just having some weird sensory short circuit. Did I have some sort of odd dream and my mind was making up the smell?

I get dressed, debate for a few seconds about shoes and then go outside barefoot, paying close attention to the ground. No smoke. Odd. I'm sniffing around like a dog on a scent and I'm not getting anything. Then, like crossing an invisible line, it hits me. Very strong. Something is burning. It's the burning fire smell, not the electrical fire smell. But there is nothing to see. I'm looking up at apartments and trying to use x-ray vision through curtains ad blinds to catch a glimpse of flickering orange. Nothing.

Turning around I finally see it. The giant plastic lids are down, but I can see the glowing red of a fire emanating from the dumpster that is located beneath my window. Cockroaches are running in a furious pattern over the outside of the dumpster, their home is in flames and they have no idea what to do. Though it is not my wish to save their home, there is a strong desire to save mine. So I dial 911 on the cell.

Lot's of things are running through my mind right now. What if they think I set it? What if someone else has called and I look like a fool calling it in again. How serious should I sound? Then the operator picks up. I start to explain there is a fire and they ask me to hold while I'm transferred to the fire department. I hold about 30 seconds. Then I'm put through to a guy. I explain the dumpster is on fire in the back alley and give him the address. There is a bit of confusion because I'm calling from a Bay Area number in Los Angeles and a street named Detroit. The poor reception doesn't help, but it is sorted out quickly and I'm supposed to wait for the truck to get there so I can point it out.

I'm standing out on the street, hearing the sirens getting closer and for the first time ever, knowing exactly where the sirens will end up. The truck pulls up and I point out the dumpster, which looks very calm, now I'm feeling like an idiot. Maybe the fire smothered itself out.

One of the firemen follows me into the alley with a flashlight and as soon as the beam hits the dumpster, the visual of smoke pouring out of the seams takes over and I feel a little redemption. I'm not wasting anyone's time. This may not be the Hindenburg fire of dumpsters, but it's a legitimate fire. Some other firemen come running up and try to open the lid, but it's to hot and they ask for "The one inch" from the truck. Part of me wants to stay and find out what this mysterious "one inch" is, but the other half of my brain is screaming to get back upstairs and close my window before water drenched the dumpster and the pillar of smoke b-lines it for my room.

In a stupid way, I ask if I'm needed. Like they're going to say, "You can't leave. You're the key to our plan. We need you to help get this thing out!" In stead the guys says I can leave and thanks for the help. So I did my part. I run back upstairs, close all the windows and wait while lights flash, hoses begin to shoot pressurized noise, I'm also guessing water, and the situation is brought under control. It was probably no more then ten minutes until they were gone.

My room was now a furnace from lack of air movement and I kept debating if I should open the window again. I watched TV for another 20 minutes, decided my lungs could take the remaining smoke and my body couldn't stand the heat. Opening the window, the scent of burnt trash and roach carcasses wafted into the room and slowly, I drifted off to sleep.

All around, the situation went well. Nothing was damaged, I didn't spend the rest of the night waiting for the fire to be put out and I didn't have to club my roommate over the head and use him as a human shield to escape the flames. So as far as new experiences go, I'll give it a 7 out of 10.

Inglourious Spazterd

So I go to see Inglourious Basterds for the second time. I was a little off put the first time by some of the music cues and editing choices. I liked it, but I didn't love it. After a few days, I realized how long it was sticking with me, so thought I'd see it again. It's very good, I don't know if it's Tarantino's best, but very good.

So I go to the Dome to check it out. A great place to see a movie like this. It's a relatively empty theater being it's Tuesday in the early after noon. The only folks there are either unemployed, or on vacation.

This guy sits about 5 rows in front of me and as he's sitting makes a very loud "Frumph" that seems to have a level of pain involved. Whoops, it happens. Then he takes off his shoes, balances them on the back of the chair next to him. This is starting to get odd. He then spreads his legs and wedges his ankles in the seat spaces in front of him and starts spreading his toes. Stretching them like he was giving them a workout. Like he was going to a bar later and would impress the ladies by cracking walnuts between his powerful toe digits. Then he has a quick head spasm. Did you ever see the Mike Leigh film Naked? Ewen Bremner plays a Scottish fella who has a weird head jerk every so often. It was just like that, a Highland fling that looked quite jarring. Again, no skin off my neck, so I let the guy do his thing. Some people buy popcorn, some people make out in the back row, this guy does toe aerobics while trying to separate his head from his shoulders.

The film starts and everything is going swell. I'm into the film and have forgotten about the Spazterd. Of course, this can't last, he lets out another noise and jerks in his chair. It was kind of a "Fravvle", with a lot of nasal and that internal pain factor kicking in. A little while later, he does it again. I'm hoping this doesn't start to become a factor.

The third time he fravvled, It clicked. He made the noise whenever the text came up announcing a new chapter. He was angry at the chapter headings. He verbally did not approve of Mr. Tarantino's artistic choice in this matter. I waited for Chapter 4 to hit and sure enough the guy fravvled again, but this time was his most ferocious. I was enjoying the film, but was really waiting to see what this guy did when Chapter 5 came up since his anger seemed to be growing.

Chapter 5 flashes, he lets out a very loud "Fravvle!" Some one in the back shouts "Shut Up!". This really gets to the guy who takes a swipe at his shoes, still balanced on the back of the chair. They fly off into the empty rows behind him. He stands and fravvles his way out of the theater. He'd be stomping if he had shoes, but was more of an angry patter. A few laughs from the people near me who have witnessed this and we get back into the movie.

The movie ends and I stay through the credits. I get up, grab my bag ans start to walk out. As I'm hitting the exit, I hear an usher shout to the other employees cleaning the theater, "Hey, I found a shoe!"

It was a good afternoon.

Patterns Of Patterns

I am a person who latches on to a way of doing somthing and continues to do it that way even if it is inefficient. This is fine at times and at others a little more detrimental.

This thoguth moved to the front of my brain after driving to a friends house. I continually take a route that could be sumed up in two straight lines. North for three miles, turn left and head west for 2 miles, arrive at destination. This seems pretty self explanitory, but is actually the longer route. My west bound road has several more lights and probably delays my arrival by 3-5 minutes. It is a big deal? No. If I use the OCD side of my personality to figure out how much time, fuel, tirw ware that takes place during all of these travels, I might find it a little more problematic, but still very little skin off my back.

Recently I discovered if I turn west a block early, I save time and all of those other things that run throguh my mind. So I started turning a block early. The downside being is I'm tempted by a doughnut shop on that road, but that's not important to this pointless tale. What I keep doing, beofre I turn a block early is thinking about taking the old route. As if for soe reason, it will be faster, or I have some sentimental attachment to it. "Remember whe you used to drive that road? Good times, good times."

I realised how silly the thought was and that in many other aspects of my life I do the same thing. I trod the same path, only deviating when forced or find something turely beneficial. It's an odd part of the human condition, or at least my condition. It's a comfort thing, I know that. The road less traveled is scary for even the most daring of adventures.

I think/feel that I get myself into a lot of trouble because I find comfort in turmoil, not chaos mind you, but turmoil. I know emotional turmoil well and even though it is a painful process to go through, it is a comfortable spot because my mind knows how it works. It finds it soothing while my exteral self finds it fucking awful.

In recent years the goal has been to turn one block earlier. Fewere lights, less traffic a smoother ride even though it is still a road that needs to be travelled. Of course by subconcious continually wants to take the road I know. Foolish, foolish me.

As I was writing this, I realized that I've probably covered this before. Another pattern that I take comfort in to make myself think I'm growing.

Silly me.

Yeah, Yeah

Long time, I know. Does it really matter? Probably not. Anyway, let's move on.

I have all sorts of issues. I know it's surprising, but it's true. Yes, that is sarcasm for the slower folks in the audience. You know who you are.

I find it hard to let my defenses down with whoever it is I'm getting into a relationship with. I believe it is what people smarter than me call it "emotionally unavailable". That's me. Emotionally unavailable. It's not something that I want, it's just the way it goes.

I'm a bit of a loser. I don't mean that in a "feel sorry for me" way, I honestly mean it it in a very looking inward at myself way. I'm 37 and I share an apartment with another single guy who is 40. I don't have a job and the ones I haver are very fleeting. I can't seem to get my shit together when it comes to that ambitious drive needed to achieve my dreams. When it comes to relationships, forget it.

I have been dumped more times than I can count. I mean really bad. I've dumped a few, but it's probably a 90-10 split when it comes to me being kicked in the butt by love. That's fine, someone has to get the short end, I'm just saying the percentage is part of the mathimatical proof that I'm a loser. I'm just laying it out there, not loking for sympathy. This is the guy you're dealing with.

With this emotional unavailability comes a downside. I get involved with someone, keep my distance and then I have to wonder if they are loking around for something better. The answer is, "Yes you fucking idiot, of course they are!" Why wouldn't they? Honestly, who wants to hold out for a period of time while I try to get my shit together. Any half-wit who gets involved with me is keeping their eyes open for something better, it's almost like an unspoken law. I accept it. It can hurt and cause some major flux in my emotions for a period of time, because I'm immature, but it all ends up better in the end I guess. They get someone who can be with them completly and I can continue not working on being more open. Everyone wins.

This is a bit of a self-depricating bitch fest, but a person has to do that sometimes. Not the best way to vome back to this blog after an extended period of laziness, but a guy has to start somewhere.

Ode To My iPod

My very first original iPod is being retired. It's name is Tachikoma, named after the robot tanks in Ghost In The Shell. I'm a geek, I know.

We've been through a lot over the past, what's it been 4 years? That's pretty impressive. It's one of the second generation black and white display models. I love it to death. It has witnessed me gain weight, lose weight and gain it back. It's gone on many adventures with me, introduced me to podcasts and music I'd never heard before. It's worked overtime when it came to deliver me information and now it's time to rest.

I'm retiring it because it is getting a little wonky with its battery and I just finished a job editing some projects up at Sundance. I decided that as part of a paycheck celebration, I'd get a new iPod and have enscribed "I survived Sundance 2009". It arrived today and now I'm feeling a little sad. Odd how I tend to personify objects that have been in my life. Though it may have more to do with the cold I caught from being in the snow and I'm hopped up on DayQuil. Doesn't matter, the emotions are there.

Life goes on. Friends come and friends go. Technology advances and we run our asses off trying to stay on top of it.

Now get some rest little iPod, I may end up calling on you some day soon.

Sometimes, Finite Is Good

I enjoy the concept of limitless possibilities. It gives a person something to hope for. The new and unknown is right around the corner. Hooray!

But I have problems with it as well. It can create, for me, a level of gluttony. This is something I do not enjoy. It limits me and creates an emotional prison. It keeps me worried about specific things and I cannot move forward because I can't let go of these nitpicks.

The biggest of these is food. This is where having blinders and keeping in a sense of tunnel vision becomes a plus. Case in point, shopping for groceries.

Back in the day, when I was very good at eating properly and keeping a decent diet going I had my pattern of shopping. I knew exactly where the items I could buy were and my path would not allow me to stray from it. Now I have strayed from that path into the unknown aisles of treats and curiosities. What is this bag of tasty things? Oh, look at that colorful package, what is in it? This looks scrumptious. SO I end up trying things that I shouldn't be.

I have been going to the gym on a regular basis (minus guest visits) and I am slowly returning to that place where I once was. What makes returning to it so different is I've seen the end of this road before. I know where I'm going to go, where as before I was searching for the road. So this time I feel a lot more comfortable straying since I know the path. Grrrr.

It's not anger I feel so much as minor pangs of regret. At my level, there are only so many different flavors. I've tasted chocolate and peppermint, so having more isn't new, it's just indulgent. I need to remind myself of that. It's not like the flavor is going to vaporize off the planet and I'll be damning myself for not having enough. As a matter of fact the York peppermint patty will probably live long after my time on this earth has passed.

On the good side, I'm writing a lot more (not here but elsewhere). So that is a plus. I feel a pattern falling into place that I enjoy as I work towards a goal. I'll need to work on keeping it in practice, but loose enough to move around in case I find a job. It's the exercise and diet  that will help keep my energy up, which is why I lay so much importance on it. It is an interesting thing when you want to complete so much in a day, but there are only so many hours. God knows ow it would fall apart if I had a family. It wouldn't, or would be moving at a much slower pace. I don't know how well I'd do with that. 

Isn't that one of my eternal questions.

  

Shield Down

It was the series finale of The Shield tonight. I know it's kind of shallow to feel sad about a television show ending like it was part of your life, but I am. Not that I could relate to any of the characters or like they had become a family to me. It just felt sad to watch it end. It was good, not a classic, but few are.

There is that part of me that relates it to Shea. Funny how there is a part of me that still misses her. See, the show had been on and I'm a big fan of the corrupt cop sub-genre. I have been forever. I drool over Sidney Lumet movies like Serpico and Q&A. I'll defend Prince of the City until the day I die.

Anyway, it had been on for a few seasons and I thought I'd rent the first season. I got into it quickly and was over at Shea's when she was working while I was watching. The next thing we were both glued to the set popping episodes like they were drugs. Well drugs for me jellybeans for her, we each have our addictions. It had gotten so bad that we stopped waiting for netflix and drove to the local video store, grabbed take out and watched the entire third season on a rainy Sunday. It was a good day. It was one of those things that we shared. 

I've told this story many times to people when they ask if I watch The Shield. Now it's over. No new seasons to look forward to and it will start to fade into the past just like that day has, just like the relationship did. There is nothing current that I can hold onto, only memory.

God I hate being this blubbery and cheesy.

Random Sunday

It is odd. During the week it is hotter than Jenny McCarthy circa 1993 but it cools down to paradise levels on the weekends. This is too bad for me, but great for people who have jobs.

I decided to get out a bit and walk around. Took the  lo

ng route to the comic book store, browsed a bit and started walking around. For the hell of it I decided to grab a bite at Fat Burger, home of the Fat Burger. This was a joint I went to regularly when I was sleeping on Aaron and Barb's couch when I first moved down. It would take about 15-20 minutes to get my order and it would be all I needed to eat for the day. I enjoyed the wait time because it gave me a chance to read. This is going to sound odd, but there are a few Burger joints that relate directly to movies for me. The first time I ever watched Serpico, I'd picked up a burger and fries at Rally's a chain that no longer exists in Tucson. Now every time I watch Serpico, my cued recall kicks in and my sense are filled with their burgers. Odd ain't it?

So Fat Burger reminds me of Sergio Leone. I had started, read most of and finished a biography about him at the very Fat Burger that I was venturing to today. For my mind, my history, Sergio Leone was born, made a bulk of his movies and died in that very Fat Burger. It was one of those odd Vonneghut time moments. Sergio Leone had become unstuck in a Fat Burger. Stuck really, but that doesn't sound as hip.

It reminded me of how I felt when I first moved to LA. A fresh start, a new beginning, a clean slate. As clean as a person could be shoving a giant burger and fries in their face that  is. It was a nice moment though and I felt pretty good as I started walking home. The burger was good. I recommend it if you are a burger fan.

About twenty minutes pass. 

Just down the ally from my apartment, a car drove by with a couple in it. They were fighting. I could visibly see the man yelling. I can't really classify it as "They" in a fight since all I witnessed was "Him" screaming. I had a quick flash of all of those times I had screamed and yelled and hurt while sitting behind the drivers seat. Whoever in the passengers seat dealing with it the best they could. My stomach turned. I found it odd, my body reacting that way. Then the thought of concentrating on the reaction made my stomach turn more and it compounded upon itself. I reached the dumpster a few feet away a threw up. 

I find it all to be an interesting outcome. Pleasant memories and ugly memories turning into a physical reaction on both the intake and output of food. The burger wasn't as good coming back up. I wouldn't recommend it.

R.I.P. Ken Ogata

I missed this, so it's a week late.

Ken Ogata a great Japanese actor passed away last week from cancer.

He was in some great films and even portrayed author Yukio Mishima in the biopic Mishima. Go figure. It is one of those biopics that goes outside the box and examines the man's life through recreations of his work as well as his last days before committing public suicide. It's a really interesting film and a great performance by Ogata.

He also starred in two films by Shohei Imamura who

 I'd written about when he passed away about a year or so ago. Vengeance is Mine and The Ballad of Narayama. I've only seen Vengence, which is a must. Both are available on DVD and now I have even more reason to sit down and watch Ballad.

All in all he had been in about seventy movies and he is one of those actors who was great to watch and every time you'd see his name in the credits, you knew there would be something solid going on.

My condolences to his family and his work has not gone unnoticed.

Stumped

I'm walking to the bank to deposit a few bucks this morning and a guy who lost a hand at some point is walking the opposite direction. We have about 30 seconds until we cross paths and about 10 seconds until he will notice where my eyes are gazing, so I do a quick intake.

Either homeless with mental issues or just a guy wit

h mental issues who is not well cared for. This is surmised by the fact that he is taking to himself and jerking his stump around tat would signify making a point id there was a finger on said stump to point. 

He wore khaki green pants and a khaki green shirt with a red star in the middle of it. I found this confusing. If it was just the khakis, he'd give the impression of a solider who was at the wrong place at the wrong time, but the red star pushed it into head scratching territory.

 

The stump looked relatively fresh. Not having been around a ton of amputees in my life, let alone bare stumped ones, I'm assuming it was a relatively new situation this guy had to get used to. The end of the stump appeared to still have some scabbing and was way too red to have been there a while. Again, this is only an assumption on my part. If you are missing a hand and reading this, you might be able to let me in on some stump secrets. Also let me know how type and how many words a minute.

20 seconds left and I do that whole thing about not trying to pay attention to his stump. I'm looking at the side walk, passing cars, acting like the shrub in front of a building is the definition of sublime. Really stupid stuff. I speed up a little and pass him. he continues to mumble and replay some past debate in his head. That's when I hear the thunking. 

I turn around and the guy is running his stump across the bars of an iron fence. And not lightly. Thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-phssssssss, as he finished the fence and started dragging it along the side of the building that owned the fence. When he finished the length of the building, he went back into his one man argument.

Now I've pretty much figured out the scabbing and the redness came from. That can't feel good, but for some reason he felt obligated to find ways to use his stump. It makes me wonder if anyone has suggested getting him a bongo drum and just letting him have at it. That way he skews more eccentric than off his rocker.

Oh, Mann

I remember when Steven Soderbergh mentioned that it was tough to grow and try new things as a filmmaker. He felt the system wants directors to spring fully formed from the head of celluloid. This sucks of course. What fun is it to watch a fully formed filmmaker, or someone who will never change? It’s boring.

History of Violence is a really impressive movie, but becomes even better if you have witnessed the progression of David Cronenberg’s films. The guy who made Shivers, The Fly, and Dead Ringers seems like such an odd choice to make History of Violence, but at the same time it fits together like a perfect puzzle. All of these carry themes of identity and sexuality. You may scratch your head a bit but trust me, I’m much smarter than you. Yes there are major differences, but that’s the point of evolution. The ability to grow and work the craft, to become a better filmmaker, and explore themes through different constructs.

Which brings me to Anthony Mann. I just finished watching The Furies on DVD. This is another one of those Criterion releases that made me wonder why they would release it. Then I witnessed its grandeur, its scope of story and human psychology. Just glancing at his resume, it looks like Mann’s breakout from Noir into the Western genre and he said, “Fuck you, the western can be as good as Shakespeare!”(My quote, not his.) He set out to prove it and did.

The Furies was his Tempest with a little bit of King Lear thrown in for good measure. An exquisite piece that demands the viewer to invest in characters that wallow in the emotional grays of life. By the end, these don’t seem like people on a screen, but Greek gods clashing over who rules the heavens. If you decide to sit down and give this a watch, you'll think I’m crazy at first. But don’t fight it, let the film take over. Roll with it and by the time all of the betrayal, revenge, and scheming is set up, you’ll be glued to the screen. Walter Huston is mesmerizing and Barbara Stanwyk has one of her best roles and one of the best lines of dialog that she’d ever get outside of Double Indemnity. To witness these two spar on screen is like standing in the eye of a tornado. You are perfectly safe and secure as the world around you is torn up from the roots.

Mann would never have achieved this if he didn’t have the time to grow and practice his craft. By working among the poverty row film companies, pumping out quickie noirs, Mann honed his storytelling style and personal voice. He came into his own with films like T-Men, Raw Deal, He Walked by Night, forming a visual style that feels like images carved in rock. Hard edges, high contrast, meaning within the composed frame itself. He’d transfer all he learned into the western and drive the genre in his own direction.

I wasn’t just waxing Mann’s car when I said his work was comparable to Shakespeare. Winchester '73 and The Naked Spur strike chords of Hamlet and Macbeth. The Man From Laramie drips the King plays from every pore. I hate to say that I have no idea what to compare The Tin Star to, but by that point, I feel Mann had stepped into his own. Exploring the myth of these characters and letting them ride off into the sunset where we’d never hear from their chorus again.


Here is what I find ironic. When Mann moves into the period epic, all of the emotions I carry from his other films disappear. All of those things that seem classic and epic in his noir and westerns, which are smaller and more intimate, go away when he gives us Fall of the Roman Empire or El Cid. It’s like the epic scale of the visual, displaced the epic quality of the characters. His visuals in these epics are amazing and just as solid as anything seen in Ben Hur or Cleopatra, they just lack in soul when compared to his other films.

If you have never taken the time to follow the evolution of a filmmaker, give Mann a shot. From small no budget noirs where he honed his skills, to the physical and psychological vistas of the old west, to the biggest budget mega-epics of the 50’s. Mann put up on screen a mosaic of humanity that very few have or will. There is reason why it is important to allow filmmakers to grow through their art and Mann is a legendary example.

Three Years

Three years clean and sober. This has been the toughest year as far as wanting to give up and start drinking goes. The funny thing is it was always when I was working at my last job. It could have been coincidence, but there were a lot of stress inducing situations there.

I even remember that at two years clean and sober, I couldn't have cared less. I was too tired and to involved in a job that meant nothing to even notice where I was in my life. It's interesting how a job effects a person.

Part of it could have been the third year trembles. It is a long talked about issue in AA that the third year is a tough one to get through. I don't think there is any specific reason, everyone has a story to tell and they are very rarely similar with the fact that it always takes place in the third year of sobriety.

Anyway, I feel pretty good. I've been working my way back to getting in shape again, slowly but there is momentum. I've also stayed off of cigarettes. I've indulged in two since I quit in May and I haven't had any urges to start back up again. Had I stayed on the exercise regiment when I quit smoking, I may not have had this extra weight I need to get rid of.

There was a two day period that was rather hard for me last year and I'd like to thank Aaron, Antonio and Gillian for helping me through it. I might have made it through without their help, but I might not have and their help and support was a big factor in lessening the blow.

I've mentioned this before, but I'll mention it again. One of the things that they pound into your brain in AA is that the life you begin to lead when you are sober may not be the life you always wanted, but it will be a better life then the one you had when you were drinking and drugging. I have to agree. Even though it may not be the dream life I've thought myself of having, there isn't one day that hasn't been better that what I once had.

So onward, forward, to battle. Let's see what the next year has to bring.

Return Of Rat Kid

I'm slowly watching the films of Busby Berekely and for those of you keeping track I had posted a piece about Rat Kid. I'm not sure if this little guy is a kid or a midget(dwarf?) but he is a little creepy and a total perv.

In the second film I've seen, Gold Diggers of 1933, Rat Kid shows up in a baby carriage! He runs around, gawks up a couple dresses, looks lasciviously at the camera and pulls up curtains on a bunch of women changing clothes. This is all done during a routine called "Pettin' in the Park." A revised song after the original title, "Blowjob on the Bench" was considered to vague.

Now these movies are pre Hays Code, so they are racy and that's a lot of fun. The dance routines are what make the films worth while, but I'm starting to notice a trend. The last routine is always this patriotic support our troops, America is great, raw-raw thing. It seems almost like a different film because this is how it ends. You have this frothy love story with wacky comedy giant dance numbers then a bunch of soldiers march through in the rain and it you're left feeling a little let down. 

But if Rat Kid keeps making cameos, I'm keeping them in the queue.

Il Trittcio

So a week after seeing the operatic version of The Fly, I go back to see a series of Puccini operas... operettas? Not sure how it ads up, but I was invited because the three pieces were directed by filmmakers William Friedkin and Woody Allen. I'm a big fan of both of them, but after The Fly, I wasn't sure how I felt about opera. Well, I have to say it was an amazing experience. There were some weaker singers, but some amazing ones and the emotional kick that was missing from last weeks endeavor, was paid back three fold in this one. Murder, suicide, greed. These were the themes that drove the pieces and the staging, production design and costuming were pitch perfect. 

Here is what I found most interesting, they actually felt like they were directed by Friedkin and Allen. The first two pieces directed by Friedkin had atmosphere and subtle strokes that create final moments that are an incredible emotional release. The Woody Allen piece had all of the fun and goof ball humor that his comedies of the 70's had. Just a blast and if you get an opportunity to check it out, I'd recommend it.

I Chuckled

Look at him run! 

And why the hell can't these people draw feet on these guys? I get that the hands are used for cross walk signs across our great nation, but the feet are never used for anything. Somewhere is a giant warehouse of nondescript mechanical feet drawings going to waste.

Also, and I know I'm not an expert in the field of sign design, but I would have drawn little vibration lines behind him to show how fast he's running. It would really sell the, "I'm fuckin' outa' here!" feel.

Come Fly With Me

So last night I went to see opera version of The Fly. For those of you new to this story, it's about a dude scientist who is building teleportation pods. He hops in a pod to teleport to the next one and is successful. What he doesn't catch, is a fly was in there with him and his teleportation device spliced both sets of genes together. Now our dude scientist is slowly mutating into half man/half fly. Pretty cool right?

It was a movie in the 50's (I think) and had a guy walking around with a fly head, which was hysterical. In 1986, David Cronenberg went the gore route and had Jeff Goldblum slowly mutate and ooze his way into a creature. It's a great movie with killer effects, excellent acting and a great characters. A really solid horror film that has become something of a classic.

Now Cronenberg and the composer of the movie Howard Shore have turned it into an opera. At first you scratch your head, then you think about it and say why not. Then you see it and start scratching your head again. The set was cool, the singing was good, I'm guessing here, and the story was just like the 86 version of the movie. But it doesn't work. I didn't feel any love between the main characters, the libretto (lyrics) were real wishy-washy and I never felt any drop of fear. It just seemed like a missed opportunity. Plus it seems like they added these bits that were lifted from Cronenberg's Videodrome to give it a different theme, but it all fell, flat. 

I saw the movie last week and Cronenberg was there to discuss the film and pimp the opera. He'd said the Opera was very different than the movie. He kind of lied. There were a few different things added in and an ending that allows us to, "All hail the new flesh!", but still it was way too close to the film. Ya pulled one over on me Dave and I'm kind of miffed about it.

Here's how I feel it could have been saved. As a matter of fact if this happened, I'd buy tickets for everyone I know. It could have been exactly the same in every way shape or form. 

It's nearing the end and everyone I've taken is looking at me like I'm nuts for liking this thing. Then in the last minute, Seth (The Fly) is creeping up on Veronica (Female Lead) and about to pounce and kill her. Then like a mouse trap going off, this giant fly swatter shoots down and splats him flat. Cut to black, the end. Nothing but open mouths from the audience. 

Out walks Cronenberg with a stagehand wheeling Cronenberg's giant balls in a wheel barrow.  

 

That's fucking art!!

What's the Busby

For those of you out there who don't know Busby Berkeley, he choreographed and directed all sorts of dance numbers in movies back in the 30's maybe into the 40's.

For those of you who know me, I wouldn't be the target audience for a Busby Berkeley movie. And for those of you who know me, I'll check out anything once. I decided to watch Footlight Parade, it stars Jimmy Cagney as a guy whose stage shows are being pushed out by talking pictures.

The film has some questionable logic when it comes to economics and they introduce several plot points that are resolved a little to quickly and conveniently at times, but it's a fun ride and I'd recommend checking it out.

The second most fascinating thing is some of the racism of the time. Cagney's character suggests a show done in black face and there are several female dancers with eye makeup that make them resemble asian hookers, but what do you expect in 1933.

Now here is the number one fascination for me. The rat kid! Or maybe rat adult of miniature proportions, I'm not entirely sure. In a sequence where all of the dancers are done up as cats for this routine, there's a bit with this dude...

It's totally surreal. There is a second routine later on that is basically about fucking at the "Honeymoon Hotel" and this kid/man shows up again and it really makes you wonder how old he is.

So rat guy was just an eye rubbing experience for me. There was also the half naked white women in an opium den, but by that point I was willing to expect and accept anything.

So if you've never seen Footlight Parade, it's well worth the time and now I've got to go see what else Mr. Berkeley has in store for me.

This Is Brilliant

I think adding anything to the non-debate about our president and is inabilities to lead this country are moot. I was and I guess sort of still am an admirer of Oliver Stone. Yes he can pound you over the head with his ideas. Yes he has been in a slump for close to a decade. But I'm excited to see this movie and I think this poster is just artful.

I never thought I'd live to see the day when one of the Goonies got to be the president. I want Chunk as Speaker of the House and Data as the Secretary of Defense!