It all starts with candy cigarettes.
It's a slippery slope from there.
And then the morgue.
The final outpost for ruminations and self-indulgence. Art, Film, Commentary, Personal Works, Photos, etc.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
The Grass Picker
OK, so I've told maybe a couple "big fish" stories on Bloggy-Blog. However, when I choose to embellish, I only do it so that I can drive home my anti-drug message to the kids who look up to me as a role model. So while the following tale may sound like some kinda' fake yarn, it ain't. What's more, you have my permission to smoke yer "H" and shoot up yer "reefer", just to prove that I have no ulterior motives.
When I was about 7 (that's five fingers + two), I found myself inducted into a spontaneous rain-making ritual on the front lawn of my parent's house. It was a summer afternoon and my brother, plus about three neighborhood kids, and I were sitting out on the grass. We'd hauled out a big zig-zag patterned multicolored quilt, which in our household we always referred to as the "Indian blanket". Our lawn was on an incline, so my brother sat at the top of this small hill wrapped in the Indian blanket.
Of course, he with zig-zag blanket is the de-facto Chief.
The Chief sat in a noble cross-legged position, while other kids engaged in specialized tasks which would complete the ceremony being improvised. One kid would make arm waving motions; another would be doing some kind of retarded "ooga-booga" chant. Meanwhile, I was dubbed: "the grass picker". So I proceeded to furiously uproot grass by the fistful and toss it into the air. Once all this got going, we worked up a good head of steam --as a bunch of dumb white kids sitting around chanting, breast beating, and grass picking are wont to do.
Then it began to rain. This is true. It was a very freaky rain at that. Not a heavily-clouded sky, just wisps. Of course, when it came down, we responded like drunken monkeys. In all, it lasted about 15 minutes, then we all went home to watch Gomer Pyle or whatever.
We laughed about it but the whole rain ritual felt normal and plausible at the time. I think we tried experimenting with levitation soon after.
So isn't that just the most gosh-darned charming little childhood story? I have plenty of other kiddie stories full of menace and danger to kick the ass of that one. Like the local improvised "Spook House" which featured a neighbor kid (or more aptly: "spook house cast member") who'd pee on guests as they groped their way through the dark in true horror ...or the day we made a bomb out of a hollowed-out croquet ball stuffed full of gunpowder culled from hundreds of firecrackers. Yes, it's all about having idle hands -or no hands in the case of the croquet ball bomb- just like the impetus for this blog.
a childhood idol at work
blogs need photos. this was the best i could do.
When I was about 7 (that's five fingers + two), I found myself inducted into a spontaneous rain-making ritual on the front lawn of my parent's house. It was a summer afternoon and my brother, plus about three neighborhood kids, and I were sitting out on the grass. We'd hauled out a big zig-zag patterned multicolored quilt, which in our household we always referred to as the "Indian blanket". Our lawn was on an incline, so my brother sat at the top of this small hill wrapped in the Indian blanket.
Of course, he with zig-zag blanket is the de-facto Chief.
The Chief sat in a noble cross-legged position, while other kids engaged in specialized tasks which would complete the ceremony being improvised. One kid would make arm waving motions; another would be doing some kind of retarded "ooga-booga" chant. Meanwhile, I was dubbed: "the grass picker". So I proceeded to furiously uproot grass by the fistful and toss it into the air. Once all this got going, we worked up a good head of steam --as a bunch of dumb white kids sitting around chanting, breast beating, and grass picking are wont to do.
Then it began to rain. This is true. It was a very freaky rain at that. Not a heavily-clouded sky, just wisps. Of course, when it came down, we responded like drunken monkeys. In all, it lasted about 15 minutes, then we all went home to watch Gomer Pyle or whatever.
We laughed about it but the whole rain ritual felt normal and plausible at the time. I think we tried experimenting with levitation soon after.
So isn't that just the most gosh-darned charming little childhood story? I have plenty of other kiddie stories full of menace and danger to kick the ass of that one. Like the local improvised "Spook House" which featured a neighbor kid (or more aptly: "spook house cast member") who'd pee on guests as they groped their way through the dark in true horror ...or the day we made a bomb out of a hollowed-out croquet ball stuffed full of gunpowder culled from hundreds of firecrackers. Yes, it's all about having idle hands -or no hands in the case of the croquet ball bomb- just like the impetus for this blog.
a childhood idol at workblogs need photos. this was the best i could do.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Rant-A-Log
Sometimes things happen which remind me of how grateful I am not to be from this planet. Before I proceed, I need to warn you that this is one of those "what's THAT all about?" life's-observation rants. If you've had enough of these, then I completely understand. I certainly don't want my readers to be sitting around in their senior years, looking back and thinking, "gee I really should have spent my time being charitable to my fellow man and less time reading Geritopia rants". But how I digress...
There's this Mexican food joint called Poquito Mas, which is a fairly decent chain in its own category of take-out. However, something clearly activates the reptilian part of the human brain that's responsible for conquering and plundering of the customer occupying the salsa bar. A customer might be carrying the most insignificant tray of an al a carte taco or even a single greasy chip they found on the floor. It doesn't matter. Anyone under the salsa bar spell must absolutely stake their claim, scoring every last variety and color in the most annoying persnickety manner. If there are 12 individual salsas then 12 must be had, as everyone waiting in line is held in thrall. You'd think that something of the utmost gravity was taking place, like the transport of radioactive isotopes. If provoked by competition, folks at the salsa bar will physically expand like blow fish to ward off other predators while they work the little dispensing spoons and plastic containers. And they breathe really hard with saliva flapping between their teeth. "Oh yeah, gotta have this one, and this one, can't miss out on this one!!! They're free and they're mine!!! Fuck'y'all!!!"
So what's that all about?!!! And why are tortilla chips triangular? 'Must be something to do with the Trilateral Commission. Just what is a "chip". Can you gamble with 'em? Can you eat a poker chip? Where do they come from? A bag? What's that anyway? Do bags come in bags?
There's this Mexican food joint called Poquito Mas, which is a fairly decent chain in its own category of take-out. However, something clearly activates the reptilian part of the human brain that's responsible for conquering and plundering of the customer occupying the salsa bar. A customer might be carrying the most insignificant tray of an al a carte taco or even a single greasy chip they found on the floor. It doesn't matter. Anyone under the salsa bar spell must absolutely stake their claim, scoring every last variety and color in the most annoying persnickety manner. If there are 12 individual salsas then 12 must be had, as everyone waiting in line is held in thrall. You'd think that something of the utmost gravity was taking place, like the transport of radioactive isotopes. If provoked by competition, folks at the salsa bar will physically expand like blow fish to ward off other predators while they work the little dispensing spoons and plastic containers. And they breathe really hard with saliva flapping between their teeth. "Oh yeah, gotta have this one, and this one, can't miss out on this one!!! They're free and they're mine!!! Fuck'y'all!!!"
So what's that all about?!!! And why are tortilla chips triangular? 'Must be something to do with the Trilateral Commission. Just what is a "chip". Can you gamble with 'em? Can you eat a poker chip? Where do they come from? A bag? What's that anyway? Do bags come in bags?
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Running On Fumes
Well, here I am again. There's been a big lapse since my last posting. I've been to the mountain top and I've seen the light. The light turned out to be a flaming goat. Poor feller was hit by lightning. I descended the mountain with my ignorance and lack of wisdom intact.
Truth is that I've been on a hunger-strike in protest of the low readership of my blog. I was hoping to catapult myself into the national spotlight by eating only the tears streaming down my face. The problem is that I forgot to tell anybody that I was protesting and now, alas, I am dead. The good news I can still post remotely via my BlackBerry. Hell is full of BlackBerries.
It would have been much better had I over-eaten myself to death. Then at least I'd have my 15 minutes on the Jerry Springer Show. I could just see myself plopping down on the stage and rolling bodily into the audience like a human bowling ball. Then I might have been somebody! I could have been a contender!
Can you hear the crickets chirping?
geritopia supports nat'l Cotton Mouth week.
please give generously
Truth is that I've been on a hunger-strike in protest of the low readership of my blog. I was hoping to catapult myself into the national spotlight by eating only the tears streaming down my face. The problem is that I forgot to tell anybody that I was protesting and now, alas, I am dead. The good news I can still post remotely via my BlackBerry. Hell is full of BlackBerries.
It would have been much better had I over-eaten myself to death. Then at least I'd have my 15 minutes on the Jerry Springer Show. I could just see myself plopping down on the stage and rolling bodily into the audience like a human bowling ball. Then I might have been somebody! I could have been a contender!
Can you hear the crickets chirping?
___________________________________
geritopia supports nat'l Cotton Mouth week.please give generously
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Jet-Lagged, Bothered & Bewildebeest
I'm up early today. No telling what bleary-eyed lack of self-censoring might lead to. Yawn. --which reminds me, I've always wanted to write a song entitled, "'Cant Stop Yawning Over You".
My assignment this a.m. : Entertainment News Graphics. As long as I'm here, I can give you heads-up on the latest tinseltown news flashes. That is, if anyone gives a flying crap. I've got the edge, because I can do this live.
This just in: Leif Garrett, 70s puppy love idol, is in jail for drugs. On that note, I missed my Mother Superior connection, thanks to him. Thanks for blowing my cover, Leif! I'm just no good without my morning syringe-full. If there's any more late-breaking celebrity news, I'll be sure to scoop it here.
My life pattern for the last week has been work, followed by coming back home and sleeping. Work followed by sleep. Work-sleep. Work-sleep. Worsleep. Wrslp. Wsp. Wp...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Joey Polanski, whom I've never sent a cent of payola, for keeping this blog the vibrant community that it is. When Geritopia goes brick-and-mortar, there's going to be a golden cornerstone with his name stamped on it as honorary patron saint, or something like that. I fear that Joey is actually my Mom in pseudonym, just helping behind-the-scenes in this, my latest dubious endevour. Then again, the thought of a person named "Joey" having nursed me in infancy, does make me squirm just a bit.
Good Morning and Good Luck.
My assignment this a.m. : Entertainment News Graphics. As long as I'm here, I can give you heads-up on the latest tinseltown news flashes. That is, if anyone gives a flying crap. I've got the edge, because I can do this live.
This just in: Leif Garrett, 70s puppy love idol, is in jail for drugs. On that note, I missed my Mother Superior connection, thanks to him. Thanks for blowing my cover, Leif! I'm just no good without my morning syringe-full. If there's any more late-breaking celebrity news, I'll be sure to scoop it here.
My life pattern for the last week has been work, followed by coming back home and sleeping. Work followed by sleep. Work-sleep. Work-sleep. Worsleep. Wrslp. Wsp. Wp...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Joey Polanski, whom I've never sent a cent of payola, for keeping this blog the vibrant community that it is. When Geritopia goes brick-and-mortar, there's going to be a golden cornerstone with his name stamped on it as honorary patron saint, or something like that. I fear that Joey is actually my Mom in pseudonym, just helping behind-the-scenes in this, my latest dubious endevour. Then again, the thought of a person named "Joey" having nursed me in infancy, does make me squirm just a bit.
Good Morning and Good Luck.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Geek's Delight
I can't express the joys of Altavista's Bable Fish translator. You just have to experience it for yourself. Indeed, having it at my disposal has saved my life. There might have been nights where I would have been out running across lanes of the San Diego freeway... but instead, I stayed at home inputting text into Bablefish's translator. The "fun" part is taking the resultant foreign translation and then cramming it back into the translator and out pops the most mangled (and often inspired) English you ever read. It's also a good brain-storming device for composing song lyrics and ransom letters too.
Here's 70s pop-classic Afternoon Delight translated into French, then back into English:
"Energy to find my baby, energy to hold his tight outward journey to seize a certain pleasure of afternoon. My always étée currency; when it is exact, it is exact. Why makes an attempt until the one night old middle dark cold. When very a little clairifiant in the light of day. And you know that the night always will be there any manner. The sky goes up out of arrow in flight. Pleasure of afternoon. Pleasure of afternoon. Thinkin ' of you workin ' to the top of my appetite awaiting with interest a small pleasure of afternoon. Rubbin ' sticks and lapidates makes together the ingite sparks and the thought of the rubbin ' which becomes to you so enthralling. The sky goes up out of arrow in flight. Pleasure of afternoon. Pleasure of afternoon. Started out of this feeling I so polished of morning always although a fish could not be fished which would not bite but you have starter a waitin ' and I think that I could try to nibble a small pleasure of afternoon. The sky goes up out of arrow in flight. Pleasure of afternoon. Pleasure of afternoon. Please await me baby when I come around. We could make much lovin ' ' for the sun goes down. The sky goes up out of arrow in flight. Pleasure of afternoon. Pleasure of afternoon."
Here's 70s pop-classic Afternoon Delight translated into French, then back into English:
"Energy to find my baby, energy to hold his tight outward journey to seize a certain pleasure of afternoon. My always étée currency; when it is exact, it is exact. Why makes an attempt until the one night old middle dark cold. When very a little clairifiant in the light of day. And you know that the night always will be there any manner. The sky goes up out of arrow in flight. Pleasure of afternoon. Pleasure of afternoon. Thinkin ' of you workin ' to the top of my appetite awaiting with interest a small pleasure of afternoon. Rubbin ' sticks and lapidates makes together the ingite sparks and the thought of the rubbin ' which becomes to you so enthralling. The sky goes up out of arrow in flight. Pleasure of afternoon. Pleasure of afternoon. Started out of this feeling I so polished of morning always although a fish could not be fished which would not bite but you have starter a waitin ' and I think that I could try to nibble a small pleasure of afternoon. The sky goes up out of arrow in flight. Pleasure of afternoon. Pleasure of afternoon. Please await me baby when I come around. We could make much lovin ' ' for the sun goes down. The sky goes up out of arrow in flight. Pleasure of afternoon. Pleasure of afternoon."
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
The Deconstruction of the Sergeant Carter Mythology and its Archetypal Reflection of Contemporary Political Struggles and Whatever
I'd like to propose that Sergeant Vince Carter, played by Frank Sutton on the "Gomer Pyle USMC" 60s TV show, was the most awesome tragic figure of the 20th Century. Am I nuts? Certainly. But it's clear that the Sgt. Carter character was a haunted man, full of rage and deep insecurities. One must simply reconsider what lies beyond the goof-ball trappings of the "Pyle" series and you'll find commentary on the dark underbelly of a culture in the thick of denial. By utilizing the literary tools of irony, metaphor, and archetypal projection, the show is as trenchant as any of Shakespeare's works, once unraveled.
Shazam!
Sergeant Carter did everything by the book. However, where
Gomer was concerned, resultant clumsy antics cancelled out Vince's desire for validation as military potentate. Everything that he asked of Gomer would backfire, while Gomer's classical "holy fool" innocence would push Carter to his wits end and eventual impotence (thus reflecting the diluting effect of passive resistance on traditional power structures, borrowed from Mahatma Ghandi and utilized as a common form of civil disobedience during the 60s). At the end of the day, Sergeant Carter would go off and drink a whole bottle of bourbon and become abusive to his girlfriend Bunny. Bunny symbolized fertility, as bunnies will, and Vince's sexual collapse meant the discontinuity of future progeny to his paternal order. He was a man living the demise of a chapter of assumed authority; a specialist made obsolete.
carter with his bunny:
uneasy smiles before the descent into hell
_________________________
Geritopia's List of Top Tragic Figures:
Ruth Buzzy
Sergeant Carter
Sisyphus
Gary Coleman
Captain Huffenpuff (aka: "Uncle Captain")
Fred Mertz
William Demarest
Clint Howard
Shemp Howard
Anyone who makes a top-ten list of names
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Meditations on Cartoon Footwear
Intrepid commenter Joey Polanski writes:
"This guys shoes dont match. Dont ask me how I no. I jus do."
I sincerely hope this ends all the sleepless nights
This Blog's for you Joey
This Blog's for you Joey
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Friday, January 06, 2006
Zippity-Doo-Doo
I made this last night after learning that one of my clients won't be hiring freelancers any more. Tell me Doc, what does it mean?
Thursday, January 05, 2006
No Time To Blog
Lindsay Lohan.
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Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care? Why do people care?
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Fine, How Was Yours?
Today's Log:Ate pancakes.
Watched TV.
Each sitcom without fail, hilarious.
Each commercial, a college education.
Then I sneezed.
Should a sneeze be so satisfying?
Does this happen to "regular" people?
Or was it a cheat?
A recreational sneeze, without any redeeming social value.
Made me tingle.
Wanted to cherish it always.
Tried to catch it mid-flight so I could bronze it.
But this convulsive glimpse of heaven was only ephemeral.
Another spider's web of carnality.
Went back to the TV.
Must forget, must move on. Must save planet.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Upcoming Events & Previews for 2006!
This year Bloggy-Blog is expanding its staff (if you catch my meaning) in anticipation of a volcanic eruption of sensory stimuli (if you get my drift). Don't you worry, we've still got a big haul of creepy found photos to trot out whenever there's nothing new to say & the traditional array of junk-drawer digital renderings and doodles. All that, along with the full-blown Best-Tasting Shampoo Contest and the June Taylor Dancers (nobody but the infirmed will get that last reference)!
I'll have new stories of relative success in putting together collaborative "video art" installations in the LA gallery scene. I'll have frame-grabs from my rare documentary about a Torrance lounge lizard act and a fantasy film about a baby spiraling down the bathtub drainpipe and encountering a haunted land of jackals and dancing shoes. I'll be taking more swipes at Hollywood and I'll be fired when the people at my work read about it. Then I'll win the lottery, even though I hate the lottery, and I'll inherit crates of toenail clippings and vats of urine from the late Howard Hughes' Estate. AND so much more!
"i promise to do my duty, to obey the law of the pack..."
(anonymous thrift store art from the Geritopia collection)
I'll have new stories of relative success in putting together collaborative "video art" installations in the LA gallery scene. I'll have frame-grabs from my rare documentary about a Torrance lounge lizard act and a fantasy film about a baby spiraling down the bathtub drainpipe and encountering a haunted land of jackals and dancing shoes. I'll be taking more swipes at Hollywood and I'll be fired when the people at my work read about it. Then I'll win the lottery, even though I hate the lottery, and I'll inherit crates of toenail clippings and vats of urine from the late Howard Hughes' Estate. AND so much more!
"i promise to do my duty, to obey the law of the pack..." (anonymous thrift store art from the Geritopia collection)
Stay Tuned!
Monday, January 02, 2006
The Shinola Factor
I'm contractually bound to provide self-indulgence here at Ye Ol' Bloggy-Blog, so today I intend to deliver.
paid advertisement
A couple of years ago I did a wee little art show called "Shinola", which was presented at a storefront gallery/hair salon in San Pedro. It was the promise of a good scalp massage and trim that brought the people in droves --gotta have a gimmick. The idea was to re-produced a selection of my best found photos into enlarged (16"x20") silk screen prints. I prepped some of the prints with an underpainting wash with the screen-printed image on top.
the hi-tech screen burning laboratory
____________________________________________________
And the results :
(click any image for large version)
__________________
the originals:
the absolute best orig.
__________________
paid advertisementA couple of years ago I did a wee little art show called "Shinola", which was presented at a storefront gallery/hair salon in San Pedro. It was the promise of a good scalp massage and trim that brought the people in droves --gotta have a gimmick. The idea was to re-produced a selection of my best found photos into enlarged (16"x20") silk screen prints. I prepped some of the prints with an underpainting wash with the screen-printed image on top.
the hi-tech screen burning laboratory____________________________________________________
And the results :
(click any image for large version)
__________________the originals:
the absolute best orig.__________________
Lessons learned: The Shinola show wasn't exactly a huge success, although it didn't stem the tide of business for the salons' daily grind of perms, dyes, and hair extensions. At the opening, a pearl-necklaced art matron asked me, "why would anybody want to put a picture of you and your girlfriend up on their living room wall?". She was referring to the image of the guy grabbing the woman's ass (above). That snipe alone made Shinola a minor artistic triumph. In retrospect, I'm surprised that there were no riots.
I really didn't know jack about screen printing and I taught myself as I went along. [Don't use the water-based ink, like I did --use oil-based] The bigger issue was that the original found photos are so outstanding that it was like a sacrilege to mess with 'em. The analogy would be Ted Turner colorizing Citizen Kane. The screened images DO look better than they've reproduced here and they're OK, but still.
Nothing sold but I gave a few prints away for love purposes.
I really didn't know jack about screen printing and I taught myself as I went along. [Don't use the water-based ink, like I did --use oil-based] The bigger issue was that the original found photos are so outstanding that it was like a sacrilege to mess with 'em. The analogy would be Ted Turner colorizing Citizen Kane. The screened images DO look better than they've reproduced here and they're OK, but still.
Nothing sold but I gave a few prints away for love purposes.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Pastimes That Make Mortality Worthwhile
You can't rightfully carry a "Bloggy-Blog Golden Pass Membership" until you have watched the following movies:
The Big Sleep (1946) Howard Hawks. I've watched this film more times than I can count. My favorite of the Film Noir genre. Only thing missing is Peter Lorre.
Sherman's March (1986) Ross McElwee. If you don't like this film, you cannot be my friend.
The President's Analyst (1967) Theodore J. Flicker. Uneven movie but the good bits are VERY good. Classic 60s rolly-polly nut house kinda' flick. Can't beat James Coburn's cheshire cat grin.
Lord Love a Duck [see photo] (1966) George Axelrod. Essential gray comedic tome of American culture. A film that's still ahead of its time in many respects.
Virile Games (1988) Jan Svankmajer. Cats frolic during half-time in a stop-motion short honoring the clockwork brutality of a soccer match.
Min and Bill (1930) George Hill. Dock-side floozies and tempestuous broads predating The Best of Jerry Springer. Gritty and funny with that grainy early sound technology that always puts me in an alpha state.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
I'm Having a PBS Moment
Last night I was flipping the TV dial, in my customary drooling semi-conscious haze, when I landed on a PBS series hosted by spiritual guy Dr. Wayne Dyer. Dr. Dyer appears to be the house guru on Public TV for the time being.
There have been others. About decade ago, John Bradshaw was the wise potentate on BPS during the 12-step-derived toxic whatever & recovery craze. That's a wide net, man. I mean, who isn't a hopeless addict of some sort?
Bradshaw would stand next to a giant mobile sculpture which carried labels of constituent family roles on its drifting panels: "daddy", "mommy", "sister", "brother", etc. The mobile was there to symbolize the mechanics of the dysfunctional family. "When daddy starts drinking"... Bradshaw would say, nudging the 'daddy' piece of the mobile, "daughter fills the void and compensates in an unhealthy way". Bradshaw would then draw attention to the 'sister' piece suddenly clanging about on the other side. I kinda' miss that John Bradshaw.
Fashion has always been a part of spirituality and religion. Impassioned movements led by charismatic figures would sweep through the land, followed by quiet years where the flock finally tiptoes away and re-assimilates back into faceless tract-house vistas (or they go completely berserk and drink the kool-aid) , which creates a vacuum for the next movement. --Not that there's anything wrong with that. Hey, I'm not here to judge.
Listening to Dr. Dyer, it became clear that he was pitching one simple idea. Doing this took about an hour of gesticulation, as well as both hands frequently coming together in holy symmetry. "Don't expect to find happiness, you must make happiness." The rest of the presentation was filler... LOTS of filler. After all, you can't just expect to shoot a whole show around a single sentence. Not without dancing girls! You must mold it, shape it and drive it home. You need to accessorize with spiritual lingo, which tends heavily toward: "energy", "universe", "channel", & "vibration". You are always safe when using these words.
I guess people like the nurturing approach (damn bunch of soft pansies!!! They need a swift kick from Dr. Phil!). It obviously presents an alternative to the paternalistic, angry God stuff that was plowed into people's heads from childhood. I understand that to a point, but too much affirmational navel-gazing turns ghastly saccharine and gives rise to accompanying imagery of unicorns flying over vast cosmic seas of amorphous purple plasma. You'd think you'd been held prisoner in Doug Henning's underwear drawer. Aesthetically something needs to be reconsidered, and quick!
Call it his gift, Dr. Dyer does have a focused and nurturing demeanor. His voice is even-tempered. His gaze, thoughtful. His cranium is pleasantly smooth, almost erotic; very soothing to gaze upon. Very much like his own vibrating universe channeling energy.
There have been others. About decade ago, John Bradshaw was the wise potentate on BPS during the 12-step-derived toxic whatever & recovery craze. That's a wide net, man. I mean, who isn't a hopeless addict of some sort?
Bradshaw would stand next to a giant mobile sculpture which carried labels of constituent family roles on its drifting panels: "daddy", "mommy", "sister", "brother", etc. The mobile was there to symbolize the mechanics of the dysfunctional family. "When daddy starts drinking"... Bradshaw would say, nudging the 'daddy' piece of the mobile, "daughter fills the void and compensates in an unhealthy way". Bradshaw would then draw attention to the 'sister' piece suddenly clanging about on the other side. I kinda' miss that John Bradshaw.
Fashion has always been a part of spirituality and religion. Impassioned movements led by charismatic figures would sweep through the land, followed by quiet years where the flock finally tiptoes away and re-assimilates back into faceless tract-house vistas (or they go completely berserk and drink the kool-aid) , which creates a vacuum for the next movement. --Not that there's anything wrong with that. Hey, I'm not here to judge.
Listening to Dr. Dyer, it became clear that he was pitching one simple idea. Doing this took about an hour of gesticulation, as well as both hands frequently coming together in holy symmetry. "Don't expect to find happiness, you must make happiness." The rest of the presentation was filler... LOTS of filler. After all, you can't just expect to shoot a whole show around a single sentence. Not without dancing girls! You must mold it, shape it and drive it home. You need to accessorize with spiritual lingo, which tends heavily toward: "energy", "universe", "channel", & "vibration". You are always safe when using these words.
I guess people like the nurturing approach (damn bunch of soft pansies!!! They need a swift kick from Dr. Phil!). It obviously presents an alternative to the paternalistic, angry God stuff that was plowed into people's heads from childhood. I understand that to a point, but too much affirmational navel-gazing turns ghastly saccharine and gives rise to accompanying imagery of unicorns flying over vast cosmic seas of amorphous purple plasma. You'd think you'd been held prisoner in Doug Henning's underwear drawer. Aesthetically something needs to be reconsidered, and quick!
Call it his gift, Dr. Dyer does have a focused and nurturing demeanor. His voice is even-tempered. His gaze, thoughtful. His cranium is pleasantly smooth, almost erotic; very soothing to gaze upon. Very much like his own vibrating universe channeling energy.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Can't say what's really on my mind because certain key people know that this is my blog
Yesterday I stumbled out of my house and fell into my car. The car accidentally rolled forward and, in a haphazard series of twists and turns, I was deposited arms and legs splayed out on the streets of downtown LA. My digital camera was also thrown from the car and, catching it mid-flight, I just happened to snap this photo. A good time was had by all.
Monday, December 26, 2005
Last Scary Pictures of 2005 ?
I never had any fixed notions regarding how to present this blog. However, left to my vast audience, it appears that my "creepy" photos are the most in demand. In the TV biz, you give the kids what they want. Here's it's no different. I'll give you kids your creepy stuff, only I secretly lace it with vitamins and character-building stories to keep you growing strong.
Not scary. It's Leo Carrillo Beach taken last Friday, proving that I am capable of producing aesthetically-pleasing and traditional material.
Scary photoshop treatment of my nieces' dog "Nick", shot yesterday at a family feast. The dog was delicious.
Semi-scary shot of me with a filthy traffic cone on my head, also at Leo Carrillo. The "closed" sign is SO symbolic, eh?
Is this creepy enough? Here's hoping it's less scary than 2005.
Not scary. It's Leo Carrillo Beach taken last Friday, proving that I am capable of producing aesthetically-pleasing and traditional material.
Scary photoshop treatment of my nieces' dog "Nick", shot yesterday at a family feast. The dog was delicious.
Semi-scary shot of me with a filthy traffic cone on my head, also at Leo Carrillo. The "closed" sign is SO symbolic, eh?
Is this creepy enough? Here's hoping it's less scary than 2005.
Friday, December 23, 2005
People Get On Board The Rambling Free-Association Train
It's before the 8 am 'courtesy hour'. There's already some giant butthole outside my window with a gasoline-powered tree branch cutter, ushering in a new day in noise-pollution hell: 'gurrrr-eeeEEE!!! gurrrrr-eeeeeeeeeEEEEEEE gurrrr-EEEEE putt-putt-putt -eeeEEEE!!!!!' over and over until finally riding roughshod over my tender teddy-bear's-picnic dream. So now I'm relegated to propping myself up, with billows of steam coming out of my ears and a mussed-up blue velvet suit, doing this "blog". FOR WHAT???
You still here?
So, 2 days ago The Gold State sent in the following commentary: "Sometimes, I swear, some people get murdered on purpose, just so they can have a big, slow funeral procession through town, making everybody wait for them, while they wallow in self-pity."
I want to tie Gold State's analysis in with another quote I found regarding the history of the New Orleans "Jazz funeral": As the Brass Band became increasingly popular during the early 18th Century, they were frequently called on to play processional music. Eileen Southern in The Music of Black American wrote, "On the way to the cemetery it was customary to play very slowly and mournfully a dirge, or an 'old Negro spiritual' such as "Nearer My God to Thee," but on the return from the cemetery, the band would strike up a rousing, "When the Saints Go Marching In', or a ragtime song such as "Didn't He Ramble."
Now I wonder, what other complementary pairing of songs might there be for such an occasion? First the dirge, followed by the "celebrate-a-life" tune, rendered in the Jazz idiom...
How 'bout:
Instant Karma - Autobahn
It's Too Late Baby - We Are Family
Ball of Confusion (or Ball of Confucianism) - Sugar Pie Honey Bunch
Miss You - Theme From Shaft
Ain't No Sunshine - Having My Baby
Smoke on the Water - Cocain
Morning has Broken - Afternoon Delight
Highway to Hell - Benny and the Jets
Butthole with a Gas-Powered Branch Cutter - Blog for Your Bloodshot Eyes Only
Without You - My Sherona
[Frankly, what does it matter, as long as it's a song from the 70s? You simply pull any 70s title out of a hat and people are likely to laugh. All those memories are yours on this stellar collection, for only $19.95 ! Operators standing by.]
You still here?
So, 2 days ago The Gold State sent in the following commentary: "Sometimes, I swear, some people get murdered on purpose, just so they can have a big, slow funeral procession through town, making everybody wait for them, while they wallow in self-pity."
I want to tie Gold State's analysis in with another quote I found regarding the history of the New Orleans "Jazz funeral": As the Brass Band became increasingly popular during the early 18th Century, they were frequently called on to play processional music. Eileen Southern in The Music of Black American wrote, "On the way to the cemetery it was customary to play very slowly and mournfully a dirge, or an 'old Negro spiritual' such as "Nearer My God to Thee," but on the return from the cemetery, the band would strike up a rousing, "When the Saints Go Marching In', or a ragtime song such as "Didn't He Ramble."
Now I wonder, what other complementary pairing of songs might there be for such an occasion? First the dirge, followed by the "celebrate-a-life" tune, rendered in the Jazz idiom...
How 'bout:
Instant Karma - Autobahn
It's Too Late Baby - We Are Family
Ball of Confusion (or Ball of Confucianism) - Sugar Pie Honey Bunch
Miss You - Theme From Shaft
Ain't No Sunshine - Having My Baby
Smoke on the Water - Cocain
Morning has Broken - Afternoon Delight
Highway to Hell - Benny and the Jets
Butthole with a Gas-Powered Branch Cutter - Blog for Your Bloodshot Eyes Only
Without You - My Sherona
[Frankly, what does it matter, as long as it's a song from the 70s? You simply pull any 70s title out of a hat and people are likely to laugh. All those memories are yours on this stellar collection, for only $19.95 ! Operators standing by.]
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