The Friendship Games

 

 I suppose I'm feeling a bit judgmental today. It happens.

But having a lot of friends on social media is not a real thing. Most of them are not friends, as in, “Let’s have lunch”, “Lend me $100”, or “Can I hide in your garage?”

Nah, they’re just people who are in need of acknowledgement and attention. Like the rest of us. Being on my fairly limited “friends” list is no big deal. Not much of a compliment. I browse the list of individuals from time to time and weed out those who have moved away and are out of touch. Also, I get rid of dead people. They do me no good whatsoever. Take up space and distract me from interaction with the living.

Sometimes I wonder, come Tuesday, November 8, Election Day in America, if I will have any friends left at all. That’s cool, I can manage, but the list is shrinking and there are still almost seven months to go until the Big Catastrophe.

I’m sorting it out again. Saying “so long” to contacts in the following order:

Racists. No more bullshit from insanely stupid racist mafaks (some may be supporters of D. Trump). If I see anything from anyone that is blatantly racist, that person is gone, button pushed, toilet flushed. I don’t care if they are family, co-workers, or someone I’ve met once and made the mistake of accepting a friend request. They can bite me. No time.

Predictably Angry: Mostly Dems, or whatevers, who are all locked and loaded with their one-note outrage. Scoldies and pundits who constantly accuse anyone who disagrees with them of sexism, stupidity, naiveté. If I deviate from Clinton about anything, it’s barely hit the cyberwaves when the responses roll in: “Sexist”…” “You men”…”You could never understand”. People who don’t support Sanders are immediately accused of not being true liberals or properly progressive. Wow. I've become gun-shy by these unfounded denunciations.

Fuck off. Delete, goodbye and good luck with the wrath. Don’t have a cow.

Sexists: Men and women who are hateful and/or condescending to the opposite or additional sex. Men who hate women, women who hate men. See ya. (I’m trying not to use the word “bitch” in any context. It’s offensive to people I like. I will look at each entry on a case-by-case basis, but my first reaction is to drop the hammer. Try using “prick” instead, OK?)

Fundamentalists: Christians, Muslims, Jews, Hindus. If God is the answer, you are the problem. Ciao, bambini.

Selfie dispensers: More than one profile update a week? Several pictures of your fabulous face and body every day? Posing as a badass or a sexy bunny, duck lips, sunglasses, fedoras? Without irony? Have fun and don’t bother me. Hasta.

Absolutes: Use of 100% words. Everyone, no one, never, always, etc. That’s impossible and you should know better. Get out of the car and walk home.

Still under consideration:

Food pictures. Everyone eats; we know what it looks like, save the photos of your salad.

Fart jokes.

Improper use of the following: Their, There, They’re…Then and Than…A part and Apart…Apostrophes…Quotation Marks. Yep, I’m a grammar freak. I admit it.

The Ice Bucket (or any other) Challenge.

Poor bastards who post dumbass easily debunked crap like “Bill Gates will give you one million dollars if” or “I hereby notify Facebook that all content on my page” or “OMG, stop everything and watch this video it will change your life.” No, you are wasting your life and my time. Get a brain.

I’m really interested in the coming Presidential election in November. May be some big changes. Or not. I might be living in a Socialist Democracy, a Fascist Dictatorship, a Plutocracy, or our on-going Oligarchy of The Entitled. Whichever ideology emerges victorious, I pretty sure that I’ll have fewer friends. What the hell, we all die alone anyway.

Crazed Fruit and the End of The Vagrant Cantos

I have been planning to end The Vagrant Cantos this spring after I had finished my 100^th post.

For the past several months I’ve been watching Japanese films. I started with the classics, Roshomon, The Seven Samurai, Yojimbo, but soon found myself searching for more modern, post-war films. As I drifted through HULU, Netflix, YouTube and IMDB, I came across a genre of film called Japanese or Nikkatsu Noir.

I’m almost at the end of my commitment to The Vagrant Cantos. I was going to write 100 pieces and then stop. It was an experiment in self-discipline and exploration. I’ve enjoyed the work, my style has, thankfully, changed; I’ve learned to experiment and also I’ve found out that it takes some courage to keep putting this crap up and taking the heat for some of my observations and opinions. Don’t care. It’s been worth it.

After entry number 100 I was going to quit, devote time to short stories and obsessively edit the novels I’ve written. Since I’m really enjoying film for the first time in decades, I’ve decided I’m going to continue the blog, but I’m changing the focus (and possibly the name of the blog) from rant, humor, sarcasm, fucking off, improvisation, commentary and outrage to the occasional film or literary review which will include, I’m sure, criticism, rage, opinion, intolerance and judgment. I’d like to communicate my enjoyment of these films and, if possible, to entice others to watch.

Many years ago my friends accused me of having my own cable channel. Whenever I’d recommend a film, they would watch it and then they’d ask, “What the hell is wrong with you?”  I’ve heard that a lot. Doesn’t bother me any longer. Watch, don’t watch; read, don’t read. Enjoy if you can. I know I will.

Crazed Fruit

I can’t get enough of Nikkatsu Noir. Nikkatsu Studios produced Japanese films after World War II that were patterned after American film noir. The films, referred to as Nikkatsu Noir, are choppy and sometimes too stylized, but the stark black and white photography, the cultural differences, the weird plots and the odd, often extraordinary soundtracks are enough to keep one’s attention. The films, for me, are addictive.

Crazed Fruit (1955), starring Yujiro Ishihara (The Japanese Elvis) and Mei Kitahara, is the tale of two brothers who are tempted by an alluring young woman; soon they begin to compete, lie and scheme to win her affections. The ten or so main characters in the film are all in their early twenties and were children during the war. Now, in the mid-1950’s, they are disenchanted, bored, and sexually agitated. Their rebellion may be linked to the violence and deprivation that they experienced in their formative years. Also, Crazed Fruit was made only a few years the United States had dropped atomic bombs on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Along with hundreds of other films, Crazed Fruit made it clear to the rest of the world that Japan may have lost the war but they were far from beaten. Recovery was well under way.

The erotic scenes in Crazed Fruit are fairly chaste but the movie is surprisingly modern in its depiction of a sexually active, liberated, existentialist post-war generation.

Mei Kitahara as Eri, the shadowy, mysterious beauty who may be a prostitute, or simply an innocent girl on vacation, is beguiling as the focus of male lust. Eri is a free woman and it is clear that she’s in control of her choices. She initiates sexual encounters and is more sophisticated, and about ten to twenty years more advanced, than roles offered to women in the U.S. at the time.

The macho posturing and attempts at tough-guy dialogue are clumsy and humorous but there is an unexpected confidence and psychological refinement in the production. Once I decided to accept fake backgrounds and awkward eye contact, I was hooked and fully involved.

 For those who are curious about little known but cool films, developments in cinematography, historical commentary and cultural evolution, beach vacation movies, sibling rivalry, moaning squawking saxophone music, rudimentary waterskiing, the ukulele as sexual metaphor and a seriously massive assortment of the coolest post-war shirts ever exhibited in one place, this is a film that is rewarding, delightfully confusing, and mildly hallucinogenic.

Friday Meditations

(Notice: Upon re-reading these musings, this externalized internal dialogue, this blather, I admit that it is somewhat obvious that I am neither compassionate nor considerate. Sorry. I’ll try to do better. Trust me.)

If your Facebook profile picture is of an animal or a celebrity or has your husband/wife hugged up next to you, you are codependent, psychotic or narcissistic and probably irrelevant. Put your fucking picture there. Come on, you’ve go a photo around someplace. Slap it on your page. Fat? Nope. Old? Bite me. Pimples? Not enough. No one cares what the hell you look like and none of us are terribly important. Ugly or lovely, I just want to know who the hell I’m dealing with. I promise not to say anything.

Why are there so many amputees on my newsfeed this morning? Lots of “look how brave she is” and a video of a woman doing gymnastics but she’s only got ONE LEG. Amazing. A guy in a wheel chair on a trampoline. Blown up vets who have an indomitable spirit. One armed people who can juggle. Tattooed torsos. Fuck that. I have nothing against the disabled or differently-abled. Don’t even think about them; they can do what they want. Amputees are just like the rest of us except they have fewer arms and legs. Seems like everyday there are more limbless people in the world though, doesn’t it?

Scold me for my political beliefs? Sure; go ahead. I’m for Bernie, you’re for Hillary, some other genius is for Trump or Cruz. I’m so bummed out from being told that I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about and I’m wrong, wrong, wrong, because I don’t have similar beliefs as the scolders. Lick me, scolders. You don’t have to comment on every motherfucking post. You’re not that smart. Seriously, you’re not. And sanctimonious progressives are as irritating as the Tea Party toilets.

If you’ve got a shitload of money, no worries, two houses, several vehicles, buy what you want when you want it, no debt, plenty of food, gas, clothing, technology and comfort then you don’t have as much of a vote in my world as people who don’t have that stuff. If you earned it, OK, as long as you remember what it was like before you had plenty of dough. But if you married it, inherited it, stole it, I am not giving you the same credibility as I do those who work, raise kids, struggle, shop for sales, postpone purchases until they have enough saved up, are ill, old, disabled (see above), poor, depressed (understandable), marginalized and overwhelmed by the obvious corruption (look around). If you think our way of life and our political, financial, educational and healthcare systems just need a little fine-tuning by the right people, by The President, congress, you are a boob in Fantasyland and I am not listening. Delete.

Do you bring your own bags to the grocery store? Do you separate your garbage, and refill your water bottle and have a compost pile? Great! Damn, that’s wonderful. Except it is not going to do any good. Planet Earth? Done. Over. Nothing is changing fast enough. If you have a few kids, you’re part of the problem. If you have a load of kids, you are criminally responsible. Deny it all you want but if you are a parent you shouldn’t reprimand anyone for not recycling. It’s not about conservation unless it’s primarily about limited population growth (which we’ve known for centuries). Because unless there is a worldwide agreement to change everything right away, this year, this month, not a goddamn thing will alter and the world will end sooner than you can imagine. Sure, argue with me, go ahead, deny the math, the science, but really, honest, nothing except universal drastic measures will help. Complete commitment by everyone. And stop super-celebrating or politicizing birth. Get a grip.

Shouldn’t we teach kids about death, divorce and finance in grammar school? Start in the second grade, an hour a day? You can learn to multiply and divide and read and write in about four months but people are falling apart over the death of a dog or a grandmother, they are killing themselves and others when they break up with their boyfriend/girlfriend, husband/wife, and young people are deeply into credit card debt because they can’t resist buying shit they do not need. Teach children about suffering and heartbreak and financial responsibility. Save some lives, save some money.

Another thing, relative to a few responses I’ve received: if you think I’m angry, then you’ve never been around angry people. Do you know someone who has chopped a piano into pieces with an axe because his kid didn’t practice? I do. Have you ever sat at Thanksgiving dinner and seen your aunt smash a plate of turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy and cranberry sauce over her husband’s head? I have. When was the last time someone berated you until you thought they’d break a blood vessel? Me: A month ago. I confess to being opinionated, intolerant of dishonesty and judgmental. And you’re not? Bullshit. If you think I’m angry, you don’t know anger.

Have a great weekend.

They're Not Coming for Your Guns

I have a question for the anti-gun people who are not fascists or insane.

(And sometimes I’m very anti-gun.)

How do you bring in all the firearms?

How do we take them back from those who we consider unfit to own them?

How do we know what’s in the backpack, the gym bag, under the front seat, under the pillow and how do we make those un-indicted, thus far law-abiding individuals give up their weapons?

I don’t approve of unrestrained anger (get help) and I’m anti-stupid (stay in school) but I’ve been guilty of serious anger and stupidity and I’ve acted out while in the grip of both. A lot of stupid and angry people have guns (personal experience) and I’m fairly sure that they should not. Me? I definitely should never own a firearm. Without going into detail, I have no felony convictions, no domestic violence arrests, and my paranoia is within normal limits but I’m self-aware and honest enough to know my own history and tendencies, and neither lends itself to the authorized, safe ownership of a handgun.

(Last Saturday, for no reason, I was talking to people who were not present in my car and I sometimes became angry at them and made threats. I have imaginary enemies.)

There remains the possibility that someone, or myself, could get hurt or killed if I had a Glock in the console.

There are a crazy number of guns in circulation. We’ve seen the stats: one firearm for every U.S. citizen. 318 million people, 300 million guns. I don’t have my gun, so some guy has two. If you don’t have yours, that guy has six guns strewn around his home. Simple math and light research and I reach the conclusion that a crapload of these guns are in the possession of people who shouldn’t have them. Ever. Even with no convictions, no arrests, no traffic tickets, all legal and registered, but:

Road Rage dirtbag can’t tolerate being passed on the freeway.

Methed-out mom shopping at Wal-Mart for a pair of sunglasses.

Quiet recluse with a twisted crush on his landlady’s granddaughter.

How the hell do we figure out who they are, and how do we wrestle away their guns? It’s a big question.

Door to door? I am definitely not volunteering to confront some hungover family on Sunday morning while they’re getting ready for church and ask them if they’d answer a few questions, honestly, and when they don’t score well then I’m authorized to search the house for firepower. Fuck no.

Do we put up a sign on the courthouse lawn asking those who are sad, angry, paranoid, jobless, unhealthy, unstable, marginalized, bullied and unhinged to drop by every Saturday between 11 A.M. and 2 P.M. for a gracious handshake and a big smile as we relieve you of your pistols?

Grant amnesty to everybody and buyback any weapons they may have lying around?

I don’t see it happening without a fascist nanny-state green-party peace and freedom militia takeover. Please, what's the reality? What am I missing? What’s the strategy here? The outrage is mounting along with every mass shooting, and the shooting incidents are getting closer and closer to together. Pretty soon it will be one continuous gunfight; good guys, bad guys, soccer moms, cardiologists, school kids, deer hunters, Mormons, alcoholics, gangbangers, flipouts, nutcases and screwballs blasting away 24/7 coast to coast.

What’s the plan?

Talk is cheap.

Bowie. RIP. However...

I admit it; I didn’t get David Bowie. No hate. Not hating.  I’m not saying that he wasn’t a genius or beautiful or the physical embodiment of art and music and fashion. He was, with his makeup and haircuts and his perfect white-guy Anglo-Saxon body. I just didn’t care. I am put off when Art School, Fashion and music intersect. It’s a little complicated for me.

I mentioned this to a friend and he immediately began quoting Bowie lyrics. I had to stop him. You see, I’m a drummer and I hardly care about lyrics. Yes, I’ve written songs, we all have, but the words are secondary. In my world, rocknroll should make you bleed, make you want to fuck, get drunk and high, fight, it’s supposed to hurt because it’s teenage music, even if you’re an old man, and it spits and shouts anger and frustration and revolt.

It is Rebel Without a Cause, the Fender Stratocaster, and laughing your ass off after you’ve wrecked your car.

The lyrics and costumes and backgrounds come later. Important? Sure. Who doesn’t like cool clothes? Or a decent light show? And truly, Dylan, The Beatles, Jim Morrison, Bowie, everyone, has written amazing lyrics, poems, rants with a beat. Dig it. No question. But drums, bass, guitar, heavy amps and the occasional Hammond B3 are the foundation of everything.

I do not give a shit about Lady Gaga, folkrock whiners, clever verse set to a jangling rhythm. Bowie was all right. So was Michael Jackson, Elvis, Janis, Buddy, Stevie Ray, anyone you want to mourn, personal saints and saviors. Me? I miss Otis Redding and Keith Moon. Shit, man, everyone, everything dies, all heroes and family and pets and celebrities. Gone, gone away forever. But rock remains and I love to listen to the exploding chords, the beat, reverb, echo, ear splitting volume. That’s what I seek and, thankfully, have found. That’s what saved my ass as a young guy who hated school, hated work, hated his friends, his clothes, hated other people, hated himself. I passed on Bowie. Sorry, fans. I guess I wasn’t sensitive enough. He didn’t give me what I needed at the time and what I probably still need.

Have you ever awakened the next morning hung over, lost, confused, can’t find your keys, wonder if your nose is broken and how that happened, need a cigarette, and you can’t hear, there is muffled ringing in your loud-damaged ears, begin to remember the gig, the crowd, the concert, scenes take shape, maybe real, maybe not, and you are glad to be alive? Literally alive and in pain and it’s perfect.

That’s rocknroll and I wouldn’t change it. RIP everyone and Turn It Up.

The Pigeon Story

I waved at a flock of pigeons in my back yard and they flew away. We have a bird feeder and they are voracious, decimating the food before better birds arrive. Greedy fuckers. So, when I see a bunch of them munching uncontrollably, I wave my arms from inside the house and they perceive danger and take wing, panicky, flapping and flailing. It looks kind of cool and funny; I feel powerful.

Today, when I waved them away they all took off except for one.

A normal-looking pigeon, average, nothing special, but it remained behind, pecking as the others split.

I thought: that is one smart pigeon.

He (I’m calling it a “he”) suspects that I’m not a "real" threat so he hangs back and helps himself to more seed than the rest of the birds. Advanced birdbrain.

But wait. It is also possible that he’s the stupidest dude in the flock because when the rest took flight, he stayed around and put himself at risk to eat more than his share. Gluttony on an avian scale. Does he not know about cats, coyotes, foxes? He can’t be so smart that he differentiates me as a harmless harasser from the dangerous predators, can he?

            But seriously, I’m not sure. This is a problem with evolution. Either the most adaptable survive, or the stupidest. Based on recent observations, I’m going with the latter. 

 

I Wish I Knew

Holidays are over, now lets get back to work. Make lists and promises, announce commitments and concerns. Politics and refugees, bullying and terrorism. Give the impression that I care enough, that I know something, I'm involved.

I’m outraged at the way (Fill in the Blank) is behaving and how (Fill in the Blank) is being treated. (Fill in the Blank) must stop. The Government is (Fill in the Blank) and should do something. What is wrong with (Fill in the Blank)? Have they no conscience? No humanity? (Fill in the Blank) is a failure. The real enemy is (Fill in the Blank).

There. All done. All better. Sorted out. A template for outrage that should cover the next 12 months unless there’s an invasion from mars, resurgence of the Black Death or an extinction event (comet, quake, cancellation of Bates Motel). I can get back to writing short stories and novels, maybe even some dopey poetry, without feeling that I’m not participating in the anger and angst required of a modern man. There are very few people I trust enough to consider their opinions and I plan to avoid social media witch-hunts, crucifixions and lynch mobs. I’m an anachronism, unmodern and backwards and I don’t know about anything except:

1.  Late 19^th  and mid-20^th century classic literature

2.  Jazz music between 1945 and 1965 (and some Avant Garde).

3.  How to stop making shit up

Honestly, I don't even know enough about that stuff. The best thing I have is a method to cease creating my own misery (#3). I don’t always begin the moderating process soon enough, but I am convinced that I can reduce unnecessary suffering by 90 percent. Also, epic literature and decent jazz. If I can help with any of those things, let me know.

Meanwhile, I have a filthy pornographic poem running through my head and I have to write it down before it disappears. In my world that would be a great loss. Happy New Year and Stay Involved.