Housesitter

I like to consider myself a fair person.  For example, I didn’t turn on Steven Soderbergh when he stole Jules Asner from me.  I still liked Out of Sight on it’s own merit.  But what self respecting director takes on a historical remake, and it’s two sequels, all of which had separate and unique writing teams?  Frank, Dino and Sammy D are all crossing their eyes and sticking out their tongues.  There’s petty jealousy, there are reasons not to like someone, and then there’s reasons not to respect them.

Quentin Tarantino has long since been one that I hated, was jealous of, and had no respect for.  Let me take the hatred first.  He looks, sounds and acts like a total idiot.  If I were ever in a room with him, I would spend every second trying to figure out how to escape or punch him.  He irritates me on a core level much like my ex-coworker KC.  You see, KC had a myriad of interests and traits that just drive me nuts, especially when summed up: ladybug tattoo on his big toe, paisley telecaster, saxophone, glass blowing, “sculpting sound” philosophy to songwriting.  I was also jealous of the success he had with all of his musical projects, his high profile jobs and influence in the music industry and his unrivaled network of acquaintances.  But then I hated how he endlessly referred to these things and talked them up to be more than they really were.  That’s why I had no respect for him.  That, and he got caught doing naughty things at work.

KC is the Quentin Tarantino of my actual life.  Quentin has always annoyed me as a person and a personality, but then he started dating Mira Sorvino, my college-era celebrity crush.  This blew my mind, as Mira Sorvino is really smart.  There must’ve been something I wasn’t seeing in Quentin…

Then I lost the respect for him as a director.  He did a couple films I at least enjoyed marginally; yes I was that guy who claimed to like Reservoir Dogs better than Pulp Fiction.  His portion of Four Rooms was uncomfortable despite the interesting concept, Jackie Brown distanced me completely.  That, as well as The Kill Bills and Deathproof, were just exercises in genre.  Even a glimpse into his cinematic future on IMDB reveals a group of predictably terrible titles and ideas:

Kill Bill: Vol. 3 (2014) (announced)
Faster, Pussycat Kill Kill (in development)
Come Drink with Me (in development)

Yep, that’s that Tarantino that I don’t care for.  The one who mashes up a bunch of pre-existing good ideas, and executes with an attention to detail albeit drawing your attention to that detail rather than allowing it to go appropriately unnoticed.

As much as I don’t like Tarantino or his overall body of work, my fairness leads me to proclaim that Inglorious Basterds is one of the best films I have ever seen.  I’m thinking maybe top 25, definitely top 50.  It still has those loathsome Tarantino signatures, but in the context of this film they actually work.  The level of detail is superb.  The gore, while not completely necessary, makes sense against the backdrop of a war.  The pacing, slow and calculated as usual, conjures a tension deep rooted in the history of this conflict.  There were a couple acting performances that were either undernourished or abandoned in confidence by the director, such as Brad Pitt’s role or the french/jewish revenge-driven revolutionary.  On the flipside, there were some performances that I completely attribute to strong direction – not just Christoph Waltz, but many of the extras or smaller roles.  I can imagine the importance of every nuance being explained in detail, and all was executed with great effect.

One thing that really separated this film from his other work was the depth of the writing (which was also his work).  It’s not just inflicting wounds as usual, it’s the fear of how those scars will effect them all their lives.  It’s a character being willing to die for their cause, but then dying cheaply without seeing their plan work.  It’s making a character feared not by what they do or how violently they do it, but how slyly and sinisterly they manipulate conversation.  These are not new things… this is Tarantino we’re talking about… but they are executed superbly and integrated into a whole work naturally.

I don’t want to go into a full blown film review/critique/plot summary here…  I just want to admit to Mr. Tarantino that, while I still want to punch him in his toothy puss, I wholeheartedly embrace this film as one of the best I’ve seen and markedly better than The Hurt Locker.  Well done, and thank you for not giving yourself a cameo.

If I was on top of my game, I would first write a hilarious tie-in with myself and the Roman city of Antioch.  It suffices to say I’m not at the top of my game these days (hence the use of phrases like “it suffices to say”).  A once-great city, destroyed in the crusades, blah blah blah.  Google it.  But I grew up in Antioch IL, and my mum still lives there.  That’s where I went for Memorial Day weekend.  I’ll spare you the awesome details, in hopes that these lyrics from “Seminal 90s Emo/Hardcore band” Antioch Arrow can fill the void for you:

Tongue tied and wide eyed man.
You know sometimes it’s like pullin’ teeth
And I can see it better, if I just made the incision.
Decision! Incision! Wide eyed man.
Tongue tied and wide eyed man, I’m walkin’ it over.
You know, sometimes it’s like pullin’ teeth
And I can see it better, if I just made the incision
And ripped your fuckin’ heart out.

I was going to give you a link to hear the song, but Antioch Arrow is too seminal to have it available online.

I’ve been in pain lately.  Big, legitimate worker’s-comp-qualifying pain.  If you summed up my symptoms you could reasonably diagnose that there is an arrow going into my back and out my stomach.  My doctor says Advil and physical therapy, which is a step above crossing my fingers and closing my eyes.  Others swear by their own remedies; it seems everyone has had back problems and has a unique solution that I’m an idiot for not trying.  I don’t want advice.  I want gentile, wordless consolation and drugs that will make the world go away.  I want to be an old dog euthanized in the arms of a crying little girl.  I want to rip this arrow out of my torso, snap it in half above my head, cauterize the wound with gunpowder like Rambo and then finally be done with this god-damned ordeal.

On top of all this physical duress, emotionally I’ve been a cross between Larry Gopnik and Enid Coleslaw.  I’d endure twice the physical pain to be upgraded to Ari Gold or… shit… I can’t even think of a jewish comic book character that’s an emotional opposite  to Enid… told you I wasn’t at the top of my game.  Point is:  I’m not doing well.

If Coldplay covered “I Wanna Be Sedated” at 45 bpm it’d probably become my favorite song, and hopefully that says a lot.

In the immortal words of the small town cop from the story that I haven’t written yet, “Looks like a metaphor’s a-brewin”.

I was IMing with Brian the other day about someone he knows, a young and attractive girl whose life could go a number of different ways.  Here’s my prediction on her life adventure, told in IM format for authenticity (so forgive my lax grammar).  Her name has been omitted because she’s a minor, capable of freaking out and sending multiple omg text messages.

Dear Ferrari Owner,
I saw you on Lake today, your immaculate Ferrari parked with the windows down and you inside with your sunglasses and spiky hair. You are the youngest Ferrari owner I’ve ever seen, which makes me question the means by which you acquired your wealth. I wondered who you were talking to on your cell phone. Then you got out of your car, leaving it idling on the curb. You waved your hands across the street.

And there, across the street, was a young and attractive (enough) female who was also on a cellphone. She was the same ethnicity and age as you, and appropriately dressed to match your status. She was looking around wildly trying to find you and started walking in the opposite direction. You yelled into your phone for her to turn around, and she did, looking exactly in your direction but still not seeing you. She turned around again and started walking away. I didn’t stick around to see the outcome of this exchange but I just wanted to point out that your BRIGHT RED FUCKING FERRARI COMPLETELY FAILED TO GET YOU NOTICED BY YOUR OWN GIRL, WHO WAS ABOUT 45 FEET AWAY FROM IT.

Thanks for your time.

After my post “On Being Burned Bacon” I received what could only be described as a heartfelt letter of concern (in the mail) from one of my readers.  I’ve been contemplating the length and context in which to reply, and I think I’ll keep it short here in the blog.  This way any other interested parties can keep up with me.  Hopefully the little pixels flying from monitor to brain in this public forum won’t be too impersonal, or be interpreted as lack of desire for a more intimate exchange.  I’ve been known to adapt to the needs of others when I am communicating, but given the nature and source of this dilemma I’m going to continue doing things my way.

While flowing with kinship, mutual respect, anecdotes and tangents, the main message of this letter was simple.  Cheer up.  Why so glum?  Is it really so bad?

I don’t know.  The amount of people with which I interact is extremely limited, and the nature of that interaction has not been healthy for me.  I envision my life like the lead character of Waking Life, just listening as others unfold their philosophies so that I might pick the bits I agree with and formulate some grand understanding which will eventually allow me to float off into the sky.  However, in a world where we are not all articulate, intelligent cartoons and where I cannot remain mute to mask my own ignorance and lack of understanding, I am left to question my motivations for doing things such as creating music and film.  Or heck, even writing here.  Who am I trying to connect with, and on what level?  I believe complete understanding between two people is impossible, yet it’s something we strive for as humans.  Something about that just doesn’t sit right with me.

I was depressed in high school for a while, maybe 6 months.  It felt good to allow myself to feel that way.  I listened to BB King and really felt like I understood him.  I wrote dark, lousy poetry and didn’t wash or change my clothes.  When I emerged, intoxicated by the prospect of nubile skateboarding girls eager to “get to know me”, I looked back at my ordeal from BB King’s perspective and calculated just how out of touch I had been from what was actually in that music.  Now I feel like I am BB King, missing the mark in relating with people, because what I want to express doesn’t exist the same in others.  Then there’s the oversight that I have no songs in my heart to express and I don’t have the talent to express them fully even if they were there.  I could build up the craft of songwriting if I needed to, but I’m afraid – truly afraid – that the well has run dry and the only connection going on (for me or someone else) is with a version of myself that existed years ago.

I don’t feel like going into much more detail than that.  My creative self is a solitary and miserable place which occasionally yields quality results.  I don’t expect anyone to understand it, nurture it, relate to it or otherwise compensate for it.   I have dealt with my fair share of “artist” personalities to not want to be viewed as such.  People have come to overlook my sensitivities and that’s something I choose to deal with accordingly as I interact individually with people.  The magic of Waking Life, which I am trying to employ, is to not involve people who would not benefit the outcome.

I’m usually not that huge dork who gets hyped by a comic book-turned-movie. In fact, I don’t even read comic books anymore. And when I did, I avoided all that superhero ick and stuck with the likes of Andi Watson, Jeffrey Brown, Chynna Clugson-Major, Jen Van Meter and Brian Lee O’Malley.  Take note of that last one – because I was there when Lost at Sea came out, and I really liked it.  And I was there when the first volume of Scott Pilgrim came out, and I really really liked that.  It had so many details for me to relate to, going so far as to have the characters fingering chords on guitars correctly (and the chord progressions provided in the event that you wanted an idea of how the song goes).  I got about four volumes in before I lost interest; as entertaining as the premise, characters and storytelling were I just couldn’t keep myself invested between books.

When I read graphic novels, I’m seeing them as a stylistic reflection of real life.  Giant words provide sound effects because sound effects exist in real life, but can’t be provided in book form.  When I see a movie based on a comic book, I don’t want it to look like a comic book.  I want it to look like what that comic was referencing but couldn’t fully relate.

Imagine my glee when it was announced that Scott Pilgrim was being made into a film.  I heard this announcement on the Oni Press boards, which perhaps ups my nerd rank.  Fine.  Michael Cera was tied to the project.  Awesome.  But there was the “who knows” that hangs over the movie industry and kept me from really getting excited.  Then Edgar Wright signed on to direct (of Shaun of the Dead fame) and things really started looking good.  This little book on an indie press that I liked could potentially get a real life big break.  I’m happy to say it’s finally in the can, and there’s even a trailer now viewable online.  And I’m not suuuper impressed.

I want to like this.  I really do.  I don’t want to be that comic book nerd that complains about the things that I am afraid will be wrong, when they so clearly got so much right.  I think O’Malley was involved in the production, or at least provided guidance, and if so I think I can see his influence because there are so many things that could have been completely missed.

Before I go on the usual uninformed shit talk, I’m going to maintain hope for this one.  Still, watch the trailer, and tell me the gigantic comic book sound effect words aren’t totally stupid.  The books were done in the style of video games – why aren’t they video game noises or 8 bit text instead?  Miss.