Good mornin' . . .

I woke up at 4am with the sickening realisation that I'd slept nine hours. The realisation that I was not going to be getting any more sleep and that the day, for better or worse, had begun. So here I am, drinking the Komodo Dragon blend Starbucks coffee I found in the refrigerator.

So what've I been up to for these quiet days? Lots of movies of course . . . Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Coffee and Cigarettes, Fahrenheit 9/11, Boom Town, Strange Cargo, The Terminal, and Manpower. All of them were mostly good, except Strange Cargo was rather disappointing. But even it had its moments.

For fun, I'm gonna try to link all of these movies . . . Cat on a Hot Tin Roof was an interesting little Tennessee Williams drama that wasn't as good as A Streetcar Named Desire. It starred the pretty Elizabeth Taylor and the scorchingly gorgeous Paul Newman, who not only looked better than Taylor, but was a better actor. You've probably heard it here first. In later life, as a cool looking old man, Paul Newman appeared in Road to Perdition, a film directed by the same fellow who directed American Beauty, which featured Thora Birch, who was also in the wonderful Ghost World with Scarlett Johannson, who was brilliantly partnered with Bill Murray in Lost in Translation.

Bill Murray was one of the highlights of Coffee and Cigarette's, a film that was the culmination of twenty years of short films directed by Jim Jarmusch about people doing things whilst enjoying coffee and cigarettes. Over the period of twenty years, see, Jarmusch would occasionally bring aside a couple actors and make a little short film with them on the subject. The first film, starring Roberto Begnini and Steven Wright, won a prize at Cannes, but I only found it mildly interesting. It felt contrived to me, and not nearly as good as some of the later pieces. I enjoyed the dialogue between Tom Waits and Iggy Pop, which was a scene something like watching exotic animals circling each other in fascinating lighting. But my favourite segment was Cate Blanchett in duel roles; as herself, and as her somewhat bitter cousin. Blanchett carried off the performance of two different people talking to each other so well that it was breathtaking. And the subtility of the characters was better than the broader humour seen in some of the film's other segments, like the Tesla coil scene with The White Stripes. Cate portrays with surprising delicacy the star's awkward feelings about being caught in the strange eyes of the common woman.

The scene where Bill Murray converses with GZA and RZA of Wu-Tang clan was strangely darling, right from the moment where Murray drinks straight from the coffee pot. Generally, the movie was good, although I didn't enjoy it as much as Jarmusch's Mystery Train.

Cate Blanchett has been a favourite actress of mine for a while. She appeared in the reasonably good The Talented Mister Ripley with Matt Damon who, most sentients know, is best friends with Ben Affleck. Affleck had something of a cameo appearance at the beginning of Fahrenheit 9/11.

I like Micheal Moore. He twitches oddly when he's trying to sit still. I admire that in a man.

And I admire this film. It didn't tell me much I didn't already know, in terms of raw information. But he brought into it the emotional element that is lacking in simple reports of what a fuckhead George W. Bush is. Yes, I really think a lot of people need to see the Iraqi man holding the mutilated corpse of a baby, asking the camera what the child had done to deserve this. We do need to see the man being taken from his home by U.S. soldiers without being told why. We need to see all of the soldiers coming home to the U.S. with missing limbs. We need to have our eyes and or ears open to what's happening. This film does that.

Unlike some people, I even like Moore's humour. It provides a useful function. Without it, there're a lot of people who would never sit through a movie with images like what this movie has. And that would have meant a lot less people who're informed.

One of the most important issues with the Bush administration is its connexions with oil dealing and trade. It seems to have pushed these fat-cats into an unimaginably loathsome, cut throat mentality. And it was odd that the next movie I enjoyed was a film called Boom Town.

Made in the early 40s, it took place in the early 1900s and cast Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy as pennyless oil prospectors. They swiped equipment from Frank Morgan (who played the Wizard of Oz and who I'd seen a week earlier in The Mortal Storm, starring Jimmy Stewart and Margaret Sullivan as Jews escaping from Nazi Germany on skis--but that's another kettle of fish) to drill on a spot where Tracy thinks there might be oil.

The film also features Claudette Colbert and Hedy Lemmar, both of whom looked delicious. It also had a court room scene at the end where Spencer Tracy talked about the importance of preserving our land's oil as much as possible, so it wouldn't be so scarce for future generations. Aw, such innocent times.

Clark Gable also starred in the next movie I watched, Strange Cargo which, like I said, was disappointing. It featured two favourite actors of mine; Peter Lorre and Joan Crawford. In fact, it was the first time in years that Gable had worked with Crawford, after the two of them had frequently been paired in dramas of the 30s. The set-up was promising--in some exotic country (which is never clearly identified and could've been either France or India), Gable's a convict and Crawford's possibly a call girl (the Production Code prohibited the film from being too clear about that). Peter Lorre's possibly a pimp.

Unfortunately, somehow it was decided this movie would feature a conterfeit convict who turns out to be an incarnation of Jehovah, in order to push a religious message on the film, and ensure that, as per the rules of the Production Code, Gable turns himself back in at the end after going through a lot of trouble to escape.

Peter Lorre also appeared in John Huston's The Maltese Falcon. John Huston later directed The beautiful 1952 version of Moulin Rouge (as far as I'm concerned, the best movie to bear that title), which featured Peter Cushing in a small role. Cushing appeared in Star Wars, Episode IV: A New Hope, directed by George Lucas, who at about the same time, co-wrote the screenplay for Raiders of the Lost Ark, directed by Steven Spielburg. Spielburg also directed the movie I saw yesterday, which was The Terminal.

The Terminal took place almost entirely on a very impressive set, which looked exactly like an airport terminal. It must've cost a fortune to build.

It was a cute movie. Sometimes too cute. But basically good and effective. I really liked the ending, which didn't make too much with the good-wins-hurrah business.

Okay, here's the long shot; The Terminal had the lovely Catharine Zeta-Jones in it. Zeta-Jones costarred with Rene Zellweger in Chicago. Zellweger'd been in Jerry MacGuire, which had Tom Cruise in the title role. Tom Cruise starred in Ridley Scott's Legend. Scott had made Blade Runner a year earlier; it had starred Harrison Ford. Ford'd had a cameo in Apocalypse Now, as did the great, recently passed Marlon Brando. Marlon Brando had been in Guys and Dolls with Frank Sinatra, Frank Sinatra had been in Some Came Running with Shirley MacLaine. Two years later, MacLaine was in The Apartment, directed by Billy Wilder, who'd directed Witness for the Prosecusion about five years earlier. It'd starred Charles Laughton and Marlene Dietrich. Around fifteen years earlier, Dietrich was in Manpower, the movie I watched last night (whew!).

Manpower was directed by Raoul Walsh whose best films, I suspect, I have yet to see. Manpower also starred Edward G. Robinson and George Raft. It was about guys who fixed powerlines when they broke, usually in dramatic thunderstorms. It was a great movie, though. Part action, part blue-collar comedy, part film noir. It certainly had the film noir quality in that I suspect it was partially inspired by the puritanical nature of the Production Code. It was inspired to show how sometimes life is really not so tidy and sometimes, in the end, there's very little us mortals can do about it.

"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact." -Sherlock Holmes

Evidently, a number of people in my family like to use the word "evidently." My mother's been driving me crazy by peppering her speech with it overmuch for months. Too much peppering. Sneezing peppering. Now this morning, my grandmother, recounting the boring events leading up to the finding of her lost keys, saw fit to goop on copious doses of "evidently." Where the hell did this come from? I'm starting to hate the sound of the word from my own mouth.

Last night I went to bed at the peculiar hour of 12. I woke up at 6:30am. This must be the most normal night of sleeping I've had in years. Certainly it's the strangest in recent days, which've seen me sleeping from 9am to 6pm.

So I walked to Starbucks, drank a mocha (with an add shot), ate a scone, and read a few chapters of Poppy Z. Brite's Liquor. Really a good book. It never occured to me that I'd have so much fun reading about a couple of guys starting a restaurant. But fun it is.

I don't talk much here about what I read, do I? Well! I've just finished James Joyce's Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Before this, the only other Joyce I'd read was the novella The Dead, and both works had something very concentrated about them. I was struggling to describe it to Trisa one morning, and the image that comes to mind is of Spider-Man's web shots--how they come out in a very neat violent line but kind of fan out at the end, suggesting that the cord is made up of many strands concentrated together. That's kind of what reading James Joyce is like for me. In any case, wonderful writing. There's actually nothing wrong with it. Almost too much nothing wrong with it--well, not really. What I mean by that is just that, er . . . Well, there's no fringe uselessness, or even what might seem to be uselessness in Joyce's work. Every line is so much the straight dope that sometimes I need to stop and catch a breath.

Anyway. I'm not used to being alive this early. I've an optimistic suspicion that I'll be more productive to-day. We'll see!

Snurched from Mella's journal;

"1. Take five books off your bookshelf.
2. Make these sentences into a paragraph:
Book #1 -- first sentence
Book #2 -- last sentence on page fifty
Book #3 -- second sentence on page one hundred
Book #4 -- next to the last sentence on page one hundred fifty
Book #5 -- final sentence of the book
3. name your resources."

"1801--I have just returned from a visit to my landlord--the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with. In the meantime the sister woke up from the bewildered state she had fallen into after the sudden interruption of her music; after she listlessly dangled the violin and bow awhile in her slack hands and gazed at the music as though she were still playing, she pulled herself together, put the instrument in the mother's lap (the mother was still seated, gasping asthmatically for breath), and ran into the next room, which the boarders were rapidly nearing under the father's pressure. Not a very deep space, but long, the bar along the bridge side and the opposite all mismatched windows, looking south, past the piers, to China Basin. Then suddenly his eyebrows contracted, and with a brusque movement of his left foot he spurred his horse and galloped forward. 'I've done you before, haven't I?' it said."

1. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
2. The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka
3. All Tomorrow's Parties by William Gibson
4. War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
5. Life, the Universe and Everything by Douglas Adams

Well, that didn't make any sense.

Who's the naughty boy not updating his blog? Pontius Pilate! Oops, I mean Setsuled. Almost gave away my secret identity . . .

Seriously, folks, I'm feeling bleached. I drew a picture last night, first bit of productivity in "days". Why in quotes, asks you? Because of my weird ass sleeping schedule, because of meeting Trisa for dinner at 7am for days and waking up at 6pm. Pull it together, me.

Trisa drew a picture of me. I told her it looks a little like Lucien from Sandman, but that doesn't diminish me feeling happy 'bout it.

I think I have about 323 movies on tape that I've never seen before, and most days, I'm in the process of recording about three more. Yet, last night, I actually sat down and watched a movie I'd already seen before. I watched Time Bandits, one of Terry Gilliam's earlier films and a really good one. I love Randal's attitude--sure, God's fallible. But why get upset about it? Why not get stinking rich?

I love the anti-feel-good ending that feels oddly great. I love Kevin's stay with Sean Connery's Agememnon. I love John Cleese's naive, superficial Robin Hood who seems to be either a soft bellied coporate executive or a confused communist dictator.

Anyway, I slept 'til 6pm to-day, so I ought not to put too much time into the blog . . .

I have a feeling I'm not going to be very productive to-day. I've only just awakened, after having gone to bed at around 1:30. My head feels foamfull.

What movie? Did I watch? Brigadoon, a fairly decent musical fairytale starring Gene Kelly, Cyd Charrise and Van Johnson. Van Johnson was half-funny, half-pointless. Gene Kelly, as usually, made you wanna play along in whatever game he was playing. Cyd Charrise was speaking in a false Scottish accent, and not very well . . . But she was gorgeous, so it's okay.

Gene Kelly managed to tap-dance rather well on a dirt road. That was impressive.

I'm going to try to stay awake now.

Dreamt that a planet was discovered at the centre of our solar system, where we'd all supposed the sun to be. For some reason, what'd looked like a sun from a distance was in fact a planet similer to earth, covered with green and water.

With an old man, a raven, and a spaceship, I journeyed to that world. We wandered through vibrant green forests under a blue, sunless sky, finding no apparent sentient inhabitants. Then we came upon a very nice, large house of dark mahogany wood and various places to put scotch and bourbon. We wandered around in there, and stayed the night. The next day, we continued exploring the world.

...

Last night I watched Tarzan, the Ape Man. It was made in 1930, before the production code, so Maureen O'Sullivan got to look really gorgeous in a skimpy, shredded dress, confusedly handled by Tarzan. It was odd how much her screams sounded like the screaming apes clustered around them. Apparently, in 1934's Tarzan and His Mate, she even has an extended nude scene. Since 1934 was the year the production code was established, it gives a tantilising glimpse of what movies of the 40s and 50s--perhaps even society--might've been like if people'd realised from the beginning that the proposed code was in violation of the First Amendment.

Ah, well.

So, Tarzan the Ape Man. There were several moments in the movie that one might dismiss as racist, such as when Jane and her father's expidition are negotiating a lofty, hazardous cliff and one of the black men they'd hired to carry things falls to his death. Mr. Parker and Holtz seem far more concerned with the loss of what the man'd been carrying, although Holtz did add, as an afterthought, "Poor devil." Personally, I saw this more as an illustration of how hardassed the men were, and how pragmatic, rather than as casual racism.

Which is not to say there isn't racism in the movie. Much is made of the fact that Tarzan's white, for example, although Jane's father does have a line something like, "It doesn't matter what colour they are. They're all savages!"

Even so, I liked the movie. The scenes with the animals felt eerily genuine, as if Tarzan really was cooperating with the elephants and chimpanzees. I'm pretty sure that, in one scene, he's genuinely wrestling some lions. Of course, the poor animals must've been terrified going through whatever they'd been forced through to make them seem so canny for the camera.

I liked also how silent much of the scenes were of Tarzan and Jane hanging out in the trees. There was something truly animal about John Weismuller's Tarzan, something about the noises his body made scraping against the trees. This was one of those cases, I think, where Hollywood was blessed by the fact that it didn't know how to be as polished as it does to-day.

I suppose I've always had some difficulty with the Tarzan premise. I can never help wondering, "Why doesn't he have a beard? Why is his hair so perfect? Why does he wear a loincloth?" The answer to all of these questions, of course, is, "So he'll be presentable to the audience." I ought to read the book and find out if Edgar Rice Burroughs really meant it to be that way . . .

I made a new pin-up for Nar'eth. In the process, I learned a little about Indian jewellery and clothes.

I watched Forbidden Planet last night. Not a bad movie. It came from a time when space meant cold, weird, discordant electronic sounds. Which was kind of neat, I think, as I think it reflects the terrifying strangeness of being outside earth's atmosphere.

I didn't notice the whole movie that the story was based on The Tempest. Even though it very much was. With Robby the Robot as Ariel, which I didn't mind, even though I usually prefer to think of Ariel as a pretty girl, perhaps because of The Little Mermaid.

Perhaps the most surprising thing was that I didn't find the movie to be at all silly. I bet there're plenty of people who would but . . . I took it as seriously as it took me. Even though Leslie Nielson's flying saucer crew talked like the 40s movie crew of an American WW2 battleship. They even had a cook wearing an apron and a paper hat. In fact, I liked that.

I'm horribly sleepy. I didn't go to bed until 8am because Trisa and I met for breakfast--dinner--meal. And at 2pm I realised I had to wake up fully (I'd woken up briefly earlier to enlargen an eye) because I have to go to a guitar class with my sister.

I'm currently drinking bad coffee and there's nothing else to say . . .

And last night I watched 1947's Sinbad the Sailor, starring Douglas Fairbanks Jr.--who did a charming imitation of his father's almost ballerina-like athletic antics--Maureen O'hara--a strong jawed, red headed (the film was in colour) Irish lady playing a Persian Princess--and Anthony Quinn. It was a really pretty, colourful movie that seemed almost peculiarly faithful to the sort of Arabian fairytale upon which it's based. The special effects weren't always so special, but were also charming enough and effective in their way.

And what the hell else would I tell you, blog? Let's see . . . My venti americano looks like a Grecian column.

Ann Miller was a terrific dancer (I spelled her name with an extraneous "e" yesterday!). She was the opening act in the movie I watched last night, Kiss Me Kate. A George Sidney movie with music by Cole Porter, it was a very fun and well played out idea about adapting The Taming of the Shrew into a musical. Katharine Greyson was the lead, but Miller easily diverted my attention during her scenes.

And that's all I'll say right now.

Last night I watched the Gene Kelly/Stanley Donan film On the Town. It was shown as part of a tribute to the recently deceased Anne Miller. The only other movie I'd seen with Anne Miller was Mulholland Drive so, needless to say, it was fascinating to see her so vivacious and sexy (no, I don't find it an odd experience at all). And what an incredible dancer--she really ought to've had a larger role. I'd have loved to see her dance alone with Gene Kelly.

Frank Sinatra and Betsy Garret were also in the movie, and both did very well. Sinatra had that voice and that manner . . . you know.

I feel sleepy to-day . . .

Wednesday night I watched the first Bette Davis movie I'd ever seen, The Old Maid, a wonderful film based on a play that was in turn based on an Edith Wharton novellette. Of Wharton's works, I've only read The Age of Innocence. Comparing these two stories, there seems to be a common theme of an individual repressing his or her desires for their entire lives, never being granted the thing they want most before death. And every time the sacrifice is brought to a point, we see that the character has very good reason for sarificing him/her self, and we admire the character's strength for being able to do so.

Bette Davis was a very good actress. Knowing she was the notorious rival of Joan Crawford biases me somewhat (I love Joan Crawford), but I figure it's all water under the bridge--and, anyway, art ought to rise above such things . . . blah blah. Yes, Davis was great. And for some reason I was surprised by how slim she was.

Mirium Hopkins was also in the movie, having just begun to mature past the deviant moppet I loved her as in Trouble in Paradise, a film I've been thinking about a lot lately.

So why didn't I post yesterday? Well, after 6am Thursday, there was rarely a moment that I had any access to the computer. I didn't return until the following 3:30 am, when I found my aunt had been having troubles with the printer that I endeavoured to help with before falling unconscious.

And what was I doing yesterdy? I drove and wandered. Then hung out with Trisa, and played much Soul Calibur 2 . . . At last, a human person was willing to play against me! Such joy . . . and she wasn't a push over, neither. Sure, I won most of the time--but not all the time!

Last night I watched Jean Renoir's The Woman on the Beach, starring Robert Ryan and Joan Bennet. A very flawed film that involved a blind painter who Ryan's character suspects isn't blind and is played by a man who had no idea how to play a blind man. At least the movie had some good ideas, even if they didn't play out so well.

I walked to the bank to-day and could have sworn I saw someone I knew. I locked eyes with her and I'm still not sure if she recognised me or not, or if she was even the person I thought she was. Oh well . . .

It's only 6:30 pm--practically morning for me--and I've already been out to dinner with my family and angered them by asking why they follow the teachings of Sylvia Brown. It was kind of creepy the way my sister answered, as if it were a perfectly good reason, "Because we're programmed to." I don't normally discuss their beliefs with them, having learned long ago what a breach of diplomacy they considered it to be. But I guess it'd been so long since the last time that I'd forgotten.

I watched Jean Renoir's Rules of the Game last night. It was a fun diarama of chaos and people being cool and kind of stupid about the grave peril they're. My favourite line was when Marceau, the poacher, helpfully suggested to a man (whose name escapes me) that he shoot Octave for kissing his wife, only to have the man reply that he'd used up all of his bullets on Marceau for doing the same thing. It was like screwball comedy delivered with utter candour.

Now I feel like working on things . . .

Took the guy at Starbucks by surprise to-day when I ordered a grande valencia americano with no room for cream. It just struck me as I walked up to that little booth that calls itself a Starbucks at Parkway Plaza; why haven't I ever gotten flavour syrup in my americano?

So it's pretty good. It tastes a bit like hot orange juice.

Now, I draw . . .

Last night I watched John Ford's Fort Apache starring Henry Fonda, John Wayne, Shirley Temple, and John Agar. Temple was cute and adequete in another of her teenager roles. Wayne was quite likeable. But the best performance here was definitly Fonda's as the disciplined but overconfident U.S. colonel. It's a role where you could have very easily ended up despising the man but Fonda makes him more complicated than that. Really, the whole movie hinges more on Fonda's performance than anyone else's.

I taped the film off TCM and there was an introduction by TCM's film historian Robert Osborne, who usually has interesting things to say. he mentioned that Fort Apache, made in the late 40s, had the skewed morality regarding Native Americans common to westerns at the time. After watching the movie, I found it odd Osborne would have mentioned this because the film portrayed the Apaches in a surprisingly good light. There were even scenes of Captain York (John Wayne) defending the Chief's honour when the colonel suggested that all Indians, including the Chief, were mindless savages. In fact, the Indians hardly seem villainous at all, especially after the Chief's speech about how war is bad, but living in a state where women and children are dying because the U.S. government is neglecting them is even worse.

...

I had a minor triumph with HTML this morning, working on my new web site. Little did I know that for hours I was merely one, small tag away from having the tables I wanted . . .

I discovered, on Thursday night, that my last alarm clock, my phone, doesn't make any noise. This was unfortunate, since I had to be up at 6am to go to my sister's graduation, and then on to other things. So I knew it wouldn't be a good idea to stay up through the night, as I normally would. Fortunately, a search on yahoo! led me to a software alarm clock that even loaded up an mp3.

So, securing four hours of sleep, I awoke to "Kathryn" by Black Tape For A Blue Girl, and proceeded to my parents'. I then journeyed with them to the SDSU Open Air Theatre, the same place I saw Morrissey a year or two ago.

We sat in the sun and listened to more than six hundred names get called off and listened to bad speeches. The valedictorian's speech was amusing and, since he'd clearly meant it to be, was pretty good. The preceding speech, by the salutatorian, was another matter. She began with something like, "This year, we said farewell to six friends on the TV series Friends . . ." and I was thinking, "Please be a jest, please be a jest, please go on to say, 'But to us acedemics, this barely caused a ripple in our lives which were much larger, and now I'd like to quote from some truly great works of art . . .'" But, no. The conclusion of Friends became her metaphor for the graduating class. How so? Something like, "If we were all on a television series, I'm sure viewers would be just as sad to say farewell to us." This was delivered with no irony or really humour.

Gods. Are my expectations for humanity too high? I'm starting to think so. But my gut reaction at the time was, "this person is supposedly the second highest ranked student in the school. Is this really what's in her head? Can't we do better than that?"

Oh, we can. The valedictorian's speech was fine, after all. He was a person out to do something. He wanted to create a certain effect and did it. This salutatorian clearly had the stink of one who's far less interested in doing things than she was in getting things done. "Do this junk to get this grade, this title, this to pass go."

I said congratulations to my sister afterwards--everyone was too hot and tired to be particularly emotional. We went to a very nice restaurant right on the beach with a beautiful view called The Marine Room. The menu said Gregory Peck had eaten there once.

I asked my sister about the salutatorian and my sister had said that she had indeed known her and not liked her. My sister said the girl was constantly trying to show everyone how intelligent she was, "and," my sister added, "obviously she is . . ."

"No," I said. "Don't say it's obvious. It's definitely not obvious."

"Well, she has one of the highest GPAs--"

"That is not an accurate measure of intelligence."

I could see my mother and her exchanging one of those looks that says, "Oh, he's got a strange opinion again. Let's just let him be so there's no argument." Which, of course, implied they disagreed with me and I'm afraid propriety and peacekeeping have lower priority for me than the quest for illumination. I didn't think I was wrong, but if I was, I'd much rather have learned why than have to turn everything off. And if I was right, that there was something more important to learning than GPA, then it was certainly something my sister needed to take to heart, particularly, I figured, this day of all days.

So I said, "My whole point is that this girl's speech showed she wasn't very smart, and that the school system was in error."

No one said anything in reply, the subject was quickly changed, and I suppose I won't know if my words meant anything to anyone, but I figure that's as much as I'm gonna get out of it. I figure I did my duty, though.

We later went to see The Stepford Wives. Not a perfect movie, but it was a lot of fun.

Last night, I watched John Huston's Beat the Devil. It felt kind of like watching an Indiana Jones movie I'd never seen before. It was great fun with cool and interesting guys and beautiful and interesting women. The movie deserves more from me but I feel rather dead at the moment. Inexplicably sleepy . . .

Jennifer Jones was a adorable. Gina Lollobrigida was terribly sexy. Humphrey Bogart had noticeably bad teeth at this point but really seemed to be enjoying himself. And Peter Lorre was in it, because he seems to be in every movie I watch lately. Roger Ebert, in his Great Movies review, said Lorre improvised a lot of his lines in this movie.

In other news, the Starbucks at North County Fair, my favourite mall, has been suckicised. It now has the new machine, and its big comfortable chairs have been taken away. It was a disappointing sight. The triple latte I got was good, but only as good as most Starbucks'.

I have to get up early to-morrow for my sister's high school graduation. Oh, how the time flies. As Lorre said, "What is time? Swiss manufacture it. French hoard it. Italians squander it. Americans say it is money. Hindus say it does not exist. Do you know what I say? I say time is a crook."

Now I think I'll draw things . . .

I have coffee and I've got Cherry Coke.

Last night I watched the 1960 Ken Hughes film The Trials of Oscar Wilde. Peter Finch played Wilde and, for the bulk of the film, did a reasonably good job. No one working on the film seemed to have the proper sense of timing to deliver Wilde's witicisms early on in the film. So badly were they delivered, in fact, that I was partially compelled to stop watching, out of respect for the late Mr. Wilde. But I stuck it out, partly because I don't believe in judging a work of art until you've seen the whole of it, and partly because I was still curious about where it was going.

When it got to the actual courtroom scenes, the movie began to be effective. I suppose this is probably because the scenes took their script from court transcripts. Also, in these scenes, Finch gave a very good, moving performance, and it had me dwelling on that absolutely daemonic situation, of this brilliant, beautiful person who strayed into a lion's den with faith that being a true person who'd done nothing wrong would be all the defence he needed. Here's a vivid example of someone being destroyed by villainous and popular prejudices.

Someone's actually consented to take photos of me again.

So, friends, here's some images of me at the park with my family;

First, here's one of the many instances where I look like I've been punched in the face, even though I hadn't been;


Here's me showing off my false tooth with my Lon Chaney impression;


Here's me being the smug bastard I am;


Finally, here's me, my sister, and my sister's 1300 dollar Louis Vaton bag (no, I'm not exaggerating);


...

Picked Trisa up from work last night--er, I mean this morning. At around 6:20am. She works in a very nice part of town . . . I told her about watching Sylvia Scarlett a few hours earlier, Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn's first collaboration. It was good. Hepburn spent most of the movie dressed as a boy, looking very much like Hilary Swank's Brandon Teena, and Cary Grant got to use his natural cockney accent which was, well, clover.

I've got a lovely bunch of Altoids . . .

Ginger Altoids! I love ginger things . . . yeah . . .

I watched Fred Astaire, Cyd Charisse, and Peter Lorre in Silk Stockings, the musical, 1957 remake of Ninotchka, with songs by Cole Porter. It was pretty good. Not much of the witty dialogue the older one had, but the dance numbers kind of made up for it. Cyd Charisse seemed to be doing a straight Greta Garbo impression (Garbo played Ninotchka in the original film), but that was kind of cute.

The climactic dance sequence, centring on Astaire, was not as good as I wanted it to be. This film suffers from kind of the same thing The Band Wagon suffers from--it focuses too much on the nature of musicals and their relevancy to modern audiences. The final number, "Ritz, Rock, and Roll," was too broadly a "Hey, it'd be neat to have this fusion thing!" If they wanted to do that, they ought to've simply done it instead of singing about it. It needed to be a love song anyway.

I did kind of like the song they did about Cinemascope, Technicolour, and Stereophonic Sound. But my favourite scene was Cyd Charisse dancing with the titular stockings; it catered to the pervert in me.

Saw the new Harry Potter movie with Trisa yesterday. Trisa tells me there're some things in it different from the book but we both seemed to enjoy it. I thought it was easily superior to the previous two movies--but that's not saying much because Chris Columbus is a moron. This one felt more dynamic. You felt more like these kids were going to school at a secret magical school instead of hopping into a Hallmark Christmas card.

No blog entry yesterday because . . . I was not here very much.

Where was I? Nowhere of particular interest.

Actually, let me start by saying that I saw Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho for the first time on Friday morning. That's a beautiful movie. The beginning segment with Janet Leigh does the wonderful thing of putting together a world where you are guilty and on the edge of being found out by a world with a frighteningly greater moral clarity than your own. By the time Norman Bates shows up, we're already in a place where bad things can happen to us not simply because life is cruel and people are twisted, but also because we're not entirely sure if we don't deserve it.

More can be said; the music was gorgeous, Anthony Perkins was perfect as this sweet kid whose mother knows best, and the camerawork and lighting were . . . you know, supurb. There's not one mistep in this movie.

So Friday evening, I went to a play with my family and my sister's boyfriend. This play was Moliere's Don Juan, which was a lot of fun. The lead actors were pretty talented and fun to listen to as they delivered naughty dialogue. And there were ghosts and talking statues and . . . fun.

And last night, after a fruitless attempt to install Neverwinter Nights, I watched Top Hat, a Fred and Ginger movie with songs by Irving Berlin, including "Cheek to Cheek." And what a glorious dance sequence that was.

I really am spoiled by all this great art, I think.

With Trisa yesterday, watched Rebel Without a Cause. The director, Nicholas Ray, had a definite agenda to put forth his perhaps not invalid theory about the destructive, dysfunctional relations of the family, and the young person's inability to find the familial solace he or she desperately needs. Sometimes, it worked; the characters' of Jim and Judy's respective parents were intriguing and very believable. Other times, it didn't work--Plato, Jim's tag-along-buddy, with his psychotically tinted need for his dead parents, wasn't very believable or interesting, consequently making his character a little annoying.

But James Dean, as Jim, was a very effective thing. His aura of chaotic, cool vulnerability added a sort of credibility to scenes. You really felt for this guy. The action sequences, particularly the knife fight, were the best parts of the movie because Dean looks like a guy who might get cut. I liked the movie.

Later in the evening, I watched a movie I enjoyed a little bit more; Frank Capra's Arsenic and Old Lace, with Cary Grant, Priscilla Lane, and Peter Lorre. No big message with this one, just a screwball comedy about an anti-marriage playwright who gets married (Cary Grant), a psychopath named Jonathon who hates when people point out he looks like Boris Karloff, a fake doctor named Einstein (Peter Lorre), a bugle player who thinks he's Teddy Roosevelt, and two little old ladies who put Arsenic in the eldeberry wine as a public service, certainly not to murder, and that's why there're twelve bodies in the cellar, of course.

Another day, yo. Last night I watched George Stevens'Penny Serenade with Cary Grant and Irene Dunne. It was okay. It was sad. The ending felt wrong. It felt a little like it was just the beginning of another cycle in the loop the movie kept putting the couple through. These were real, complex characters. They deserved a real, complex ending.

Lucky the cat has been in my room since 5am and I don't think he wants to leave any time soon.

Not much time right now and I can't think straight anyway . . .

Watched the season finale of Justice League last night and it was good. But I wish they were allowed to cuss and show nudity and blood.

Last night I wathed The Philadelphia Story, a George Cukor movie starring Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, and Jimmy Stewart. I love movies where each character's lines bring to mind a furiously scrabbling animal of some kind, so that, put together, dialogue is something like an unpredicatable, violent frenzy.

The story centres around Hepburn's character, Tracy. It's essentially an introspective journey of hers to see whether or not she's a remote goddess of some kind. But every character is rather vivid. And it was very important that both male leads win your heart, so Grant and Stewart are absolutely essential. Stewart won an academy award for his performance and it was well deserved. Hepburn was nominated, but she also deserved an award. I really dug the scene where Hepburn was angrily explaining to Stewart, who's a writer, that he doesn't know people as well as a writer really ought to--and then stops as she catches herself accusing him of the same thing Grant had accused her of earlier. It was an utterly believable moment that could have easily seemed contrived. But no, this was the real frenzy of creatures.

The sight of Hepburn's bare legs as Jimmy carried her from the pool was also nice.

And, of course, I love Cary Grant. His scenes are like surgical strikes--it only takes a couple lines from him for you to fall in love with him again, no matter how charming Stewart was with all his stammering and energy.

After this movie, I found myself consumed with energy, perhaps having something to do with all the soy milk I was drinking. So I did my laundry, and began reorganising my closet, including all 157 tapes of movies I've made that were all lying about messily.

And I came across a great, great relic of the old world.

On a Christmas, before the Star Wars special editions were even whispered about, and I was still living with my parents, I was given several hundred dollars. With my family at the mall a couple weeks later, I spotted a hundred dollar item that destiny insisted I buy; the Star Wars trilogy, in widescreen.

My mother told me I was crazy. Why pay a hundred dollars for three movies you could get for much cheaper elsewhere and without black bars on the top and bottom? This was long before most people knew any better about widescreen. In this matter, I was the crackpot prophet who was best left to his twisted ways in some shadowy corner somewhere. But who's laughing now, huh? Hehe he.

So in my closet last night, I came across this massive boxed set, the Star Wars trilogy in it's original form, before Greedo shot first. I suppose George Lucas might call me a sick bastard for wanting to see Han blast Greedo in cool blood. Well, I am a sick bastard. And I miss when Lucas was a sick bastard too.

But, this is truly an artefact. You can't buy the original trilogy any more, and most of the people who still have it on tape from buying it more than a decade ago, very likely have it in pan-and-scan. I may be one of, oh, maybe fifteen people in California who has this thing. Which is kind of sad, if you think about it.

Lucas sells the Special Edition now as simply "The Star Wars trilogy," as if another version had never existed. The DVD release later this year, Lucas has decreed, shall be even more revised, with Hayden Christianson edited into Return of the Jedi (no, I'm not making that up).

Watching Star Wars: A New Hope last night, I found myself wondering what it is exactly that makes the older version better, besides Greedo's more believable gunplay. The answer, I think, is Lucas's current faith in CGI.

The main problem with the new Star Wars movies is that there is a very annoying cartoonish quality about them. I asked myself if this sensibility was at all evident in the old Star Wars movies and I realised that it was--the aliens in the cantina, the Jawas, some of the droids--all of these things have a broadly comic quality about them. But it worked, I think, because we believed in the reality of the latex and plastic. It was something we could imagine touching. So, then you have these two forces working against each other--real, maleable material and a sensibility to craft it into something bizarre, but familiar enough to be humorous. It almost feels like a dare.

But in the new movies, and the new versions of the old, Lucas goes to far. In the new version of A New Hope there's an extended version of Luke and Co.'s entrance into Mos Eisley that very thoroughly undermines Obi-wan's description of it being a wretched hive of scum and villainy. It's hard to believe in it when robots are running around, imitating the Three Stooges because the camera's on them.

Anyway, I've gone on too long to-day . . .

Last night I watched Break of Hearts, another Katharine Hepburn movie. I was struck by how much the movie reminded me of one of Joan Crawford's "shopgirl makes good" movies. It was also the most conventional role I've yet seen Katharine Hepburn in. She was just a sweet, pretty young lady. But she did a good job with it.

Charles Boyer was also in the movie. He really looks like a bulkier Jude Law.

I ought to get to work on something. I've been lazy the past couple of days . . .

Trisa and I hung out last night. Did Tower Records and stuff. Got the new Morrissey album, which is great from it's first lines, "America your head is too big/Because you're very stupid."

And Trisa bought the new Dresden Dolls CD, which I'd have gotten too if I hadn't been essentially broke. We listened to it in the car and it's just perfect energy and sentiment.

I watched The Little Minister last night, in which Katharine Hepburn wore gypsy clothes and a Scottish accent. She worked 'em both pretty well.

The latest chapter of the Nar'eth manga is online here--this would be the dirty pictures I was working on yesterday. Check it out, but be warned--it's sort of smut.

Found myself reading some of Cary Grant's autobiography yesterday. It's interesting what he reveals about himself through his lack of proficiency as a writer. I thought it was sort of cute the way he repeated the word "protesting" when talking about being bathed in his grandmother's living room as a child.

Awakened at 8:15 by a phone call I missed and was driven insane by being unable to return, I've already to-day done my final for class to-night, internet-talked to people, modified some artwork and, now, as I'm starting to think I might be able to get back to sleep, I realise it's too late, and that I have to go.

Such is the way of Thursday . . .

I won't lie to you. I've spent the past twelve hours either drawing dirty pictures or watching West Side Story. A little of both, actually. Jeez, Richard Beymer looked young . . .

It's fweekin' ridiculous how much I need coffee right now. All I've been drinking these past twelve hours is ginger ale and soy chocolate milk. Time to change all that.

Ugh. I feel like I've swallowed a were-mosquito hawk baby.

I don't feel like I talked enough about Katharine Hepburn yesterday. I loved her clothes in Christopher Strong. I loved her big, loungey coats with tight pants on her stick figure legs. I loved her aviator's cap and coat. I loved her moth costume. I wish it were still possible for someone to hire her to be in a really cool action sequence where she beats the crap out of someone. And it's real bloody.

I loved her cut-the-pretence voice. She seemed like someone who'd eat fire and then kindly spit into the Devil's eye.

I could go on . . . but I sense I shouldn't.

Last night I dreamt I went with my family to see a strange combo concert--first we were supposed to arrange ourselves in a mall food court and watch Fleetwood Mac sans Stevie Nix--with Nicole Kidman filling in. Then, after two songs, everyone had to file over to a black amphitheatre to watch Elvis Costello perform one song. Then Costello left the stage and Marilyn Manson appeared and didn't do anything. Then it was back to the food court for more Fleetwood Kidman . . .

I stayed up far later than I intended to last night. I stayed up until 7 am, and I meant to get up at 10:30am, which, thankfully, I decided not to do. I worked on something until 3am and then decided I had to watch a movie.

I decided to watch The Searchers. This is another movie I'd been looking forward to for some time, mostly because I'd heard it'd been a big influence on Martin Scorsese's Taxi Driver.

The Searchers is the first John Ford movie I've seen. And that guy was quite good. You can definitely see the influence he had on Spielberg. His sense for cuts and juxtaposition of close-ups was keen--striking but never artificial-feeling. I particularly liked the use of black silhouettes against the hot, desolate valley.

The movie starred John Wayne as Ethan, a former Confederate soldier who is doggedly, psychotically dedicated to pursuing a Comanche tribe that killed his family and kidnapped his neice, Debbie, played by Natalie Wood.

After watching this movie, I was reminded of how much I love moral ambiguity. It really wasn't so much like watching hero-John Wayne pursuing villainous Indians. It was more like two vicious creatures going at each other's throat. The movie was made in the mid-50s, and it's pretty well known how people felt about the relationship between Cowboys and Indians. But the interesting thing is that the film doesn't seem particularly racist about the Native Americans. This is important because it highlights the fact that Wayne's character has a kind of bloodthirsty intolerance for the Comanche.

This is not to say that the Comanche chief, Scar, wasn't a bad dude. If he had done to my niece what he did to one of Ethan's niece Lucy, I doubt I'd be any more concerned with showing him mercy. But Ethan's clearly a little off the deep end.

In playing with essentially this same concept, Taxi Driver does a little better. Or it does a little worse, depending on how you look at it. But maybe The Searchers is a little more insidious, because John Wayne inspires a kind of faith and respect. It's definitely a movie that makes you afraid of what lurks in the human heart and all that.

Last night I watched Christopher Strong, Katharine Hepburn's second movie. I like that woman. I dig the tough, independant thing. I realised last night that she kinna looks like David Bowie. Same build, both have small noses, high cheekbones, thin lips, large eyes, and sharp eyebrows.

Now, I've got a lot to do before class, so I better get moving . . .

Last night I watched You'll Never Get Rich, a movie I'd been looking forward to watching for a while now as it stars Fred Astaire and Rita Hayworth, two of my favourite stars. Astaire said later that Hayworth was his favourite dancing partner. And I don't blame him. Not only was Hayworth beautiful and charismatic, her dancing was also pitch perfect, better even than Ginger Rogers'.

The movie was also very smart and funny, even though more of it took place in an army camp than I would have liked. Although it does give Fred opportunity to dance alone in the guard house--at one point, I realised he was dancing slightly off beat and I started thinking, "Ah, so the great Astaire wasn't perfect after all," when Rita Hayworth walks up and says, "You're a beat off." Astaire had danced a beat off because the script had called for it! Neat!

Last night I watched another Mary Pickford movie, this one called Coquette. It was made in 1929 and it was the first Mary Pickford movie with sound. And, from the quality of sound in this thing, it's not hard to imagine why a number of people believed sound in movies was only a passing fad. Often times the actors would be completely inaudible if they so much as walked across the room. The scene at the dance was almost incoherent.

But this is not to say that Pickford didn't have a good voice. She did fine. In fact, she won an Academy Award for her performance--the second year the Academy Awards were held.

The story was another high melodrama thing about a girl who, as her brother puts it, "Flits around from one guy to another like a . . . like a . . . well, like a butterfly."

But she does fall in love with a violent youth her father doesn't like and her father gets angry when he discovers they had sex and . . . well . . . you get the picture. It was good, though.

I was pretty productive yesterday. Let's see if I can keep it goin' . . .

Last night I watched The Love Light. It was the first Mary Pickford movie I'd ever seen and I . . . liked her. She was a cute little lady. I can see why she would have been refered to as a "darling." Her sweet little face was just fun to watch and, even though the movie was a sorrowful melodrama, I kinna took delight in her impishness.

The movie was about a young Italian woman named Angela (Pickford) whose brothers go off to World War I and get killed. The movie was made in 1921, long before Hollywood was ordered by the government to be a propaganda machine for World War II. So at this point, film makers were still allowed to show war as an awful thing, which they often did.

So The Love Light was essentially a series of stories about poor little Angela, nearly all of which end terribly. First her brothers die, then the man she'd secretly married turns out to have an awful secret, then someone steals her baby . . . One of my favourite shots in the movie is when Angela is holding a duckling to show her baby in the crib. When she finds the baby gone, she, in her panic, accidentally drops the duckling in the crib and leaves it there. It's horrible, but it was an adorable shot.

But the movie does have a happy ending and, damnit, that girl deserved one.

So to-day . . . So far, I've gone to Grossmont Centre to check out the new Wal-Mart that was built there. It feels kind of like the Target, only trashier.

And now, I have a lot of things to get done . . . I hope this headache goes away.

Spent most of yesterday drawing and not going outside. I finally went out fot soda and coffee at 10:30pm or so. It felt good.

Not much else to report . . . To-night's playwriting class. I wonder if I'm supposed to have anything done . . . ?

I watched Rio Bravo last night. It was the first John Wayne movie I'd ever seen. I watched him closely to see why he is so widely loved. From what I could tell, his cardinal quality was an ability to seem taxed and on the ball at the same time. He ambles around like he's got the weight of the world on his shoulders--and, in this movie, he certainly does--but doesn't seriously contemplate giving up for even a moment and has constantly got his mind bent towards doing what's right and needs to be done, without regard necessarily for his own well-being.

Dean Martin was also in the movie and was very effective playing the alcoholic deputy trying to be a lawman again. The look on his face when someone threw a dollar in the spitoon was perfect. You could see the conflict in his face as he wants to get the dollar so he could buy a drink but doesn't want to humiliate himself.

Another singer, Ricky Nelson, was also in the movie. Ricky couldn't act at all and had the typical bearing of the sweet young guy of the mid-century. His character was kind of cool, though.

And Angie Dickenson played Wayne's love interest and she was great. Steely but vulnerably quirky at the same time. There's a sweet moment when she rather willfully interprets Wayne's "I'm gonna arrest you," as "I love you." But she seemed very intellegent and seemed wonderfully to relish having the intellectual upper-hand on Wayne several times.

The movie was directed by Howard Hawks, who seems to be a very un-obtrusive director. He didn't seem to have the kinetic chops of William Wyler or some of his other contemporaries. He seemed to enjoy a lot of static shots and very simple tracking shots. All of his movies that I've seen feel almost like filmed plays, featuring characters standing around rooms or entering and exiting them, with close-ups and long shots, not usually from any strange angles. But, you know, Hawks really seemed to be a master of this format. He seemed to know exactly when to do what. I think a good way to see his talent his to watch a number of his movies, and then to watch The Outlaw, the movie Howard Hughes fired Hawks from in order to direct himself. Hughes' bumbling instincts for these set-ups really make you appreciate Hawks.

...

Yesterday, I went to my parents' house to find my sister's dog, Bella, was already gone. They're moving to Orange County and so they decided it'd make things easier to give the energetic chihuahua/yorkie mix away now. But I knew they'd been itching to be rid of the little girl for all the three months or so they've had her. She was too much for them, and I knew she would be. But it kills me that this poor little dog, that I really liked, is going to have to adjust to a new home and everything at a young age when it'll be especially hard for her. Where ever she is now, she's probably crying . . .

So far, to-day's been a civilised venture into Caitlin's newly created field known as xenovaginoplasty. I feel wonderfully scientific this day.

Some of my research has given me to know that female genitals are very friendly.

Last night, I watched Grand Hotel. I was definitely happier to see Joan Crawford than I was to see Greta Garbo, but I do love Greta Garbo, especially the shot where she was taking off her ballet shoes. Lovely, lovely.

Crawford was absolutely gorgeous, especially in her little, very low cut black frock.

The movie itself turned out better than I'd anticipated. Normally, I don't find big ensemble pictures very entertaining, and since this, the brainchild of Irving Thalburg, was the first ever big ensemble picture, I wasn't expecting much. But in the end, it really did all come together wonderfully.

Oh, but to-day belongs to the vagina . . .

I seem to've forgotten my morning routine. I just woke up and I have no idea what to do next. So I guessed I'd do a blog entry . . .

Dreamt a strange girl and I were massacring people at the mall with rapiers. For some reason, no one seemed to care much. I think we were only attacking the evil ninjas. At one point, a boy stole my sword and the girl and I tried to buy a new one at the weapons shop only to discover rapiers were seven hundred dollars.

But then I spotted the kid and chased him into the Cinnabon. And I got my sword back.

...

A couple nights ago, I watched Queen Christina starring Greta Garbo and John Gilbert. Gilbert was a silent film actor who didn't make it far in talkies, although from Queen Christina, I wasn't as sure about why as I was earlier. Yes, his voice was a little high-pitched and helium-like. But he still seemed like a charismatic fellow. Greta Garbo, who did make the transition successfully, didn't really sound like her voice was much better.

As for the movie itself, it was a charming, wildly unrealistic tale of a Swedish queen and her affair with a Spanish ambassador. It was kind of cool watching Greta Garbo strut around in men's Rennaissance-era attire with a rapier at her hip.

Hmm . . . Could that be where the dream came from? I think it was a combination of it and watching The Venture Brothers pilot again last night. I hope that show gets picked up.

Meme snurched from Caitlin's blog:

WRATH
1. Who did you last get angry with? Truck driving ten mph below the speed limit in front of me.
2. What is your weapon of choice? Psychological manipulation.
3. Would you hit a member of the opposite sex? In the right context.
4. How about of the same sex? Certainly.
5. Who was the last person who got really angry at you? A truck driving behind me, trying to go thirty mph above the speed limit (which he did when he passed me).
6. What is your pet peeve? People who never think about what they're doing.
7. Do you keep grudges, or can you let them go easily? I forget them.

SLOTH
1. What is one thing you're supposed to do daily that you haven't done in a long time? Work.
2. What is the latest you've ever woken up? 5pm.
3. Name a person you've been meaning to contact, but haven't. A girl I know named Mary, whose e-mail address I've lost.
4. What is the last lame excuse you made? "I got lost."
5. Have you ever watched an infomercial all the way through (one of the long ones...)? No.
6. When was the last time you got a good workout in? Coachella's "parking."
7. How many times did you hit the snooze button on your alarm clock today? I didn't use any of my alarm clocks to-day.

GLUTTONY
1. What is your overpriced yuppie beverage of choice? Just a latte.
2. Meat eaters: white meat or dark meat? Neither.
3. What is the greatest amount of alcohol you've had in one sitting/outing/event? One shot of vodka.
4. Have you ever used a professional diet company? No.
5. Do you have an issue with your weight? No.
6. Do you prefer sweets, salty foods, or spicy foods? Spicy.
7. Have you ever looked at a small house pet or child and thought, "LUNCH!"? With a child, yes. With a pet, no.

LUST
1. How many people have you seen naked (not counting movies/family)? Er, this is impossible to answer since with the Internet there's probably not a man, woman, or child on earth who's not seen at least a hundred naked people.
2. How many people have seen YOU naked? I dunno.
3. Have you ever caught yourself staring at the chest/crotch of a member of your gender of choice during a normal conversation? Yup.
4. Have you "done it"? If you mean a jewel heist, then no.
5. What is your favorite body part on a person of your gender of choice? Genitals.
6. Have you ever been propositioned by a prostitute? Not that I know of.
7. Have you ever had to get tested for an STD or pregnancy? No.

GREED
1. How many credit cards do you own? None.
2. What's your guilty pleasure store? The Village Hat Shop.
3. If you had $1 million, what would you do with it? I'd spend comfortably for as long as I could, seeing how long I could go without thinking about money.
4. Would you rather be rich, or famous? Rich.
5. Would you accept a boring job if it meant you would make megabucks? Depends on how many hours I'd have to put into it.
6. Have you ever stolen anything? Yes.
7. How many MP3s are on your hard drive? I guess around a thousand (I sure as hell ain't counting them).

PRIDE
1. What one thing have you done that you're most proud of? Finished my novel.
2. What one thing have you done that your parents are most proud of? My parents aren't proud of me.
3. What thing would you like to accomplish in your life? Ridding myself of nuisances.
4. Do you get annoyed by coming in second place? No. I'm generally indifferent when it comes to competitions.
5. Have you ever entered a contest of skill, knowing you were of much higher skill than all the other competitors? Yes.
6. Have you ever cheated on something to get a higher score? I don't remember. Really, I can't quite discount the possibility.
7. What did you do today that you're proud of? I haven't spent any money yet.

ENVY
1. What item (or person) of your friend's would you most want to have for your own? I'd like my imaginary friend's incorporeality.
2. Who would you want to go on "Trading Spaces"? George W. Bush and Saruman the White.
3. If you could be anyone else in the world, who would you be? Me! Only a with the ability to shape-change at will!
4. Have you ever been cheated on? In a way.
5. Have you ever wished you had a physical feature different from your own? Not really.
6. What inborn trait do you see in others that you wish you had for yourself? Wings and tails.
7. Do you wish you'd come up with this survey? No.
8. Finally, what is your favorite deadly sin? Wrath.

I had a real bad headache last night--caffeine deprivation. I had to quit watching Excalibur in the middle, get up, and go to my room. I was looking online to see if there were any movies I wanted to set the recorder for before I went to bed, when I was suddenly powerfully overcome with a desire to lie down. So I did.

Fully intending to get right back up, I left the lights on, put my head on the pillow, and stared up at the ceiling. I took my glasses off, which helped the headache a little (my glasses are an old prescription). And I started thinking, "Hey, I could sleep right now if I wanted. This is my bed. That's what beds are for, mostly."

I'm near-sighted. This means that I can see very clearly things that are really close to my eyes, far closer than normal eyes are supposed to be able to focus on. When I turned my head on my pillow slightly to the left, I saw very clearly a very enormous spider, waving his legs at me, filling my entire vista like a widescreen movie. Actually, bigger.

So I sprang from my bed (I love saying that). Fortunately, I keep a glass bunny nearby. I got it two Easters ago from my aunt for putting candy in. I opened it, and quickly clamped it around the spider, carrying him outside and tossing him into the grass.

Why do I always feel curiously bereft after letting spiders go? Maybe I should just let them hang out . . .

Watched The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer, a film which made me think, "Eh . . . I suppose I would like to have sex with Shirley Temple," for which I'm eternally grateful.

Of course, the real talent in the movie was Cary Grant. The man could do no wrong.

The past couple of days, I've been writing every day a bit of a short story that's kind of an experiment for me. Actually, all short stories are experiments for me as I still feel like I have no idea how I write them, so I tend to use completely different methods and philosophies each time. This one I'm writing like I'm writing a very miniature novel, which is a format I'm very comfortable with. I may use it again in the future . . .

Help, Thursday's got me! Let me go, Thursday, you fiend! Gagh . . . !

Saw Van Helsing last night with Tim and a couple of his coworkers.

The movies was okay. It was fun. It was very easy to see how it could've been better, though. I think I'm being spoiled by watching too many good movies lately.

The main problem I had with Van Helsing was that the action was essentially meaningless. There were too many awfully extraordinary, coincidental, near death experiences for such moments to have any credibility. It gets to the point where you're terribly aware that this was something written, that literally the only thing that holds any sway over the characters' survivals is the whim of the writer. As such, it begins to feel pointless listening to any silly, derivative exposition or watching any of the sadly sanitary looking monsters.

Hugh Jackman, David Windham, and Kate Beckinsale are cute and the action, although fake looking and often tedious, has occasional moments of grace. Although most of the environments look fake, they're often pretty, in a derivative sorta way. The soundtrack's good.

Bottom line (which this is, huh): A halfway decent good time, but certainly not worth seeing twice.

Dreamt I was sent by invisible gods to a small but dense town surrounded by a wooden fence. I was given a skinny, two-storey wooden house. But I was afraid to go in there because the electricity didn't work, the walls and floor were covered with faeces and other bits of garbage, and in its little halls lit by shafts of sunlight through the slats of wood, there dwelt a naked daemon girl with claws.

So I hung around town, mainly outside the Del Taco across the street from the house. But I was afraid to enter the Del Taco because I felt like I used to hang out there a long time ago, before my daemon-girl house had been built.

I guess it wasn't really a nightmare. I was just afraid.

Last night I watched The Grass is Greener starring Cary Grant, Deberah Kerr, Jean Simmons, and Robert Mitchem. It was good, although not near as clever as it thought it was. And I really can't buy that a woman would even think of choosing Robert Mitchem over Cary Grant.

After decades of playing Americans, here Grant was given opportunity to play an Englishman. But he wasn't able to shake his odd not-quite-English-not-quite-American accent anyway. Still love him, though.

Well. Blogger's got a new format. And I have a bad feeling about it . . . I really liked the way it was before.

To-day, I've so far been doing some running around kind of randomly. I read through the packet of submitted works for Acorn Review and have found that I hate all but one of them. Why are there so many boring people in this world? Where's the magic, I ask you? The magic?

Last night I watched John Huston's Moulin Rouge, which is a thousand times better than Baaz Luhrman's movie of the same title. It told a more complicated tale, had more interesting characters, and, yes, it looked better. It looked a lot better.

And now . . .

Ooof. Yesterday felt like bad luck. Thought I hit a kid with my car . . . I was making a right turn on a red light, edging forward like us Californians are required to do, when my car kind of jolted from some weight at the front--I looked up to see a kid with bushy brown hair leaning over the front of my hood. Then, quick as a wink, the boy got back on his skateboard and sped across the rest of the crosswalk. So he wasn't hurt. I suppose the fact that he was going quite fast on his skateboard explained why I hadn't seen him. Which is not to say that I was responsibly looking both ways the whole time. I just suck at multi-tasking--looking for cars to my left while looking for people to my right is just the kind of thing I'd screw up. I felt bad, in spite of the fact that I hate kids.

Of course, I may've misread the whole situation. It was sort of odd how the kid completely didn't react . . . I did notice that the crosswalk hand was red, so maybe he felt like he had been doing something wrong. Although I'm pretty sure the law would be on his side.

Save a baby go to jail . . .

Last night I watched Jim Jarmusch's Mystery Train, which was a very cute movie. I enjoyed the scenes with the Japanese couple more than anything else. Actually, I suppose the other scenes were just somewhat entertaining. The characters of Jun and Mitzuko were so well rendered, and seemed so much like real people, and they were so charming, that it was hard not to love them more than everyone else.

There was a scene later in the movie where Johnny, Will, and Charlie (played by Steve Buscemi) had a violent moment in a liquour store that I thought was perfectly written. I guess the Italian woman was also pretty charming.

I'm not sure I felt the movie rose above its gimmick, though. I think it would've been more interesting if the Japanese couple had encountered and somehow interacted with all of these other interesting characters, and then, by the end of the movie, grown a little bit or had some kind of transition. I know, I know, that's like traditional film and probably what Jarmusch was trying to avoid. But I can't help thinking it would've made for a more satisfying experience.

These characters were great but I wanted to go on a journey with them, not just glimpse them in the windows of a passing train.

I forgot to post yesterday. I sat down here and completely meant to, then I got distracted and my mind reset. I was gonna mention a bumper sticker I saw yesterday that read, "BE A HERO SAVE A WHALE/SAVE A BABY GO TO JAIL." I still have no idea what it means. My guess is that either the writer completely obscured the meaning through a vicious attempt to create a rhyme or it was intentionally meaningless, the goal being to make people like me scratch their heads. Anyway, if any of you have any idea, e-mail me and let me know. I'm serious. It's bugging me.

Hung out with Trisa last night. We had a strange conversation. We also found an enormous Chevron whose halls looked as though they could accomodate monster trucks or gods.

I had a lot of breadsticks yesterday. I didn't write very much but I did write, which is better than not at all.

To-day I've eaten pizza, drank coffee, and written.

I'm also feeling like there's something else I'm supposed to be doing but can't think what it is.

To-night's playwriting class. The schedule says we're supposed to be going to another literary arts festival thing. I sorta hope it's wrong--the one my class on Monday went to wasn't so great. Well, it had its moments, but I would've prefered going to class regular-like.

Monday's was supposed to be a "World-literature" thing; apparently readings of literature from foreign countries. This didn't stop one young man from reading Langston Hughes (which wasn't so bad) or one teacher from reading an excerpt from some hack-half native American author's book. How does a person who would read such swill at a literary arts festival get to be an English teacher? She couldn't even read it properly--constantly misreading words and giving no personality to the characters' voices. She sounded strangely angry at us, as though she wished to reproach us for enjoying the readings of Bertohlt Brecht and Rumi while not being as enamoured as she was with the crappy half-native American author.

What was even worse was that she followed this by reading a couple of irrelevant short poems, one of which was apparently written by her. Her flimsy excuse? Mother's Day was coming up and the poem was about her "beautiful" sons.

Some people were made for the bamboo cane.

Went downtown to-day. Had a sandwich. It's strange how brain-dead many of the people seem down there. You'd think that doing whatever job it is that allows them to afford living in that area--or even to commute to that area--would require some smarts. No such. Took a billion years for them to make my sandwich, mostly because they were wandering around helplessly behind the counter, speaking to me only to continually ask me to repeat what sandwich I'd ordered. But for some reason, I knew it would be an exceptionally good sandwich. And it was.

I also wrote for quite a while at a Starbucks. I've started another Leyui and Gaemyietta story. This one feels like it distinctly owes a lot to Sherlock Holmes, which doesn't bother me at all, considering how much Sherlock Holmes owes to Edgar Allan Poe.

And now I feel like drawing . . .

Last night I watched Lady Snowblood, a 1973 Japanese film starring Meiko Kaji. It was one of Quentin Tarantino's primary inspirations for Kill Bill and, watching Lady Snowblood, this fact is unmistakable.

It's the story of a beautiful, deadly woman named Yuki (Meiko Kaji) seeking revenge against three blackguards that had killed her father and raped her mother before Yuki was born. Like Kill Bill, the movie's divided into chapters as Yuki takes out one person on her list after another. Yuki's white kimono is remeniscent of O-Ren Iishi's and Lady Snowblood's theme song, "The Flower of Carnage," is featured on the Kill Bill soundtrack.

So it was like, cool and stuff.

Lots and lots of explosions of blood, lottsa shots of Yuki's cold, beautiful eyes, and wonderful colours. It's a yummy movie.

Hi, bloggo. Hi, hi.

Coachella sucked. It was hell on grass. In a polo field. Where there were horses. The horses were pretty, yes. But the sun was bleedin' ferocious and there was hardly any shade . . . there were great big distances to cross on foot . . .

I don't even really wanna type about all that happened. But we decided to leave after Saturday night so we dinna get to see The Cure on Sunday. I promised Trisa I'd get us tickets for when The Cure comes to San Diego or L.A. . . .

The Pixies were pretty good, though. Didn't catch much of Radiohead because I was running about, trying to find a phone, hoping nothing terrible had befallen Trisa (yes, there is a story I'm not telling and I'll just keep it, thank you).

All of the other bands really sucked. Well, Sparta was okay. But mostly it was crap like Junior Senior.

Maybe the best part of the whole thing was the frozen lemonade. Gods, that was good . . .

But even now I feel deadened in a pervasive way or something. Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeea . . .

. . . . . . .

Weariness.

One.

Word.

Paragraphs.

For class last night, went to see a writer named Lydia Something-or-other read some of her work. She wasn't as bad as I'd feared she'd be. While I was there, I briefly saw a girl I know named Sarah. Then I noticed Ha in the corner--I walked over, and sat next to Ha, so I had the floor.

I think the sight of me guilted Ha into reading my novel finally which led to late night e-mail exchanges the gist of which were that Ha doesn't think I'm a very good writer. Which could mean a number of things, certainly one of which is that I am in fact not a very good writer and that I therefore have a great deal of misplaced confidence in myself. Which is actually a hard pill to swallow after spending so many years on something.

Hmph. Guess I'll keep on truckin'. It's not like I have anything better to do and I sorta think being in the dark about yourself is a big part of life. Yay.

Yesterday, I also finished my latest in my series of pictures of girls I know wearing Slave Leia clothes. This one's of Trisa and she seems to feel it's a good likeness.

Shall I draw more often? Write less? Comic books . . . I suppose that's the avenue I was really meant to explore. I feel like a little dragon who's constantly getting his tail burnt off.

Well. This'll probably be the last post from me for a couple days. Trisa and I are going to Coachella for the weekend. That is, if nothing horrendous and unexpected happens . . .


"I'm happy, hope you're happy too." -David Bowie

Altoids don't seem to freshen my breath. In fact, they seem to make it worse.

More performing for school last night. I was a wise-cracking, sexist old man, a snide radio drama villain, an annoying stagehand, and a secretly gay man named Charles. I feel limber.

Now it's one of those damned Thursdays . . .

Once again, I find myself in a hurry. Such is the life of one who sleeps during the day and is over-active at night.

Those of you who've wanted to see a Nebari beat up a Klingon may wish to check out my newest pin-up for Nebari.net.

I've eaten too much this morning . . .

Well, I guess I got a lot of attention yesterday.

Maybe it started at the mall where some people were staring at me for no apparent reason. It certainly was in full swing by class-time.

I'd submitted a short story to Acorn Review and, in the Acorn Review class last night, it was discussed. Pieces are all submitted anonymously so I had a nice vantage point to hear unrestrained comments about my story. Ha (who was suspiciously absent last night) had predicted that no-one would like my story as she felt it was similer to a series of stories from last semester that everyone, myself included, had hated. I must disagree that my story was at all similer because the other stories were boring, pointless, and sexist.

In any case, a number of people in class did actually enjoy it, and I'm happy to say these people were mostly very cute girls. Many people felt sure the story had been written by a young woman who was viciously angry at her ex-boyfriend. A couple agreed it was surreal, held one's interest, and was disturbing. The only real complaints I heard was that it had no sympathetic characters and that it was confusing--even after several other classmembers had clearly and accurately described the basic story from having read it. But maybe it was those complaints by themselves that led to only six people voting "yes" on the story and thirteen voting "no." Of course, I don't know because no-one else who voted "no" actually spoke up. So much for useful feedback.

As I was leaving (I had to leave early), I accidentally knocked over my chair. Having gotten the attention of everyone in the class, I announced that I had written the story and that I would answer any questions. I was asked what it was about and I told them; "It's about a girl who picks up an older man in the mall, and she ends up tearing him apart in the bathroom." Which was exactly what several people said it was obviously about.

I was vaguely happy to hear some girls crying out, "Yes!" as I was leaving.

And where was I going? A fellow named Robert, who, I think, is a very talented writer, had asked me to read a part in his play. It was a pretty medium sized role, and I had plenty of big lines. When I arrived at the art gallery where the play was to be read, I was informed that the acquostics were bad and that I had better shout as much as possible. So I did.

So I spent the rest of the evening screaming lines like, "Man? Man?? I am no man . . . but a god!" to a group of teachers, parents, girlfriends and wives in a small art gallery filled with delicate ceramics.

Then I went home and cried while watching William Wyler's The Children's Hour. I started out bitterly knowing there would be no make-out scene between Audrey Hepburn and Shirley Maclaine. But it was a great movie anyway. Or horrible. Or both. Devastating. It was certainly bold to be, in the end, such a clear avocater for homosexuality in 1961. Ah, stories like that always get me, what can I say?

No entry yesterday. Why? I could tell you, but I fear for the resulting damage to the fabric of InterConscious.

Hung out with Trisa yesterday--we saw Kill Bill vol 2--second time for me and I found I liked it even more. Before that, Trisa gave me a birthday present--the entire Neverwhere television series. I was very happy to receive it but I enjoyed the first couple episodes a lot more than I thought I would.

Also watched The Band Wagon, which was mostly disappointing. The credits at the beginning had gotten my hopes up; starring Fred Astaire and Cyd Charisse, directed by Arthur Freed and Vincent Minnelli. But it ended up being a misguided attempt at infusing more modern sensibilities with the old musical about a misguided attempt at infusing more modern sensibilities with the old musical. But it did have some nice dance numbers--it's impossible, really, for Fred Astaire and Cyd Charisse to not have good dance numbers together.

The ending segment was an attempt to do a film noir dance scene, which mostly didn't work, but at one moment piqued my interest when Astaire had a dance/fight scene. And I was reminded of how Roger Ebert refers to Jackie Chan as a modern Fred Astaire. I think the audience's current interest in acrobatic fights scenes in movies like Kill Bill and Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon could be a way of fulfilling the need they once had for elaborate and astounding dance sequences. I think Fred Astaire would have made a great action star.

Meanwhile, Poppy Z. Brite seems to feel exactly as I did about Mark Romanick's One Hour Photo (minor spoilers if you follow the link). Although I would have mentioned the misuse of the Neon Genesis Evangelion action figure.

Watched Andrei Tarkovsky's The Mirror, which was very good. I really liked the scene where the woman's letting her hair drip down in front of her and the whole house around her starts dripping apart. Probably one of the greatest moments in film history.

The influences of Cocteau and Bergman were pretty evident and I'm pretty sure there's some Kubrick influence too, although Tarkovsky apparently hated Kubrick.

It's been ages since I watched The Seventh Seal, come to think . . .

Well, I'm off to go do this and a bit of that. Wish me luck.

I'm hungry.

And there're a number of things to do and think about.

Yup air . . .

Last night I watched Blossoms in the Dust. A movie flawed in a lot of ways. But I found it interesting that the opposition to Edna Gladys's (Greer Garson) proposal that the word "illegitimate" be removed from all birth certificates sounded precisely like the opposition to gay marriage to-day. They argued that if children were not recognised as illegitimate then it was cause terrible damage to the sanctity of the family and so forth. Really, it was very strange. Taking out a few lines relating specifically to the illegitimacy issue, much of the move's audio could be played to-day in Congress or the Supreme Court and not seem at all out of place. Hopefully this is a sign that opposition to gay marriage might one day seem as archaic as parents' opposition to their children marrying orphens.

Me? I oppose Thursdays.

Watched Singin' in the Rain last night. It'd been a long time since I'd seen it and I found it far more enjoyable now--even though I'd loved it the first time. I remember that my favourite scene used to be the "Moses Supposes His Toeses are Roses" scene. Now I think I most like Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse's love dance with the big, billowing sheet. Debbie Reynolds had a good voice and I can see why Hunter S. Thompson would kneel before her alter. It's weird to think I saw her on The Daily Show recently.

Of course the "Singin' in the Rain" scene was really good, and somehow seemed more infectiously cheery after A Clockwork Orange, at least to me.

Speaking of which, I learned a few nights ago that my dad, a firefighter, actually stayed at Malcom McDowell's house for a few days. There was some kind of a tar pit in the actor's yard that was threatening to ignite or something so there had to be firemen standing by. My dad said McDowell made very strong coffee.

In a hurry again. I was unbelievably busy yesterday and to-day's schedule is only slightly less tight.

Last night the Acorn Review accepted a story about a man who sees his wife after she's dead and has a cathartic conversation with her. Why do so many people like shit? Why, oh, why?

I'm sitting on the floor right now, reaching up to the gentle computer, for it is my master. Oh, what a harsh master she is, too. Did I say she? Yes, she is not my master but my mistress.

Oh . . .

I won't tell you about last night's dream.

Had diner--er, dinner--with Trisa last night. At City Delicatessan where the propriety was bemused by an argument we were having. It was an argument that I'm still confused about, but a good-natured argument at least.

I've been to Submarina to-day. I like sandwiches.

Weather's not as nice to-day as it was yesterday . . .

Had an argument with Cryptess last night, too. I seem to be in a lot of arguments. She felt I ought not to use the word "shall" in my novel. She said the world would not accept it. I say; to hell with the world. Shall's a real and good word and I shall use it!

Yesterday was all Kill Bill-ish.

After seeing Kill Bill vol. 2, I came back here and watched vol. 1 with my aunt.

Vol. 2 feels very much like the second half of a film and is different from Vol. 1 in that way. There's less action and a lot more character development and dialogue.

Vol. 1 is still great. I have a suspicion that, like Pirates of the Carribean, it'll be the movie that everyone buys.

I've been feeling peculiarly tired.

I dreamt last night that I was walking on the freeway, that I'd made up my mind to walk to L.A. so that I could get more exercise. When firetrucks came by, I had to walk over to the shoulder. It became very hot and dry. So I decided to run back. As I did so, I noticed beautiful green forest on either side of the freeway.

I hate Jackie Cooper. Have I mentioned that?

I wish I had some water . . . All I've got is a very old bottle of it I found in my backpack.

Class was interesting last night. It seems I'm cast in a number of people's plays. Should be fun. Or something like that.

Now . . . for adventure . . . !

Yes, I know you're Thursday, and, yes, I know that means I have to go but I'm making a fucking blog entry so leave me alone for a minute, okay? Jeez . . .

I hate when I buy a CD I hate. Especially when it was one that I thought was gonna be good. Gods, it makes me angry. I won't tell you who it is but I had to go to Tower to find his music and he did a lousy cover of a Tori Amos song I really like (I guess I really like all Tori Amos songs). I don't think I can return it, so I guess it's to MusicTrader with me . . .

In Clairemont yesterday, as I was getting out of my car, an obasan, an old woman, walked up to me and explained that I looked like I could be someone famous, that she needed long dark hair (she had thinning white hair), that she needed a certain balding 45 year-old man to fall in love with her. Apparently this man was dating her daughter but was too old for the daughter and too young for the obasan. When he was getting out of bed at a hotel the obasan used to work at, he asked her what it was like to grow old and lose one's hair. She wished she had said to him, "You tell me." At this point in her narrative, she noticed a few police cars in the parking lot with us, said something about how cops were both good things and bad things, that they were never around when you needed them, and then she left.

So I went to Subway sandwich and when I asked the woman there for my usual sandwich, she began making a burrito. Brains don't work properly in Clairemont. Maybe because they have a Krispy Kreme. It's softened them.

I'm needing to get out just now.

Printed up my novel. Had to get a new ink cartridge after page 335 but the deed is done and now I've a big brick of wood in my closet.

Stage Gamma complete.

I'm hungry . . .

Gods I'm sleepy.

Hardly paid attention to anything in class last night except Ha. It was all the same stuff we did on the previous class, only now the teacher was there, so I could get away with it.

I dreamt last night that I was in a class that was supposed to go and see a play and we were supposed to give our money to the teacher so he could buy tickets. For some reason, the teacher decided to buy cloaks for everyone instead. There were purple cloaks, grey cloaks, black coats, leather cloaks . . .

Found this one on Mel's journal . . .


Which Legendary Actress are you?

Watched Holliday Inn last night. My favourite part was Fred Astaire stumbling into a New Years party terribly drunk. Staggering to the middle of the room he immediately, of course, begins dancing brilliantly. Then he passes out and can't even remember the evening.

Gots to give props to Irving Berlin for writing a song about George Washington's birthday. Not something I generally feel the urge to sing about, personally.

The Lincoln's Birthday segment was sort of racist I guess. It featured Bing Crosby and Marjorie Reynolds singing with black face. Although they were singing about how great it was that Abraham Lincoln had freed the slaves. There was even a part where an actual black woman (yup, the real thing) sang to her children about Lincoln. So, while racist, it seems it genuinely didn't mean to be. These folks simply did not realise there was anything insulting about painting their faces in that manner. Ah, innocence.

Well, to-day's my birthday. Which I guess makes me Christ or, more accurately, a rabbit.

So far, unexpectedly, the most impressive birthday present has come from Tim who got me the entire first two seasons of Ranma 1/2 on DVD. Otherwise I've gotten money, which is very, very good to have.

I did post yesterday, by the way. It's not my fault it didn't appear until 4am.

And now I must go. I think I've already slept through many of the Easter things I was supposed to attend. For some reason, I chose to stay up until the wee hours editing my novel. But I've finished--as in, I've seen all I can see for now. Now to find people who're actually willing to read it . . . I'm betting I'll need some of this birthday money for printer ink cartridges.

Oh, Popeye . . .

Suddenly I'm in the mood for spinach.

I'm gonna see if I can do my taxes to-day and maybe see if I can get Yojimbo involved.

Boy, I'm tired.

After dinner at the Olive Garden courtesy of my parents for my birthday, Trisa and I watched Annie Hall. Which was fun. Then I went to Tim's where I ranted about the shoddy DVD release of The Last Unicorn. And he managed to quickly find a region free, widescreen version on Ebay--unfortunately there was only one and it was being coveted by others . . .

So close . . .

Watching a gorgeous girl figure skating right now. Why isn't there nude figure-skating? Two people seperately suggested I was a pervert yesterday. I am.

Watched Ninotchka last night. It was nice. I wish Bela Legosi had been given more screen time. Greta Garbo was good in a distant sort of way. She sort of looked like Aimee Mann.

I am angry! The Last Unicorn has been released on DVD--but only in pan and scan! Grruah! Those fucking bastards at Artisan and/or Family Entertainment! And I was looking forward to seeing that movie in widescreen--I don't think I ever have seen it in widescreen. Now I wonder if I ever will--guah, those dicks! In this day and age! When I thought people were maturing past pan and scan! This is really just . . . unacceptable.

Watched part of a five hour documentary about MGM yesterday, hosted by Patrick Stewart with a grand exuberance that few men could have pulled off. But Patrick Stewart kicks ass, so he did it.

The documentary showed a clip from the mid-twenties version of Ben-Hur, which I'd very much like to see one day if only because of the excessively lavish production value and the colour scenes with beautiful naked woman happily parading down a street, throwing flowers.

I learned last night that, in the twenties, before she went to Hollywood, Joan Crawford appeared in some porno films. Of course, once she was under contract, studio reps quietly bought and destroyed all of the naughty films. Oh, bloody hell la gods frell-ka! What I would not give to see those films! I've found a new hope . . . A hope that somehow, somewhere at least one copy of those things still exists.

For those interested, I've done another chapter of The Adventures of Nar'eth. It's up at Nebari.Net.

And now Thursday's said I can't sleep in or hang around or even shave. I have to go . . .

New page of Doll Merchant.

What else can I tell ya? I'm trying the cinnemon mints from Starbucks. They're good, but tiny. Actually I think I've tried them before, first time I was in Seattle to visit Cryptess.

Almost finished an editing pass of my novel . . . 'spose I'll go off and do that now.

Was bewitched last night by Sergio Leone's Once Upon a Time in the West, an over-three hour film that did not remotely feel like an over-three hour film. It featured an almost sensual use of close-ups, angles, and spacial arrangements lingering onscreen for often quite a while, but no longer than feels right. It felt genuinely right to linger on Charles Bronson's motionless, slightly smiling visage or Henry Fonda's vast vocabulary of squints.

This all served to weight basically simple characters and a basically simple plot about men living for death in a world of dry heat violent lawlessness. It was beautiful.

Now I must leave . . .

Good morning, everyone.

I was sleepy with headache all day yesterday. Starting to feel a little more clear-headed to-day . . .

Had me some nice grapefruit soda from Starbucks. And I don't think I've any more facts . . .

Much movie watching yesterday. First, I went with Trisa to see Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, in which Kate Winslet looked terribly gorgeous. The relationships between peoples were rather realistic and enabled the movie to do what Science Fiction movies are supposed to do; make you contemplate strange possibilities about your world and how they would effect things.

Then we went to Trisa's place and we watched Buffalo 66, in which Christina Ricci was terribly gorgeous. After the the Brown Bunny debacle, I had thought Vincent Gallo was kind of a scumbag. Now I think he's kind of pathetic. It's hard to hate someone who's made such an embarrassingly self-indulgent film about how he's never gotten love and he needs love. You have to wonder how he can take himself seriously when he's written a scene specifically to have another man in the restroom observe how huge his penis is. And yet he does take himself profoundly seriously.

After this, it was my turn to bring in a movie and we watched The Apartment, in which Shirley Maclaine was terribly gorgeous.

No time at the moment.

Hellboy was amazing. Cthulhu looked great. And I watched four great episodes of Slayers . . .

Okay! Doll Merchant is back! And with a snazzy new format.

Watched Annie Hall last night. Egad, what a brillant movie. Woody Allen skillfully exploits the human thought process for silliness and great fun. Definitely one of the most believable and entertaining relationships between some of the most believable and entertaining characters I've ever seen in any work of fiction. Diane Keaton comes off as naturally nervous and nerdy, conveying all sorts of things at every half-second. And her clothes are great. It ends up being a meditation on relationships in general and makes some truly keen observations that make you sort of want to swoon.

And now to-day, I think I'll go and see Hellboy, which I think shall turn out to be a slightly different experience. I'm the only person I know who wants to see this movie and I'm not even entirely sure why I want to see it. I've never read the comic books, although I've heard them spoken well of. Dunno. Maybe it's just Ron Perlman seems so perfect in that role and I thought he looked a little like Tom Waits in City of Lost Children and I know there's a Tom Waits song used in Hellboy. Maybe it's 'cause John Hurt's in it. Maybe it's Selma Blair. We'll see, we'll see . . .

Had coffee with Trisa yesterday. Her shirt was deceptive.

Damn you, Syme!

I started watching the 1934 version of Treasure Island last night but couldn't finish it because Jackie Cooper is too fucking annoying. It angers me--I was really looking forward to that movie.