June 21, 2010: I'm nearly through the three Godfather movies ... again ... and I'm alive (or awash) with lots of clever -- No, correct that! -- a handful of observations. (I don't want to promise anything I can't deliver.)
For starters, what I think most people fail to realize, or perhaps accept, is that the script itself is not that good. Well, certainly it has its moments, its clever lines, etc. And mind you, I love the films (certainly the first two). But I've watched that first movie 20 times at least, and for the life of me I still can't see any difference between Barzini and Tatalia, and I can't figure out what it is they do, or who double-crosses who, nor can I even pick them out from amongst the cast in the film. It's really weird, but so much drama seems to rest on it, and when Vito finally says, while driving in the car, that it was "Barzini all along," and the music dips dramatic, again and again I find myself befuddled by what it is that I'm supposed to care about.
That said, what really makes these movies, in my estimation, is the cinematography, which is brilliant and powerful, and I'll quickly add that the set designing (and costumes) are close behind. Cheers to Gordon Willis, who really demonstrates how important that art is to film, and credit to Coppola for being smart enough to work with him.
The acting, of course, is pretty good too, except I've come to have less and less respect for the craft of acting, because I think it's a lot easier to do it well than people realize, especially on film. There's a great quote from Richard Dreyfuss, which I love so much, I actually bothered to look it up and include here: He said, "I don't think film acting is necessarily a triumph of technique. Film stardom is a friendship that happens between an audience and a performer. It's like you meet someone and you click with that person for whatever reason." Brilliant, and refreshingly honest. (And Dreyfuss rules, of course!) Of course, we love all the principals in this cast, and that's that. I know I'm willing to forgive Brando for using cue cards, Duvall for being bald, etc.
But God, I'm being so drearily serious about this. I really thought this would be a great opportunity to rip into Godfather III and garner some great laughs at the expense of Sophia Coppola. (My God, that girl is unattractive, and I'm sorry to have to say it, but somebody needs to. And to watch her in love scenes with the dashing Andy Garcia is not far from the bizarre juxtaposed spectacle of seeing a handsome male guest star flirting with Miss Piggy on the Muppet Show.
I saw Godfather III only once before, and I was amazed at how awful it was. Much to my surprise, this time I'm enjoying it much more and even see some merit there (although not much, I'm afraid, for the better part of it is residual ... But see how much I've grown in my acceptance and tolerance.)
But the director's daughter aside -- and she's really not that bad an actor, if I'm to be fair -- the film has some moments that are such painful parodies of the first two movies, it's ridiculous. Clearly Francis and company have read too much historic material on the first two movies, and included a lot of embarrassing regurgitations, references and such. ("Never tell anyone what you're thinking," Michael tells Vinnie, paraphrasing (or should I say mis-paraphrasing his father from the first film, and just sounding stupid in the process). Oh Please Francis!
And Pacino, who had such a personality in the first two movies, dreadfully falls back on his later-life acting method (complete with the raspy Devil's Advocate delivery), and chews the scenery beyond all recognition when he has his diabetes-induced attack in the kitchen. I found myself laughing outloud in hysterics at this "dramatic" scene.
And what the hell's with Connie. My god, she looks like the winner of an Anne Rice lookalike contest. And how about Joe (The Simpsons' Fat Tony) Montagne, and his wooden, over-articulated play at Joey Zsaza (or is it Zahzah? ... or Zaa Zaa?) Oh Please Please!! (Duvall was no fool to miss #3.)
But at the end of the day, the package is so terrific -- nine hours of the family we love! Such fun and voyeuristic feasting. One only wishes they'd made it into a TV series when the cast was still young. Kudos to all of them. Yay Mario Puzo, you fat guinea hack! My people will be forever grateful to you! Ciao!
Monday, June 21, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
Political Notebook #1 (Why Do So Many Republicans Look Like Nazis?)
June 4, 2010: As many of you know -- well, I'd hope that all of you knew -- I've refrained from sharing my varied opinions on political matters. It's not that I don't have them, you have to understand, but I just feel that religion, sex and politics are too sensitive to explore in this vaguely impersonal medium. And while I like to write constantly about sex and religion, bashing both of course, heretofore my political observations have been suspiciously absent.
But a news article I saw on the GOP candidate for Connecticut's 4th District congressional seat -- "Dan" Debicella of Shelton -- prompted me to say something. Now please understand, I didn't really read the article, but I read enough of it to become thoroughly annoyed. (Three paragraphs, actually, and this is more newspaper reading than I usually do in a week!) Also, there was a picture of "Dan," and this alone was enough to prompt a whole essay speaking out against him. (Why do so many Republicans look like Nazis?)
The point is -- you see, I don't want to just make fun of his picture, because that would be too easy -- he describes himself as "being in the mold of President Ronald Reagan," according to the article. Now I came of age in the Reagan era, and through the 1980s I was a fervent student of American politics and government. Back then I devoured newspapers and news magazines, and could name you all the players in the Reagan administration and what their most detestable traits and crimes against humanity were. I also followed with shock and depression all the awful things that that administration orchestrated, the negative ripples of which are still felt to this day. And when the Iran-Contra scandal broke -- and isn't it AMAZING how many people have forgotten about that, or never even thought about George Bush's role in it -- I sat and watched with awe as this madman (Reagan) wasn't impeached for his crimes. (No, instead they named an airport after him, put him on a stamp, and continue to hail him as some great leader of white men.)
To me, Debicella's association is not much better than saying he's modeled his politics after Nixon's, or George Wallace's, and to see his dark-eyed kisser in the paper, his mouth agape in Republican wonder, it simply weirds me out. I thought the country had outgrown these kind of people. I thought we were on a road to enlightenment, where the public could not longer be fooled by vague, meaningless mottos lauding "less government," and I thought as such a supposedly educated nation, history would have given us the clarity to see what the Reagan administration was about, why it was evil, and why the Republican party truly is the party of greed, denial, short-sightedness and ... well, stupidity.
Now I'm not saying the Democrats don't have their faults. Incumbent U.S. Rep. Jim Himes seems like a nice man -- he's had the opportunity to chat with me and appeared to really enjoy himself, which obviously says alot about him -- but who knows what ugly skeletons he keeps hidden in his closets. (I think we're all pretty sure that his former company, Goldman Sachs, is its own evil empire, and of course I'm always wary of so-called "nice" people, because they often either want to borrow money or saw you sit on something dirty, like gum, and are gaining pleasure at your unwitting expense.) I don't mean to infer that Himes is the type of candidate who'd actually put gum on your seat, but who really knows? Still, when it's a case of the lesser of two evils, how can you chose someone who looks (and perhaps even thinks) like a Nazi over someone who's nice and probably likes animals.
My point is that those who don't remember the past elected idiots are condemned to screw the rest of us up by electing more of the same. Please, on behalf of thinking men and women everywhere, STOP THAT!
But a news article I saw on the GOP candidate for Connecticut's 4th District congressional seat -- "Dan" Debicella of Shelton -- prompted me to say something. Now please understand, I didn't really read the article, but I read enough of it to become thoroughly annoyed. (Three paragraphs, actually, and this is more newspaper reading than I usually do in a week!) Also, there was a picture of "Dan," and this alone was enough to prompt a whole essay speaking out against him. (Why do so many Republicans look like Nazis?)
The point is -- you see, I don't want to just make fun of his picture, because that would be too easy -- he describes himself as "being in the mold of President Ronald Reagan," according to the article. Now I came of age in the Reagan era, and through the 1980s I was a fervent student of American politics and government. Back then I devoured newspapers and news magazines, and could name you all the players in the Reagan administration and what their most detestable traits and crimes against humanity were. I also followed with shock and depression all the awful things that that administration orchestrated, the negative ripples of which are still felt to this day. And when the Iran-Contra scandal broke -- and isn't it AMAZING how many people have forgotten about that, or never even thought about George Bush's role in it -- I sat and watched with awe as this madman (Reagan) wasn't impeached for his crimes. (No, instead they named an airport after him, put him on a stamp, and continue to hail him as some great leader of white men.)
To me, Debicella's association is not much better than saying he's modeled his politics after Nixon's, or George Wallace's, and to see his dark-eyed kisser in the paper, his mouth agape in Republican wonder, it simply weirds me out. I thought the country had outgrown these kind of people. I thought we were on a road to enlightenment, where the public could not longer be fooled by vague, meaningless mottos lauding "less government," and I thought as such a supposedly educated nation, history would have given us the clarity to see what the Reagan administration was about, why it was evil, and why the Republican party truly is the party of greed, denial, short-sightedness and ... well, stupidity.
Now I'm not saying the Democrats don't have their faults. Incumbent U.S. Rep. Jim Himes seems like a nice man -- he's had the opportunity to chat with me and appeared to really enjoy himself, which obviously says alot about him -- but who knows what ugly skeletons he keeps hidden in his closets. (I think we're all pretty sure that his former company, Goldman Sachs, is its own evil empire, and of course I'm always wary of so-called "nice" people, because they often either want to borrow money or saw you sit on something dirty, like gum, and are gaining pleasure at your unwitting expense.) I don't mean to infer that Himes is the type of candidate who'd actually put gum on your seat, but who really knows? Still, when it's a case of the lesser of two evils, how can you chose someone who looks (and perhaps even thinks) like a Nazi over someone who's nice and probably likes animals.
My point is that those who don't remember the past elected idiots are condemned to screw the rest of us up by electing more of the same. Please, on behalf of thinking men and women everywhere, STOP THAT!
Thursday, May 20, 2010
The Fear Is Real
May 20, 2010: Let's start, while I remember, to note that those little shit heel manipulators at Haagen-Daz have done their part to help mind screw us all, just like the Chapstick people I so eloquently blasted in a previous entry. (If I wasn't so tired, I'd bother to look up the date and title, and reference it, but I'm hoping you'll help a little with this effort by looking for it yourself.)
You probably haven't noticed that, what was once their standard "pint" of ice cream is no longer that. Without any word, that sneaky little bunch of Scandanavian bastards markedly reduced the size of their ice creams containers, roughly from 475 fluid ounces to 410. Now you weren't likely to notice this because, OF COURSE, the price wasn't reduced. Luckily a sensitive consumer (meaning ME) who periodically devotes long, thoughtful moments to studying the Haagen-Daz and Ben & Jerry's offerings at the local market, caught this, and has since vowed to never buy their shitty ice cream again. I strongly suggest you do the same, because as good as it may be, especially late at night when you're depressed and thinking about how awful your life is, it's not so much better than any other brand -- certainly not so much better that we should put up with their petty, greedy little mind F'ing. There are enough strange, mind-mutating pins being stuck in our collective psyches without having to get another from your bloody ice cream man. (Dirty heart-breaking F's!) And who else would report this? No one! And that's why I even write this stupid Blag, and so if for no other reason than respect for my ... Oh, never mind. You people never listen to me anyway!
This brings me to the other side of my mind, which is willowing with fear as we speak (or as I write ... and I don't even know if "willowing" is a word -- that's how debilitated I am!). You see, I've been up all night coughing with the remnants of my awful sickness. Not only that, my stupid cat (who I wouldn't be surprised to learn is in league with Haagen-Daz) has been carrying out all her ridiculous middle-of-the-night cat acrobatics, which mainly consist of making as much noise as possible and then racing around the house like a rocket when I try to throw things at her (little shit). Worse than all that, I distinctly heard a buzzing around 5 a.m., and as I just killed TWO SEPARATE WASPS IN THE HOUSE this week (can you imagine!), I'm sure there's another one somewhere about. (This is why I hate summer, AND Easton.) Worse, worse, I can't find him anywhere, but I keep thinking he's on my back, just sort of hanging there in that cold-weather dumbfounded way stinging insects have when they're not mad with heat orgy, but still languidly alive, thinking up their next awful plan.
So, you can imagine what a terrible morning I'm having. Thoughts of 1984-style ice cream methods, and now a deadly venomous insect clutching to my pajama top. And my hearing is so hallucinatorily acute, I keep thinking I hear the buzz again, but I can't be sure. You wouldn't believe the things I'm hearing. It's awful and disconcerting, and vaguely fascinating too. The problem is I'm so terribly tired, and still rather sick, so I can't even enjoy being all disoriented, I just have to sit here in this gut-wrenching fear and fight off the powerful feeling that I may die at any instant, or worse, be angrily stung by some stupid hornet. I hate bugs, and especially the angry ones that cling to your clothes. Just the thought makes me feel like I've bugs all over me ... and the really awful, awful thing is I can't be sure I don't!
I don't know what else to say, except I urge you to join my flat boycott of Haagen-Daz (despicable wretches). They should be ashamed, and if you eat their ice cream after reading this revelation, you should be ashamed too, and I sincerely hope you get stung by bees.
You probably haven't noticed that, what was once their standard "pint" of ice cream is no longer that. Without any word, that sneaky little bunch of Scandanavian bastards markedly reduced the size of their ice creams containers, roughly from 475 fluid ounces to 410. Now you weren't likely to notice this because, OF COURSE, the price wasn't reduced. Luckily a sensitive consumer (meaning ME) who periodically devotes long, thoughtful moments to studying the Haagen-Daz and Ben & Jerry's offerings at the local market, caught this, and has since vowed to never buy their shitty ice cream again. I strongly suggest you do the same, because as good as it may be, especially late at night when you're depressed and thinking about how awful your life is, it's not so much better than any other brand -- certainly not so much better that we should put up with their petty, greedy little mind F'ing. There are enough strange, mind-mutating pins being stuck in our collective psyches without having to get another from your bloody ice cream man. (Dirty heart-breaking F's!) And who else would report this? No one! And that's why I even write this stupid Blag, and so if for no other reason than respect for my ... Oh, never mind. You people never listen to me anyway!
This brings me to the other side of my mind, which is willowing with fear as we speak (or as I write ... and I don't even know if "willowing" is a word -- that's how debilitated I am!). You see, I've been up all night coughing with the remnants of my awful sickness. Not only that, my stupid cat (who I wouldn't be surprised to learn is in league with Haagen-Daz) has been carrying out all her ridiculous middle-of-the-night cat acrobatics, which mainly consist of making as much noise as possible and then racing around the house like a rocket when I try to throw things at her (little shit). Worse than all that, I distinctly heard a buzzing around 5 a.m., and as I just killed TWO SEPARATE WASPS IN THE HOUSE this week (can you imagine!), I'm sure there's another one somewhere about. (This is why I hate summer, AND Easton.) Worse, worse, I can't find him anywhere, but I keep thinking he's on my back, just sort of hanging there in that cold-weather dumbfounded way stinging insects have when they're not mad with heat orgy, but still languidly alive, thinking up their next awful plan.
So, you can imagine what a terrible morning I'm having. Thoughts of 1984-style ice cream methods, and now a deadly venomous insect clutching to my pajama top. And my hearing is so hallucinatorily acute, I keep thinking I hear the buzz again, but I can't be sure. You wouldn't believe the things I'm hearing. It's awful and disconcerting, and vaguely fascinating too. The problem is I'm so terribly tired, and still rather sick, so I can't even enjoy being all disoriented, I just have to sit here in this gut-wrenching fear and fight off the powerful feeling that I may die at any instant, or worse, be angrily stung by some stupid hornet. I hate bugs, and especially the angry ones that cling to your clothes. Just the thought makes me feel like I've bugs all over me ... and the really awful, awful thing is I can't be sure I don't!
I don't know what else to say, except I urge you to join my flat boycott of Haagen-Daz (despicable wretches). They should be ashamed, and if you eat their ice cream after reading this revelation, you should be ashamed too, and I sincerely hope you get stung by bees.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Mother's Day
May 9, 2010: Before we begin, let us, of course, welcome our newest member to the clatch -- Mr. Musician's Only (a.k.a. Analog Tom). His arrival here serves not only as a vindication of my subtle pestering, but as a veritable honor to those of us who believe our destiny lies hidden somewhere in the cantankerous beats of a metronome ...
Ah, so Mother's Day is back upon us. Those of us who've had mothers know how lovely the experience can be, especially after they're gone.
Now, I don't mean to sound facetious, but my mother kicked the bucket a few years back, and while she had her good qualities when she was alive -- I mean, being human, she must have -- her legend and legacy today continue to grow in girth, like our cat, who just can't stay away from the foodbowl. (Did you know that "girth" was spelled with an "i" by the way, and not an "e"?) What I'm saying is, her death only made her greater (my mother's, not the cat's).
You must understand, my mother was somehow larger than life. (A few of you -- meaning Matt -- remember her, so you know what I'm talking about.) My mother was more id than ego, or perhaps more Narcissus than Goldmund. (Forgive me, I'm struggling with the proper analogy.) She was bold, outspoken -- some would say rude. She was honest and insightful, but controlled all the tact of a West Nile mosquito. She was frighteningly blunt, self-centered, and mythically strange, and yet people loved her, especially people who didn't know her well.
It took some time to pass before I came to appreciate this woman for all her great qualities -- many of which I gratefully inherited, which made me the writer I am today (meaning a grossly underpaid one who has to blurt his noxious opinions into this ether for that minor modicum of creative satisfaction). She gave me -- probably without meaning to, because she was notoriously selfish -- the wide eyes with which I criticize, the insight to see everything that's wrong with everyone but me, the hard nose with which to call a spade a spade (at the risk of sounding racist), and the lovely, sometimes melancholy, sometimes grandiose, appreciation of art, beauty, and those things that are too strange for most people to appreciate, and yet are sometimes the most beautiful of all.
No, she was a good egg -- a rotten mother, but a good egg. And here, I'm being facetious, for she did the best she could with what she had, and I wouldn't have had another, despite all the weird suffering I incurred (including having to eat her chili). My god, who would want to trade the excitement in adult life of having to guess at what being normal is?! Who would want to be just like everyone else?
So, to all you mother lovers out there, I bid you have a happy day of celebration, and know that somewhere, at some time, some woman willingly spread her legs for you!
Ah, so Mother's Day is back upon us. Those of us who've had mothers know how lovely the experience can be, especially after they're gone.
Now, I don't mean to sound facetious, but my mother kicked the bucket a few years back, and while she had her good qualities when she was alive -- I mean, being human, she must have -- her legend and legacy today continue to grow in girth, like our cat, who just can't stay away from the foodbowl. (Did you know that "girth" was spelled with an "i" by the way, and not an "e"?) What I'm saying is, her death only made her greater (my mother's, not the cat's).
You must understand, my mother was somehow larger than life. (A few of you -- meaning Matt -- remember her, so you know what I'm talking about.) My mother was more id than ego, or perhaps more Narcissus than Goldmund. (Forgive me, I'm struggling with the proper analogy.) She was bold, outspoken -- some would say rude. She was honest and insightful, but controlled all the tact of a West Nile mosquito. She was frighteningly blunt, self-centered, and mythically strange, and yet people loved her, especially people who didn't know her well.
It took some time to pass before I came to appreciate this woman for all her great qualities -- many of which I gratefully inherited, which made me the writer I am today (meaning a grossly underpaid one who has to blurt his noxious opinions into this ether for that minor modicum of creative satisfaction). She gave me -- probably without meaning to, because she was notoriously selfish -- the wide eyes with which I criticize, the insight to see everything that's wrong with everyone but me, the hard nose with which to call a spade a spade (at the risk of sounding racist), and the lovely, sometimes melancholy, sometimes grandiose, appreciation of art, beauty, and those things that are too strange for most people to appreciate, and yet are sometimes the most beautiful of all.
No, she was a good egg -- a rotten mother, but a good egg. And here, I'm being facetious, for she did the best she could with what she had, and I wouldn't have had another, despite all the weird suffering I incurred (including having to eat her chili). My god, who would want to trade the excitement in adult life of having to guess at what being normal is?! Who would want to be just like everyone else?
So, to all you mother lovers out there, I bid you have a happy day of celebration, and know that somewhere, at some time, some woman willingly spread her legs for you!
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
May & Me
May 5, 2010: It's May and I'm still annoyed. Not really annoyed in any harsh way, but I continue to be fed up that people across America, and the world, don't do things MY way (the fools!).
I'm reminded of an early book by the famous poet Ronald Walter Ludley entitled, "Why Don't You Listen?" A wise work that was, and still nobody listens.
But here I find myself ready to rant, and believe it or not, I can't remember any of the 15,000 issues I wanted to rant about. That's sad, because it's obviously a reflection of my decaying mind, coupled with the fact that I don't find anything I have to say of that much interest.
Let's move on ... I'm watching "Magnum Force" as we speak. (It's actually paused, but it's out there in the living room, waiting for my return; I merely stopped to get some peanut butter cookies, and then got distracted.) The point is, it's a grand movie. Not at the level of the original "Dirty Harry," which was brilliantly directed by the great Don Siegel (and which I watched LAST night, and during which I ate many more peanut butter cookies), but it's still very enjoyable. Hal Halbrooke is smashing, as is the young David Soul. Of course, what makes the movie great -- aside from our beloved Mr. Eastwood -- is the exquisite Lalo Shifrin music. (Am I spelling that right? Fucking Yugoslavians!) Nothing beats that man's work, except maybe mine. Let's be honest. Who writes a better blog? (Certainly not Shannon!) And I'm humble enough to admit that what makes it good has nothing to do with me -- remember, I don't actually have much of interest to say. It's what you, dear reader, bring to it. You see, there would be no Mona Lisa were it not for the perception of the Mona Lisa. Now follow me. In a very real sense, I don't even exist, which is why it's so hard for me to get a credit card.
But I digress. And why not? It's May, and all my favorite flowers have already bloomed and decayed, but the first tart, noxious smells of summer foliage are stinking the air, like the overhead sun of L.A. Which reminds me, when are we all going to openly acknowledge that Ashley Tisdale is a great actress. (Has anyone else seen "High School Musical II"? It rocks! Especially the "Fabulous" number!)
But enough about movies, enough about me ... and enough about May. You see, the fact is I despise the hot weather -- I simply despise it beyond belief -- and so I'm literally waiting impatiently for autumn to return ... And then I'll finally be happy and satisfied and pleasant to be around ... Probably ...
I'm reminded of an early book by the famous poet Ronald Walter Ludley entitled, "Why Don't You Listen?" A wise work that was, and still nobody listens.
But here I find myself ready to rant, and believe it or not, I can't remember any of the 15,000 issues I wanted to rant about. That's sad, because it's obviously a reflection of my decaying mind, coupled with the fact that I don't find anything I have to say of that much interest.
Let's move on ... I'm watching "Magnum Force" as we speak. (It's actually paused, but it's out there in the living room, waiting for my return; I merely stopped to get some peanut butter cookies, and then got distracted.) The point is, it's a grand movie. Not at the level of the original "Dirty Harry," which was brilliantly directed by the great Don Siegel (and which I watched LAST night, and during which I ate many more peanut butter cookies), but it's still very enjoyable. Hal Halbrooke is smashing, as is the young David Soul. Of course, what makes the movie great -- aside from our beloved Mr. Eastwood -- is the exquisite Lalo Shifrin music. (Am I spelling that right? Fucking Yugoslavians!) Nothing beats that man's work, except maybe mine. Let's be honest. Who writes a better blog? (Certainly not Shannon!) And I'm humble enough to admit that what makes it good has nothing to do with me -- remember, I don't actually have much of interest to say. It's what you, dear reader, bring to it. You see, there would be no Mona Lisa were it not for the perception of the Mona Lisa. Now follow me. In a very real sense, I don't even exist, which is why it's so hard for me to get a credit card.
But I digress. And why not? It's May, and all my favorite flowers have already bloomed and decayed, but the first tart, noxious smells of summer foliage are stinking the air, like the overhead sun of L.A. Which reminds me, when are we all going to openly acknowledge that Ashley Tisdale is a great actress. (Has anyone else seen "High School Musical II"? It rocks! Especially the "Fabulous" number!)
But enough about movies, enough about me ... and enough about May. You see, the fact is I despise the hot weather -- I simply despise it beyond belief -- and so I'm literally waiting impatiently for autumn to return ... And then I'll finally be happy and satisfied and pleasant to be around ... Probably ...
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Ode To Shannon (Woolfe) & Spring
April 25, 2010: I don't know why I like Shannon Woolfe so much, but I do. Perhaps I feel she's one of the few people who understands me (although a lot of that's probably just my imagination). Perhaps I just like her name, (despite the flagrant misspelling), or the recurring image I have of her staggering angrily out onto her porch in the middle of the night to scare away rednecks by bellowing, "Can I help you?!" in a real yocal dialect.
Whatever it is, I wanted to take a moment to celebrate her, and acknowledge her worth ...
Okay, good. Now let's move on. I also wanted to talk about spring flowers, in particular the lilacs I pirated this evening. They're currently filling my bedroom with their lofty sweet scent, and believe me, my bedroom never smells this good.
Spring flowers like these are just good enough to eat, and in fact almost look edible when I'm in the right mood. I've never tried them, of course. I'm not some kind of weirdo. But is it wrong for a writer to fantasize about such things? (Many of you would say Yes, and that's why I withhold Blah-ugh entries (or are they really entrails?).
Anyway, the point is, spring is here, and women are in heat. (I see it all over, though I try to politely pretend I don't.) Men apparently go into heat in the fall, when the autumn temperatures cool their testicles. (I'm not making this up!) But spring is when all our feminine sides comes blossoming out, like so much lavendar in a smelly sash. Isn't that why we have spring? Be honest. You ladies know more about this than I do!
I could go on, because like Bobby Troop, my heart is full of spring. But I'm thinking that I have to shower and shave, too, and I want to watch the end of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" -- the masterpiece one with Donald Sutherland, which I've seen 10 times but still never tire of.
Someone remind me to write a review of it soon. (Shannon, if you remember.) I've got to go and put my balls on ice.
Whatever it is, I wanted to take a moment to celebrate her, and acknowledge her worth ...
Okay, good. Now let's move on. I also wanted to talk about spring flowers, in particular the lilacs I pirated this evening. They're currently filling my bedroom with their lofty sweet scent, and believe me, my bedroom never smells this good.
Spring flowers like these are just good enough to eat, and in fact almost look edible when I'm in the right mood. I've never tried them, of course. I'm not some kind of weirdo. But is it wrong for a writer to fantasize about such things? (Many of you would say Yes, and that's why I withhold Blah-ugh entries (or are they really entrails?).
Anyway, the point is, spring is here, and women are in heat. (I see it all over, though I try to politely pretend I don't.) Men apparently go into heat in the fall, when the autumn temperatures cool their testicles. (I'm not making this up!) But spring is when all our feminine sides comes blossoming out, like so much lavendar in a smelly sash. Isn't that why we have spring? Be honest. You ladies know more about this than I do!
I could go on, because like Bobby Troop, my heart is full of spring. But I'm thinking that I have to shower and shave, too, and I want to watch the end of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" -- the masterpiece one with Donald Sutherland, which I've seen 10 times but still never tire of.
Someone remind me to write a review of it soon. (Shannon, if you remember.) I've got to go and put my balls on ice.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Journalism Tips (and an Ode to Caitlyn)
April 22, 2010: Let me start by saying this entry is dedicated to Caitlyn Hentenaar, whoever she is. She just joined as my 18th official blog follower, and while I'm thankful, it was a complete surprise, since I haven't done an entry in a month (and nobody else seems to care). Yet she took the time to subscribe (or whatever the hell it is you people do), and this loving gesture is prompting me to share more of my potent insights, interesting experiences and acute anger.
And yes, this is one of those angry entries because I'm so annoyed with the people I have to deal with in my journalism work. It's remarkable to me how out-of-control some people are, and since I have accumulated close to 25 years of experience doing that sort of stuff, I thought I'd take a moment to share some of my opinions and, hopefully in the process, move to dampen some of the dreadful habits these people exhibit.
For starters, if a reporter is doing a story on you (or your organization, or event), you are NOT doing him a favor, HE IS DOING YOU A FAVOR. Therefore, don't treat making contact with him (meaning ME) as if you were the queen consenting to daly with one of your subjects. Unless the reporter is doing a piece exposing you for the fraud you are, happily make yourself available at HIS convenience, and remain grateful!
Another annoying thing is the ridiculous proliferation of "media" go-betweens, who largely do nothing but annoy journalists by consuming more time. I can't say how often I receive press releases that require my calling someone who has absolutely no information to give, except the name of someone else you need to call to get information. It's bad enough that every business, college and government agency keeps a barbed-wire fence around itself with its stable of press-relation idiots, but to have little groups and gathering subscribe to that same stupid way of doing business is completely annoying, and merely makes the reporter (meaning ME) resent everybody involved.
I could go on, but I think it'll be best to ease back into this thing. And pending the response from my April entry, we'll see if I decide to ever do another ...
And yes, this is one of those angry entries because I'm so annoyed with the people I have to deal with in my journalism work. It's remarkable to me how out-of-control some people are, and since I have accumulated close to 25 years of experience doing that sort of stuff, I thought I'd take a moment to share some of my opinions and, hopefully in the process, move to dampen some of the dreadful habits these people exhibit.
For starters, if a reporter is doing a story on you (or your organization, or event), you are NOT doing him a favor, HE IS DOING YOU A FAVOR. Therefore, don't treat making contact with him (meaning ME) as if you were the queen consenting to daly with one of your subjects. Unless the reporter is doing a piece exposing you for the fraud you are, happily make yourself available at HIS convenience, and remain grateful!
Another annoying thing is the ridiculous proliferation of "media" go-betweens, who largely do nothing but annoy journalists by consuming more time. I can't say how often I receive press releases that require my calling someone who has absolutely no information to give, except the name of someone else you need to call to get information. It's bad enough that every business, college and government agency keeps a barbed-wire fence around itself with its stable of press-relation idiots, but to have little groups and gathering subscribe to that same stupid way of doing business is completely annoying, and merely makes the reporter (meaning ME) resent everybody involved.
I could go on, but I think it'll be best to ease back into this thing. And pending the response from my April entry, we'll see if I decide to ever do another ...
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