A Small Breakthrough

Today I actually climbed the stairs to my "studio" (a guest bedroom where I've set up my drawing table and supplies) and, for the first time, used it for its intended purpose. I have not worked on my scrapbook of the old house in over a year, and have not looked at it much in all that time. Today I sat down and began to finish it.

I only worked about ninety minutes, but that was more than what I expected. I'd expected to just look through the book and re-acquaint myself with it. Instead, right away I saw things that needed doing, and soon I was adding photographs and captions and clips. You know that you're doing something when the wastebasket begins to fill up.

Honey found me and sat on my lap, and unlike when I'm trying to write here at the computer, having her there didn't interfere. I discovered that I did a very good job of setting up the room: everything was close to hand, everything had its place, the work went smoothly.

Last year at this time, the old house was an open wound. Now, the new house is so much my home that looking at pictures of the old place does not hurt nearly as much. It seems like a distant fantasy world. I wonder how we managed to live there.

This was just the beginning. I have a lot of work left to do on this project, but resuming it felt really good. And it's just the first of what I hope will be many projects.

Having spent a little time in my "studio" at long, long last, and discovered that it really is the bright, congenial place to work that I had hoped it would be, I'm optimistic -- at least a little bit -- about getting back to work again, for the first time in longer than I care to think about.

-- Freder.

The Galivanting Gourmand

It must be nice to be Anthony Bourdain. Of course, it took a lot of hard work to get to where he is now, but Now seems to be pretty danged good for the guy. I'd much rather be Anthony Bourdain, traveling the world and dishing out Experience to punters like me, than, say, Gordon Ramsay, who still works like a dog trying to turn around the lives of Clueless Restaurateurs who would have been better advised to become paper-hangers.

My first thought was that Bourdain was most similar to a Super-Powered blogger who, unlike bloggers, actually provides information of value -- but, really, am I ever going to make it to Singapore or even South Beach?  How can the information possibly be of actual value to someone like me, marooned on my own virtual Desert Island? The most telling moment so far in Bourdain's new series The Layover comes when he's chowing down on Deluxe Dogs and Deluxe Coctails in an exclusive little hole-in-the-wall, and he looks straight into the camera and says, "You're not getting in here. It's pretty much certain that you're not getting in here."

So, by definition, the only real value in Bourdain's shows lies in providing masochists and armchair travelers like me with a bit of vicarious punishment. Granted, I wouldn't eat some of the things that he eats, but then, as a likely case of Asperger's, my palette is almost notoriously bland. I didn't graduate to the milder forms of Mexican food until I was in my forties. It doesn't mean that I can't enjoy learning about Street Foods of The World on an intellectual level.

To be able to go anywhere and eat anything that's put in front of you, to be relaxed enough and comfortable enough in your own skin to speak confidently to absolutely anyone, that must be a Wonderful Thing.

I've traveled enough to know that travel is exhausting, fraught with difficulties, and sometimes dangerous. So if Mr. Bourdain sometimes looks pained or tired, that's to be expected. I don't feel sorry for him. He's like James Bond without the running, punching and shooting. Sounds like a Perfect Life to me.

-- Freder.

Are You Nobody, Too?

I won't belabor the point, but everyone, everyone, should absolutely get out and see Hugo. For reasons I won't get into, it needs to be seen at a Movie Theater, on a Big Screen. Don't wait for the DVD. See it in 3D or see it flat (although I will say that this is what 3D was made for, and Scorcese uses it better than anyone else ever has), but see it.

I watched it through a haze, with tears running down my face. I can't promise that you will have the same reaction, but then I feel intensely connected to the material for a number of reasons.

First, years before Brian Selznick published his wonderful book, The Invention of Hugo Cabret, upon which Scorcese based his film, I mined the same material for a short story. You can see it here. The animations and design that really bring it to life are by Farak Ulay. Please take a few minutes and check it out. It's not a long piece. You might want to wait until after you've seen Hugo, though. Spoilers ahead. See it, then come back and follow the link.

Among the very few critics who have actually panned this movie, one of them said something to the effect of "Scorcese shouldn't have waited until he was seventy to make his first Kid's Film."

I want to throttle that person. Hugo is anything but a Kid's Movie. It's for adults who can remember what it is like to be a child, but who have lived long enough to experience loss. And it's for young people, meant to turn a key and open a door in their minds that will allow them to explore avenues that lead, down crooked streets and narrow hallways, to places and people far away from the relentlessly contemporary.

Even  though I knew the details of the plot ahead of time, I was entirely drawn in to the deep mystery that this movie creates. Most people who see the film will not recognize the name of the man played by Ben Kingsley, but even if you do, you will not be disappointed in the way the fictional story folds itself in and around reality, like film through sprockets.

I don't want to throw a lot of words at this. Just go. It will make you a better person. It will make you realize that you never know who the people that you meet in life used to be.

Just one more thing: Even here, in Hugo, Martin Scorcese has made a film that forced me to look away from the screen and to literally shake and cringe and squeeze into the bottom of my seat. I am genuinely afraid of heights. When you see it, you'll know the scene I'm talking about. In 3D, it was simply unbearable for me to watch.

*

This was a good ending to my birthday weekend which began with some friends coming over on Friday night for one of my Movie Nights.  As I've written before on this blog, I always do up a Full Program with a cartoon, serial and a comedy short before the feature. I served up some pretty good stuff: Betty Boop in Snow White, Buster Keaton in One Week, and episode one of Republic's 1941 cliffhanger, Spy Smasher. The Keaton was particularly fun. Watching Keaton all alone by yourself in front of the telly is one thing, but watching him where there are other people in the room and they are all laughing out loud in all the right places definitely adds an additional layer of enjoyment.

The feature was another movie about children faced with seemingly insoluble mysteries, Disney's 1963 The Horse Without a Head, featuring Jean-Pierre Aumont, Leo McKern and Herbert Lom. Also one of my first childhood crushes, Pamela Franklin as a spunky little girl who has a way with dogs. This slight little mystery is a charmer that's been a favorite of mine ever since I was five years old. Disney has never formally released it to the retail market, but there are copies of their "film club" DVD out there if you know where to look. 

E___, a former boss and longtime friend, who came to my mother's memorial service, got to see my house for the first time, and commented that I've done well at making it home. Thanks. I think so.

So, yes. Much, much better than my last birthday, which you can read about here on the blog. Life in general has improved a whole heckova lot since then, and who knows? Maybe, like the characters in Hugo, I won't be broken forever.

--Freder.

A Wreath from The Enemy

There was a large box on my deck when I got home last night. I thought, "What? I didn't order anything! Did I? Did I order something else while I was drunk and then forget all about it?"

In the dark I couldn't tell where it was from. I had three bags of groceries and my usual shoulder bag, and I tried to manage everything at once whilst simultaneously trying to let myself into the house. Once I got everything into the back hall and hit the lightswitch, I saw that the box was from a Maine wreath company.

I thought, " A wreath? I didn't order a wreath! Who sent me a wreath? What the hell am I going to do with a wreath?"

Truth told, in my new home there's not a single place to hang a wreath. The front porch door is made of glass and metal, no place to drive a nail. On the inner porch door I already have one of my mother's paintings hanging; there would be no point in hanging a wreath there anyway, no one would see it. I finally looped it onto a hook on my deck that I hang plants from in the summer.

It turns out that the wreath was sent to me by the auction house that handled the sale of my mother's estate. When I learned this, and read the insipid note that was enclosed in the package, I just wanted to throw the bloody thing back in their faces. Stupid fake sentiment. They made a lot of money off of my mother, so they send me a damn wreath. A stupid, bloody wreath is not a fair trade for my mother's life. If I had any cojones at all I'd drive over there and toss it onto Mister James Julia's desk, and tell him where he can hang it.

There are many things that went into the sale that are unaccounted for, notable things, prominent things, and the auctioneers are being, at best, coy about the missing items. Among these are a vintage firearm, a very old wood carving of cherubic faces, a soft sculpture of a Phoenix by the Maine artist Dahlov Ipcar, and the eight or ten boxes of vintage comics that actually belonged to me.

My father has been very active in trying to make them accountable for a the first two items. He's had no luck, as I knew would be the case. The auction house holds all the cards. If they say that they never received something, and it doesn't turn up in their records, what are you going to do about it? For my part --

-- I lost so much last year. Just read back in this blog, I won't rehash it. All by themselves, the three days that the auctioneers spent clearing out the house were a brutal gang rape of my life.

I know that my father is frustrated by my attitude about the missing items, but I'm not being blasé. I care about it as much as he does, perhaps more. But I simply need to let go, and declare the past dead. It needs to be over. Engaging in a battle with the auction house is not going to bring me any closer to peace.

But then again, neither is a stupid wreath.

-- Freder.

A Life

I did not "choose" this photo. I clicked on it at random from well over a
thousand images I have sent to me by the auctioneer. Even now, I don't like to
look at it. I know exactly where these things were in the Old House.

I just found the following piece on the internet. It refers to the auction of my mother's collection.

My emotions are running very mixed indeed about the words that follow. This was written by someone who never knew my mother, never knew me -- and yet it's written about US. It's written about OUR HOME, the place that I lived in for 35 years. 

It's troublesome to see a person's life, when it's your mother, when it's you, sort of scooped up and clinically examined in such a fashion. 

I don't know who this person is -- but I want to hit them. I want to hit them and kick them and scream at them. I want to say, "Good on you, Mom," for making such an impression. 

The auctioneers descended into my life and ripped it apart, they ripped my mother apart and sold her in lots. It's no wonder I still shed tears when I read something like this. Anyway, here it is, quoted from God Knows Where and I Don't Even Give a Shit. Let me know what YOU think. I hate it.

-- Freder

*

Everything on my desk stops when a new auction catalog arrives via snail mail. Tucked inside the latest 240 pager from James D. Julia's May 5 Advertising, Toy & Doll sale is the Barbara Thornsjocollection. Thornsjo (1928-2010) spent 70 years in the business so it's no wonder how she got access to such great stuff. The sheer amount of the collection impressed Julia himself. From the catalog: 

"When Jim Julia & Bill Gage arrived at the (Thornsjo) house for the first viewing they were truly astounded at the quantity upon opening the front door ... the two could honestly say that they never had to side step through room after room, in single file before." 

I imagine the scene to be right out of an episode of "Horders," although in this case it must have been a treasure hunt to dig through the piles. Thornsjo's eclectic trove of antiques, funk and 'junque' spans the first 129 lots of the auction's second session, which can be seen in the online catalog.The sale has a number of investment-grade vintage advertising and clockwork toys, but the Thornsjo collection was made for those who love antique oddities and instant collections. The way Julia is combining the lots of paper litho toys, Disney books, papier mache puppets and vintage Halloween decorations creates a rare chance to fill a single shelf with unusual odds and ends at one fell swoop.As sampling of the more unusual lots are shown here. More complete photos showing the entire lot contents isavailable now at Julia's. 

I Beg to Differ. . .

I spotted this magazine cover at the supermarket the other day, and thought, "Oh, really? A headline written by someone who's never suffered from it."

Actually, I had a good streak of Freedom from Anxiety in recent weeks. I suspect it was because I was so sick that I didn't have the energy for panic attacks or anxiety. Now that I'm feeling somewhat better, all that has changed.

The spells are coming at different times of the day, and are lasting longer. I've written about this before, so I won't go over it all again. I do see the footnote reading "As long as you know how to use it," but that makes no sense to me. Anxiety is formless and cannot be channeled, only outlasted, and that only for a short time before it's back on you like a parasite.

My doctor is talking about increasing my dosage of Prozac. I hope that it helps. I did not miss these daily adventures into panic, and would be grateful for anything that would Make it Stop.

Speaking of anxiety, just to prove that I am my own worst enemy, I joined an online dating service. Briefly.

I know! I thought the same thing! I thought, What the hell are you doing? Well, a co-worker had signed up for the same service and he was getting all kinds of hits and I guess it seemed like the Thing to Do. I'm good at playing Follow the Leader. I never imagined that anything would come of it. I figured that a few days would go by, nothing would happen, and then I'd forget the whole thing.

So I was actually mortified when my inbox began to fill up with notices saying that various women wanted to meet me. I thought, Are they stupid? Did they read my profile?

But then I went and actually answered a couple of them!

I know!! I thought that, too! I thought, Are you crazy? What are you thinking? Why are you completely unable to learn from past mistakes?

I live my life knowing that I'm going to make a fool out of myself, but unable to prevent myself from doing it.

Well, not this time. This morning, I deleted the account. Now I am breathing a sigh of relief.

I really shouldn't go anywhere near the computer after about ten o'clock at night. My typing fingers tend to do things of their own volition, without speaking to my head. One of these days, it's going to get me into trouble.

-- Freder.

I Know Why the Bad Movie Stinks

When I saw The Omega Man for the first time as a young teenager, I thought it was pretty good. To be fair, I saw it on network television, and my sense is that it was quite heavily edited to get it down to the standards that TV censors demanded back in those days -- maybe some of the worst scenes came out along with the violence, swearing, and the topless black chick.

Because, Oh Yes, when I tried to watch it again as the inaugural feature of my annual winter science fiction filmfest, I was greatly brought down to realize that this picture is one heck of a smelly Stink Bomb. It took me three sessions over three days just to get through the damn thing.

Back in 1971, we still had this thing called "Mod." It was dying a slow and painful death, but when The Omega Man was made, there were still some very un-Mod people who thought it was the thing to do to rake in the Youth Audience. And The Omega Man wants so very much to be "Mod" -- it tries so hard to be "Mod" that it only ends up showing you how deeply Un-Mod it is.

Their first mistake was in casting Charlton Heston in the title role. Heston may have been many things (or Not), but "Mod?" Yeesh! Maybe when they were changing the title from The Last Man on Earth, they should have gone with The Least Mod on Earth. Only Nancy Reagan is less "Mod" than Charlton Heston.

Then there's the music -- my GOD, the music! Jumpy, Fake Pop Elevator Music at best, fake Electronic Gothic, and worse. The best example of how deeply wretched this score is comes at the very end, as a kind of bouncy Supermarket tune plays over the fade-out of Heston lying symbolically crucified in a fountain of his own blood.

I'm not making this stuff up!!!

Then we have the villains. In the original story (and the actually very good first film version starring Vincent Price in the Heston role), a virus had turned everyone on the planet into Walking Dead. They didn't talk much. They did spend their nights trying to break their way into Vincent Price's home. This was well before George Romero stole the idea, added piles of gore and gave us the zombie genre that is with us, very much like a disgusting virus, to this day.

But no, The Omega Man has to be really MOD, baby! So in this version, the virus turned everyone on the planet into Albino Cultists who go around in long black robes and chant "The Family is Everything!" Anthony Zerbe plays the Head Cultist and, under his white Fright Wig and white pancake make-up, he works overtime (and I do mean overtime) to prove to us How Very Evil he is. By allowing the Cultists to talk, and to do so at great length, the screenwriters have opened themselves up to vast opportunities for Silly Dialogue which does not go un-mined.

The script, that's another big part of the trouble. By trying to expand upon Richard Matheson's original story, they turn terror into camp, and humanity into pathos. It tries so hard to be profound that it forgets how to be a simple science fiction thriller. Mod, meet Miss Guided!

And don't even get me started about the Jive-Ass Black Chick. I know lots of African Americans and not one of them looks or talks like they just stepped out of a Pam Grier movie. This was written by White People who wanted to prove to someone (maybe themselves) that they were not bigots. They failed.

Along  the way, this movie does play with one of my favorite themes: the creation of a Family. In this case, not only doesn't the family "take," but it raises the question of "What if you don't like your new-found relatives?" See, the Jive-Ass Black Chick and Charlton Heston become a deeply unlikely couple when he saves the life of her little brother. And just as soon as he can talk again, little brother proves to be kind of a Pain in the Ass. In-laws!! Go figure!! He gets killed for it, but then so does almost everyone else.

The one thing that this picture gets right is also the one thing it has in common with the Vincent Price version: an interesting, accurate depiction of Men Living Alone. Where Price lives in squalor and depression, dragging himself out every day to dispose of the bodies and shore up his ever-diminishing defenses, Heston lives in city style with every kind of luxury he wants, and ventures out by day as a gun-toting Warrior, tooling around the streets in a new car every day. You can almost hear him saying "Out of my cold dead hands. . ." and that's what happens.

I've not seen the recent remake with Will Smith and probably never will. At the time of its release, I had only my memory of the Heston version to go on, and I scoffed. "Why would they remake The Omega Man?" I said. "It can't possibly be as good as The Omega Man!"

Now, with the bar very much lowered, I have to say, "If it isn't as good as The Omega Man, then it's really in the shit!"

-- Freder.

Nothing to add