drunk..... drunk?

yes. I wish i was in my dream now. black and white and smokey. stream of consciousness marathon. i don't mean to be so empty, so fallow and self pitying. it's a fall back position, a default of that certain artistic temperment. i suffer from arrested development. i suffer from immature achievements. i suffer from melon swelling.

why do vodka gimlets taste like the bile of my stomach mixed with expectation? i wish i could taste such possibility, but it always washes away with the reality of my failure. is it possible to be successful at 29? that's my goal, though if I fail I'll always have 32.

It's a sad possibility that nobody realizes the genius of Gregory La Cava. and when I say "nobody" i really mean the fools and glassy-eyed loved ones who tolerate my dereliction. i live in an illusion, so why would I want to escape and face the lonely face of reality, where no one knows the color of ginger rogers's stockings? to sleep, perchance to zone out in television movie playground...

what am i saying?????? what am i doing? i've been writing the same shitty novella since november and i'm so ashamed of it i'm ready to credit the shitpile to one D.Q. McGillicutty, my drug-addled alter ego. Geo. Oeg. Goe. Eog. Spelling is for chumps and hores.

i showed double indemnity to a friend the other day, yesterday or tomorrow, i'm not sure, and it didn't take for her. like the revelation that you and only you is the only one who likes neil sedaka or Caddyshack II, the sad state of solitude, i can't believe i'm writing this for all the rest to see, how could someone NOT like that movie?! i guess i'm just outisde of normal time and felicity; i'm just cut from the mold of nostalgia, the pain from an old wound that i never felt but can feel just the same.

is this what it means to be outside, to be in solitude? i never realized I was so far gone. how much farther can a soul sink before it fans out in a whisper and empties itself into the ether?

i would give my arm for the next person to say they knew what sophisticated boom boom means. i need to listen to happier music.

i need a cigarette. i need a coke. i need a dvd recorder that works. i need a vfccccccccccccccccg xrshytgfmxxxxxxsytmzsjrtzgfnvdfsddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd

whoops. i guess i need a pillow and not my keyboard.

the saddest sound in the world is a face in joy and no one to share it with.

Drunk!d

OH my, how flows the brain as it wastes an hour in past shadows! Rome atop a hill or seven, I wonder if there could ever be such an exotic and familiar villa. Roman blood in my veins? At least vulgar Italian blood, blood of pickpockets and Neapolitan thieves.

Better movie than The Godfather? Godfather Part II. I stand by it! "You can never lose your family." Is it a question? "You can never lose your family?" What if you do? Or is it a command: "You can NEVER lose your family" (or else)?


I take the cannoli and leave the gun! I keep my friends at arms length and my enemies in my back pocket! Hyman Roth was behind it all! Or was it Cicero and Brutus in the shrubbery on the Appian Way? I prefer John Milius's Antony to Shakespeare's. I prefer beer to wine. It is very unItalian of me. It is my British nature. My Potawatomi side wants whiskey. I'm not Russian but I like vodka martinis. I loathe rum when it is all alone, but still I dream of piracy. I have my pirate name and it is Mad Jenny Kidd! Arr!

(This was written on a used napkin):
That HBO show, Rome? Fucking awesome. And even better better when drunk. Like a time travel to brilliant. What does that even mean? I dunno. I'm wasted. Don't demand so much.


Paganicity.


I just made that up.


There's a giant stack of magazines on my television screen. And Frank Sinatra is next to them. I'm not lying! It's a really big stack. I don't know what it means, but it could either be ominous or exceptional. I vote exceptional. I'm an optimist like that. I hate to think the magazines are coming to destory our world, so I refuse to believe it. Sing me a song Frank! Don't let the world be a dreary place. The shower is for singing! Without a song, I would be buried under the gigantic stack of magazines!


What's your favorite song? That's like asking if I like steak instead of ice cream. I just stole that from The Chairman of the board. So sue me, sue me, what can you do me?


Brahms Piano Concerto no. 2 (Sarah)

Fingertips by They Might Be Giants (Kara?)


I'm not sure what my favorite song is. I'm not sure I have a favorite song. It's probably a Beatles song, if I could think coherently at this point. Lady Madonna. Rain. Total Eclipse of the Heart. No!

Mozart's Alleluia from Exsultate Jubilate (Me)

That's some highbrow shit right there. I'm feeling elite tonight.

Drunk

This blog has become entirely too respectable. Time for a drunken ramble. Which is good, since I'm drunk, thanks to a wedding, and feeling all rambly, and now I'm drunk and will write and regret it in the morning. There are worse things to regret on a Sunday morning, I guess.

About 10:43 tonight I had the strongest desire to watch either a Whit Stillman film, a screwball comedy set in New York City, or listen to Vampire Weekend. None of these things came true. How I wish they could! My ipod died on the car ride home and it made me sad. Sometimes I wonder if I'm just entirely too strange and nerdy to ever find someone who can appreciate the thought of Central Park in the rain, a Thursday afternoon on Broadway and 79th, an evening watching French New Wave double-featured with Will Ferrell movies. I'm planning to move to Los Angeles, for a change, for a new career, for the weather, for God knows what, and of course, being from working class detroit, no one seems to understand why, "you're a writer? Oh. so what do you really do?" -- i'm dreaming that in l.a. they don't respond so practically, that in l.a. they'll ask you what you're working on and not judge in that harsh midwestern way, i'm hoping, i'm dreaming, but it's hard to move when you have no cash.

I wish I could muster the intellect to write about the old movies I've watched recently. I saw Raw Deal the other day. Claire Trevor, so flousy-tragic, voice-over noir, how could I resist. It's a chiaroscuro girl-fight between her and Gloria Grahame for the title of Favorite Noir Moll. Dennis O'Keefe is what Dennis Morgan would be if he'd been knifed in the face and sent up to San Quentin for a misunderstanding and a stolen 12 Gs. In a bit of What-the-hell! Dennis O'Keefe was in an episode of Petticoat Junction. Petticoat. Junction.

I would write more if I were motivated. But that's the problem: I'm not. I've watched some perfectly good writable movies -- Raw Deal, Mr. Lucky -- and shows -- PBS's Sense and Sensibility, Mad Men (which I've been rewatching in reruns and I'm not sure if it reinforces Baby Boomer narcissism or rejects it), John Adams, The Tudors (God help me, I'm only watching till St. Thomas More is martyred, I swear!) -- but nothing comes of it. Is anyone else worried that the film blogosphere is dying?

I guess I'm just tired of cyber-conversations. I want to discuss my random interests with a flesh and blood, is there no one else out there in my sad small town who can argue which is better: Pre-Code Babs Stanwyck or Ms. Bette Davis, Hays Code-style, or is Faye-Dunaway-fucking-William-Holden-in-Network better than them all? Can I have an intelligent conversation about Montgomery Clift already? Is there anybody out there who knows what these words mean: Gaius Baltar, Jeremiah Wright, Moqtardo Sadr, Madeline Kahn, Ron Stoppable??? I despair.

In my room, I have an entire wall covered in pictures of the Beatles. It is my Beatles Wall. At this moment, greatest Beatles song ever? Mr. Moonlight.

No. I kid. That's the worst fucking Beatles song in history.

True answer, right this moment? Hey Jude. Anthology 3, track 17 (maybe). I don't care if it's obvious or cliche or too popular, it's a great effin' song and sounds great at 1 am saturday drunk-like. No. Now I'm changing my vote to Rocky Raccoon. Try writing a masterpiece like that Mick and Keith!

I heard the best wedding toast tonight. My cousin -- the best man at his brother's wedding -- three lines (if that), ending with "To health and happiness." Perfect. We were rolling, everyone at my table. It followed fifteen minutes of bad poetry and crying and barely funny "funny" stories, which however heartfelt they may seem to those who are saying them had me wishing for a double gin martini to go with my Jack and Coke and put me to bed momma.

Then! A message sent down from heaven, the best man's (my cousin's) speech was an antidote, the equivalent of those old Oscar speeches where Clark Gable simply says, "Thank you very much" and then sits down. Succinct, gracious, maybe ten seconds in length. Rub-a-dub-dub time for some grub. It was the Gettysburg Address of wedding toasts.

Now: I'm sminking of gin. Only about 0.02% might ever get that reference, but for those of you who do, you're welcome. See: Rocky Raccoon, above (Anthology 3)

This isn't nearly as funny as it should be, i'm frickin' drunk yo! Oh well. Regret: The best motivation to do better next time.