the Movies...

Of the movies I watched this weekend, two took me by complete surprise. Although one had come with much recommendation, the other fell from my desire to watch foreign/art type films.

The Matador was film Saturday; número one. Highly praised by a close friend, I entered the experience with anticipation high. This thankfully, did not kill the moment. I’m going to keep this short; Pierce Brosnan completely dispels the vestige of 007’s shadow and presents a range that is absolutely phenomenal.

Greg Kinnear’s impressive portrayal of Bob Crane in ‘Auto Focus’ buried ‘Talk Soup’ memories and in Matador, we see his befitting backdrop to Brosnan’s humor as a disintegrating facilitator. This is two hours of your life that is worth committing to the couch.

Caché was film Sunday; nombre two. Reminding myself to breathe was an often occurrence as Michael Haneke's directorial approach drew me into an odd sense of anticipation. Lengthy, static shots of nothing seemingly particular set the pace for psychological terrorism through the mere concept of being watched.

Juliette Binoche and Daniel Auteuil give convincing performances as a couple pulled into interpersonal distrust, but it’s the films direction I found most appealing. At the risqué of revealing too much, the viewer is required to dissect elements within moments that appear overtly benign, ultimately to construct resolution from those extractions.

The pace, like many a French film is slow, but in this case, deliberately. This is two hours of your life that is worth the couch and quite a bit of discussion afterward.

Hey Stuart!

I don't have any info... all the stuff I had no longer works!

New Sites!

This is just plumb wicked! Can you imagine pulling up along side of one of those really, really super fast 'I-got-a-little-weenie' cars and nodding to the tupe in control with one of those 'hey-you-wanna’-race' kind of faces and then he looks at you like you’re a little nutty but you nod back with a 'I am not' look and he laughs the 'you fool' laugh and then you push the 'go fast' button and WOOF you’re off like a bat out of hell and you think to yourself... wow. that's cool.

the music of the week...

I’ve concluded that 70’s groove-tunes have made their back into the world of now. The shu-ka-took-a-took-a-schook rolls out like dy-no-mite and hypnotizes my soul. I imagine steppin’ down the streets of Harlem as some jive-turkey says “What it is my brother?”

I’m hip private eye John Shaft baby and I reply “What it be?” The lights brighten a corner telephone booth as I ring chick number two. “John” she says. Yeah baby. I love you. I know.

This isn’t quite the soundtrack to shaft, but it’s far out and I like it and that makes it cool man. So get your baby and check this out because truly – this is really where it’s at... if you like the funky groove that is.

The Highway, Part One

Anger; it thrives for recess in fragilities sonata and the embodiment of fear. It is consuming, it destroys, and it is contagious. Creation dissipates in its own fermentation, leaving emotional bewilderment and exasperation as its paramour.

Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate and hate leads to suffering. I know the little force freak in Lucas’ septology generalizes this assertion as a path to the dark side, yet it reigns a certain truthfulness that is extremely profound.

Securities blanket is often woven by inescapable fear. It twists indiscriminately amongst the fiber of self, extricating rational thought and smothering the breath of clarity. Anger emerges from the huddles of fear, inflaming emancipated tinder, smoldering as it blinds.

Darkness; the void that silences hope, offers no direction, strangling freedoms cry. Alone in misperceived dejection, disgust, pity. Hate offers express and momentary relief. Hate befriends. Hate speaks for ignorance. Hate plagues the body with disease and sickness until it is able to feed upon itself and manifest into indescribable ugliness.

the Loof appears tonight

What is a Loof? Well... I saw one today. As I left the juice joint from whence my lunch was taken (not Josie’s, that’d be kind of queer), there before me, flutter a tall, un-impressing Loof. I wonder how they exist from time to time but always arrive at the same answer; they must be here for a reason.

The Loof I saw today was nearly backed over by a car. I’m sure the driver was caught completely off guard because the Loof was there... then not there... then there. It was generally confusing for me so I can imagine how the driver felt.

‘round in circles the Loof went. Out of the way. In the way. Out of the way. In the way. It was almost as through a silly little prank was amidst. Then, at nearly the last moment, the Loof let out a little squeal of acknowledgement and the driver set the brake on stop.

The Loof now aware, moved aside and the driver continued and I upon my way, mused a moment in relief. “Gee” I thought, “I’m glad I’m not a Loof.”

... to suck on a fag?

I began life as an embedded sports addict; basketball, baseball, soccer, gymnastics, cycling and the lot. I always wanted to play football but I was a scrawny little waif and the folks declined, so football after school with the neighborhood folk, sans padding and head gear was just fine. Go figure.

Although theaters intervention removed all scholastic sport involvement by my junior year, I continued cycling with yellow jersey dreams of a Kraftwerk cup. Then I discovered disco; not leisure suit Travolta Stayin’ Alive to the Bee Gees and sporting a camel toe disco, but the Blue Monday spun right ‘round like a record baby sort.

Dressed in freak so I could be different like everyone else, I soon discovered a pack of Players added to the cool and developed a pack-a-day habit for the next ten years. Cigarette tricks and a nifty lighter were part of the appeal but in general, I really liked smoking.

My grandfather was a smoker for much of his life, quitting in the early seventies. In 1981, cancer took his life. When my son entered this whacky little world, my smoke filled days began to weigh down the pleasure factor and mortality set in a bit deeper. I finally kicked the addiction.

It wasn’t a joy ride, but today I’m thankful... for the most part. There are moments now and then, laden with stress’s coat of angst, where the memory of a cigarette dances in the foreground with promise of release. My phrase of choice was "I need to go suck on a fag." I suppose if I said that now, outside the smoker’s association, I’d be placing myself in a slightly different light.

Post Received - Post Overdue

On March 15th I wrote a piece about gum. I forget the actual day now, but it was a week or two later when a package arrived in the post. It rattled a bit and was wrapped like a jimmy cap, left in the dryer; left rear pocket, 501’s.

I opened it; half expecting something trash worthy and half anticipation. Holly Moses! There before me lay the makings of chew-fest ’06 with a few add-ons. Let me tell you – those ‘Blair’s Death Rain’ – them is some fine munchies when tasty hot is on the menu.

An old friend from High school sent this box of goodies. I’m terrible at keeping contact with old friends but he’s kept that line alive. I meant to post this a while ago but didn’t.

Thank you Dave.
And thank you for keeping in touch.

New Sites!

I don’t want to promote malicious behavior... that being said, it’s rather fun to send someone an anonymous email with a silly little picture attached. What’s even funnier is when you send someone an anonymous email with an extremely scandalous picture attached and then write...

Dear Bill,
I thought that you would find this really funny because somebody told me that a picture is worth a thousand words and since I’m in a real big hurry I’ll just include another picture.


Then when you think that Bill might not find the joke so funny anymore you can send him another email that says:



“That was a good one, huh Bill... LOL (because you probably did lol). I was just kidding you. Tell Barbara I say hello and let her know that it was just a joke too.”

This way you get a little more mileage out of the joke because you really didn’t send Barbara anything but now Bill will think so and boy can the three of you have a good one to laugh about.

Oh My Christ!

I live in an apartment that faces a quiet, modest courtyard. Window open, faint echoes from a fountain may be heard above the tranquility of evening dusk as they reveal through the parapets clam. Trees shutter in slight with the occasional squirrel, shrubbery brings the absence of structure and flowers lighten the way.

Every so often, the sound of children playing weaves into the silence with little laughs and giggles, chock-full of happiness. The moments most settling to me, are the mornings when the ocean tiptoes in with a layer of fog. I imagine my own Brigadoon of sorts and a mythical doorway to a world I’ve not been. It is peaceful. It is calm. It is my home.

There is a peculiarity to daylight that is not always considered by the man of everyday. It is most obvious when a windowpane enters the equation. If you are the inside of an outside porthole and the outside’s scarcely bright; then the outside who is the inside view that the outside does not clue.

Translation:
If you are outside in the light; those inside will most likely not be visible to you.

So when you saunter from your wife; when you look into the voids of my apartment; when you begin to dig into the cavities of your nostril to place a teeny pinch between your check and gum; why is it that you are an adult male, early forties and have no fucking clue that picking your nose and eating it, is not cool.

Oh My Christ! This guy didn’t just snag a hanger, he rallied up to all-you-can-eat at the country buffet and went back for seconds. He did all this while looking right at me! What a tool. Man, I thought all that went out with bedwetting but I guess I was wrong.

Oh – he quit when his wife caught up but still…

the music of the week...

In 1984 I was a regular at Tower Records with cash in hand and a desire for vinyl; not that kind of vinyl. That desire didn’t come to light until sometime around 1989 but that’s a different story. I was in constant search for new and exciting music to spin on the Garrard 2000.

A local college radio station played a spankin' new tune one day and boom! Off I went to Tower. The Icicle Works were firmly planted in the history of 80’s music with “Birds Fly (Whisper to a Scream)” that year but unfortunately, never achieved further notoriety in the States.

This album was brilliant in ‘84 and I feel it's held up well.

LOL

Laugh Out Loud. How many times do we actually laugh out loud? How many times do you laugh out loud? I smile fairly often with a sly, sort of mischievous look. I have the rush of air through the nose reaction quite a bit, accompanied by a visible rumbley in my tumbley. I even chuckle from time to time with an occasional snort, but loudly laugh – please!

Most of the time I find life rather humorous, except for the few occasions when I don’t and then I find it wedged somewhere between painfully ridiculous or in the category of WTF; now that's an acronym I like.

This is not to say that I don’t LOL. I do. And when I do I do a dance to do my tummy right (smiff). I think we should use “smiff” when we don’t LOL. It seems more appropriate to me and I don’t believe anyone has used it yet so perhaps a trend might be born.

I receive emails with phrases like “lol never heard it, but its good” pasted somewhere in-between the functional illiteracy. By the way; when “it is” is shortened to “its” then it’s not really “it is” it’s only "its" because it should have been "it's".

I find the acronym LOL used nearly as well as the ever-so-popular ir-regardless. Ir-regardless spews out a sort of idiocy when rolled from the lips of the ignant (can you see I got collage).

Stop it already! Unless you actually laugh out loud, you’re just wasting space; sort of like a waste of skin only different. LOL.

dys-punctuated

entitlement (en•ti•tle•ment): belief that one is deserving of or entitled to certain privileges. I swear to the holy heavens that Los Angeles has the largest concentration of entitled people this side of Eden. I have held the door for more women than I can count who do not even bother to acknowledge the fact that the door was held open and I’m not going to just limit it to women because the men are just as bad but the women side of things really chaps my hide because the "chivalry is dead" comments don’t come from the men they come form the women and I don’t want to sound like a chauvinistic pig but I’m sorry that is just the way I see it {long gasp} and while I’m at it what the hell is up with the people who decide to park their car wherever they see fit and get out and leave their door open in the middle of a parking lot and carry on a conversation with the real close friend that they found the desire to honk at multiple times on a Sunday morning so that all the folk outside the coffee shop quietly enjoying their cup o’ Joe and a good read could be aware of their laziness to simply roll down the window and say "hey close friend of mine" who is a mere fifteen feet away "how are you" and "isn’t it cool that we don’t give a shit about anyone else because it’s all about us yeah baby." I’m keeping it short right now but boy would I just love to go up to some of these people and flick ‘em right in the middle of their forehead and say "hey butt-nut wake up" but they’re entitled and they wouldn’t get it and so it wouldn’t matter and I would just get frustrated and that is why I am feeling extremely verbal in the dys-punctuated sort of way and no; I'm not a chauvinist and I'll continue to hold the door for women and men because chivalry isn't dead in my neck of the woods.

What Happened to Brylcreem?

Hair cuts. Sitting and waiting and hoping that this one will be suitable because you’re a tight-wad, chic-less or just plumb poor as shit and pay as little as possible at the discount clippery. I fit into two of these categories and one of them is the latter. I’m sure arguments can be made for the remaining two but I’ve already copped to one and that’s enough honesty for the day.

I do know this; I truly dig the washing of the hair. Clip here and clip there and thin wherever necessary is boredoms’ bedmate, but when that question is popped by the stylist as to my wanting the washing of the hair, I’m all a glitter with heavy anticipation.

Lean back. Tilt head. Close eyes and here comes the flood. That wonderful trickle of water, warm to the touch, followed by the fingers of fortune bathe my scalp with an oo-la-la-rific sense of satisfaction. Rub-a-dub-dub three men in a tub, I tumble about my thoughts. Of course that’s without the other two men mind you, because I don’t go that way but if I did it would be with you cupcake... or not.

Soap. Soothe. Massage. I really long for the stylists who aren’t in a hurry. None of this in-and-out no-release-for-me thing. When I’m tilted and tender I want a long, drawn out, make-me-quiver sort of experience. I suppose I’m feminine friendly in that follicle sort of way which makes me toss a big shame-on-you to all the boys in the acceleration department.

Those fingers move and mingle amongst my cranial cavern and I am in heaven. I nearly wish a huge blob of peanut butter entwined itself upon my head so that many washes were warranted and the experience would extend itself. But no. There isn’t and it doesn’t and towely swirls begin to un-dampen.

A silent raise of the head is given as the tiny drops fidget around for a tumble and the moment is lost. You get "A Little Dab'll Do Ya!" tossed about and a mirror to gaze but nothing quite compares to that instance of pleasure; well, nothing is fairly heavy when pleasure’s the topic, but you know what I mean.

Ears. There’s one for the bidding. That will have to wait though.

The Selix Matter

I returned an item of which I borrowed for about 20 years, earlier this year. I left him exactly where his journey began, with this note attached...

Dear Selix,

Getting kidnapped was not really one of those items I had scribbled down on my list of things to do back in 1986. I’d pretty much focused on getting my stripe on with some brilliantly streaked mare; primarily a plains mare with those seductively broad stripes on the south side, ‘cause you know, they’re really “buck-a-wow” if you know what I mean.

I was very content as the mascot for ‘One of America’s Oldest & Finest Formalwear Companies’. It was a real hip job and I truly dug wearing a tux every day. I was a contender, I was somebody. I wasn’t a bum.

Then everything went haywire and my sedentary lifestyle went migratory overnight. Why’d you go and leave me outside? Didn’t you know that some, let’s just say donkey, would meander by and make thievery of me?

Holy cow, I nearly had a coronary when this lanky schmuck swooped by, threw me under his arm and made haste to somewhere I’d never been and wasn’t really hoping to go! Oh sure, he was all happy-go-lucky with his new toy, but what about me?

First I get an absolutely ridiculous nickname; Captain Z. Then he puts me in the corner away from the water hole and I become a washroom attendant. A one bedroom flat, three guys and me; it was not a dream situation but I guess they were having fun. Yippee.

Well, they moved to a three bedroom flat up the road a piece but did that last? No. Shortly after, I’m in a van and the two of us are headed to L.A. It was sort of cool; looking at the Capitol Records building everyday and living in Hollywood.

Two years later; I’m in a van again headed back to Campbell just long enough for him to get all lovey-like and move us downtown with his girlfriend. They break up and I’m back to living with three guys. Do you know how many Zebra’s are in Colorado? I do; none. That’s where we were off to next.

Three different places in Colorado I was to stay and I’ll tell you this for nothin’; it gets cold there. I don’t know if you noticed but I don’t have a whole lot of hair on this body of mine and all I’ve ever worn is a tux. There is nothing warm about a tux. How about this idea? WinTux; the Tuxedo for Winter Occasions.

So, in ten years of Rocky Mountain freshness; he gets married, gets divorced, the ex-wife has his baby (go figure) and I became a novelty of long-forgot. Then one brilliant day of epiphany he exclaims; I’m going to return you.

Sort of like a prophecy, talk ensued, the wind changed, an offer came and ba-da-bing! He’s off to L.A. again. It worked out well for me though. He followed through on his promise and here I am, at the doorstep of whence I came.

I guess I’m sort of a victim of Stockholm syndrome. He really wasn’t that bad of a guy, although he did lose my roller skates and cane. He’d talk to me from time to time about stuff that was probably important to him and he’d even scratch that little bit behind my ears which I love so much.

He asked me to include a little paragraph to say that he was sorry for being such a turd; well he actually used the word “miscreant” but I don’t have a clue what that means so I think turd will work just fine. He also hopes that I can come, back to where I belong.

Thomas Wolfe wrote ‘You Can’t Go Home Again’. Well I’ve been going to places that I’ve had to call home for nearly twenty years and not one of them is a place that I would’ve chosen. Heck, I haven’t seen a mare in… well… ever.

So, the way I see it, Selix is my home; it’s always been my home even though I was taken from it. I would really like to go home again.

Your mascot,
Zebra

New Sites!

I’ve played Tetris. I’ve even played Sex Tetris. I can’t say I’m all that brilliant at either, but I can say that I rock in the most excellent of ways with this one. Mad-Skillz-Baby... mad skillz.

Maid of Orléans

I’m trying to regain a little bit of that creativity bug… I got together with my friend Richard this past weekend and we cranked out what might be one to hold on to… I’ll have to say that his little guitar riff is rather impressive. My singing, on the other hand, is... a...


Maid of Orléans

Softly drawn to her I’ve been,
for she’s the Maid of Orléans.
... and the wind is fair
... as it drifts her hair
... and every time I see her I float through the air.

Lest her love be imag’ry,
whisper her my reverie.
... and the clouds are slight
... as they bend the light
... no shadows here between us; everything’s alright,

(chorus)
... and in these moments we respire
the voice of faith and loves desire.
la Pucelle sous l'Arbre des Dames,
she waits for me with open arms.

I’m alive these days anew,
reasons clear and worries few.
... and no path is fear,
... as we move from here
... heed a voice charged de Domrémy; her reason clear.

Daily chore has near its end,
into dream our ties must send.
... and the world we make,
... as we bond each break,
... will wash upon the fire built to raze our stake.

(chorus)

I’ll never know what these expressions say;
say I don’t want to see it end this way.
It’s still right here and then it goes away,
this world explodes into an awful fray.

(chorus)

blair a pettyjohn 06/19/2006 (marina del rey)

the music of the week...

The Patrick & Eugene album Postcard from Summerisle is interesting to say the least. If you’re a fan of ‘The Birds and the Bees’ song in the Volkswagen Rabbit Commercial, then this is worth a listen, but don’t hope for more of the same.

I’ll classify this as ‘background music to circus porn’ and pretty much leave it at that; but hey, I really dig the Birds and the Bees...

the music of the week...

I saw this commercial for Cerveza Quilmes. I’d not heard the song before and thus found myself on a search for the artist. It took a while, but I finally arrived at the Aberfeldy site. If you like simple, slightly corny but fun music, I definitely recommend this album.

My favorite tracks; ‘Summer's Gone’ and ‘Heliopolis By Night’. What can I say, I’m a sucker for this kind of music.

I’m not quite sure what the beer tastes like, so I’ll be searching for that as well…