O.K., look. . . just one more. It fits. I watched "Anora" last night. Not familiar? It's about a pole dancer, O.K.? This woman is a REAL LIFE pole dancer, so what's a fellow to do? I have to use it. I just have to.
I got a notice from Amazon in the afternoon that "Anora" was available along with the Dylan biopic. I think the Demi Moore film is available, too or maybe it is the Nicole Kidman one, or maybe both. When I looked them up, though, the Dylan thing was like $25 to rent. Fuck that. "Anora" was $5.99. Easy choice. Everyone is crazy for the Chalamet thing, but I can wait. I've seen lots of Dylan stuff before. So I hit "rent" and had 48 hours to watch "Anora."
I am tired, tired, tired, and all I want to do is live my simple little life again. I know, I know. . . I said I wouldn't write about me any longer. I won't. I swear. But I have to set this up. I'm tired and I'm tired of listening to my mother's shows that I can't get away from even on the other side of the house, so I have decided that the t.v. can be mine sometimes without asking permission. Yea. It's getting to be like that. And my mother loves to watch the things I put on. She falls asleep in five minutes or less. It breaks me up because she can watch the old westerns day and night and not go to bed until eleven, but the minute I put on a show that doesn't have loud Mickey Mousing music and a lot of commercials, she drops right out.
So fuck it. After dinner, I had a glass of whiskey which I have sworn off of again but what the hell it was Saturday night, right, and everyone here is out on a pitch perfect evening enjoying any one of ten or twelve wonderful things going on around town right now because this is the place to be this time of year, this month, and the entire country seems to have come for one thing or another in order to get away from whatever hell they are enduring and may never leave is what I hear because everything is so bright and fresh and green and lovely, so yea, I poured a glass of whiskey to douse my bitter pain and loneliness while missing yet another little league wrestling match on the outskirts of the other side of town.
It seemed to help right away, the immediate anger and pain subsiding with the onrush of alcohol infused goodness, the tension beginning to leave my body that had unknowingly, unwillingly stiffened my back and neck and shoulders and fingers, my body relaxing into the cushions of the couch, the world outside mattering a bit less though still on my mind as my phone had apparently not been working all day or otherwise seeming that the world out there had entirely forgotten me.
Which it had and has. Selavy.
So I hit "play" and immediately we were hit by tits and ass, not for a brief moment, but for a very long time if you are watching with your mother. Tits and ass, tits and ass, tits and ass.
"O.K.," I said, "you're not going to like this," I opined after five or six minutes, and I gave the t.v. back to her.
All I can say is thank god for the whiskey. I went into the living rom and sat down with my laptop and watched some videos on how to edit. . . videos. I accidentally opened Final Cut Pro when I was making the little music video the other day and wanted to know how to do a few things in it as it seems to be an easier editing app than Adobe Premiere and a better quality than iMovie. And who knows? I may begin making little digital cinema things again like I once did so many years ago.
After I had watched a couple, my mother shuffled through.
"How's that western," I asked.
"You can have the t.v. if you want," she said. "I'm not interested in it."
I didn't bite, though. What else did she have to do? But when she went back into the t.v. room, the television remained off. After awhile I walked in to find her scrolling Facebook on her phone. So. . . I put the movie back on.
In a few minutes, she said she was going to bed. It was only 9:30, but that is what happens if I watch her t.v.
So, lights off, I settled in. And my goodness and holy fuck. . . what a film. It was in the realm of "Requiem for a Dream." It was that good. "Good," isn't the right word, though. It is like that and like "Midnight Cowboy." You don't feel good, you feel what the Greeks must have felt, that vomiting of emotions that purge you somehow. It is like "The Florida Project," and other gritty things. What it is NOT like is "Barbie" and "Wicked," I think, though I haven't seen "Wicked" and am only guessing. But the Nicole Kidman and the Demi Moore movies are gritty, too, I've been told. What is happening? Whatever it is, it won't last, I'm guessing, so I will enjoy a bit of adult entertainment while I can. The Morality Police are sure to be out on their big white horses bringing us all down again. I read an article today that the streaming networks are racing to put out series based upon the tales of the Bible.
Oh, boy. Can't wait. Unless they are going to focus on Sodom and Gomorrah and the story of Lot and his daughters. Those would be good.
So yea. . . tomorrow I'll quit drinking and quit writing about myself. I have one more night. We must cross the street for an early dinner with my mother's neighbors, and there is sure to be drinking involved. And then, back to my mother's home where it will either be "Gunsmoke" or, if there is no other choice, the Oscars. I don't give two shits about the Oscars, but WTF? I mean, it would be better than "Gunsmoke" again, right?
But how in the hell did films with naked people slip in? I don't get it. Both the ideological left and right must be having conniptions. The road to hell, my friends, is paved with naked people, and Mammon and Beelzebub are right there in the ruby red light urging you on with three pronged pitchforks and the smell of sulfur. There is little in life that needs to be guarded more than someone's naked body. Such things are only for the eyes of god.
In my YouTube searches, somehow, I came across this rendition of Henry Mancini's "Lujon." It's kind of kitsch but kind of fun, too, a whole orchestra playing in what appears to be tropical Miami. It is a little "Miami Vice" era, but that was fun, too. But yea. . . Dan Fontaine and His Orchestra makes me cringe and giggle. What can you do?
As my friend C.C. likes to say, co-opting the Robert Owen quote, "All the world is mad but me and thee, and I'm not so certain about thee."
It reminded me of the opening to "Magic City." I like that, too.
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