Intergalactic Underachiever?

"The Day The Earth Stood Still" seems to be taking a bad beating, from amateurs and pros alike, so far. I haven't seen it, but the original was always one of my favorites, and I have little expectation of a movie that stars the most witless shit of a non-acting actor possible, Keanu Reeves. Well, unless they'd hired that weird comic homunculus, Jack Black! Anyway, I'm sorry to hear, but not surprised, that this is one more movie remake that is worse that the original. Apparently, if all I've heard so far is true, it's another remake where they thought that more elaborate special effects would make up for all their lack of heart. Images instead of ideas, but that's typical Hollywood, isn't it? Too bad, I guess. I don't see many movies any more, and maybe this is one of the reasons why.

Braving The Snow

It snowed here yesterday, only a few inches, yet a thing that seldom happens in Southeast Texas. I only remember it snowing once around here when I was a kid--at least only once that was enough for snowballs and snowmen! I've grown too old to give much of a hoot for the snow by now, but it was an interesting sight, especially since I didn't have to get up early and go anywhere on the icy roads. In fact I didn't even have to go outside, though I did, but only briefly. Now we'll wait to see how many plants keel over and die from all this extreme exposure.

Boring!

Bert Leston Taylor: "A bore is a man who, when you ask him how he is, tells you."

Jesse James

Have you killed a banker yet today? What are you waiting for--Jesse James to do it for you?

I Googled Myself—Pant, Pant!

I don't remember being aware at the time (2005) that I'd been quoted (only a paragraph about the author, John Fowles) by the BBC—which just goes to show that everything that happens (even on the infernal Internet) doesn't always show!

Window Sill

Sometimes I see you have become This other, grown, woman I seldom see. I used to see you every day On those vendor days on the Drag in Austin And it always improved the flavor and the pleasure, It was the favor the world did for me, It always made something worthwhile for me Just to see your smile come soaring from so deep inside (And I didn't even mind that it was not just for me), And then it all was followed (sometimes preceded) By that little black dog of yours named Shadow. But what I remember best is our youth, Shiny and pert and new, not yet bowed down or weak, I remember it better perhaps than I do last week Or even an hour ago...

Empty The Box At Last

Take a long goodbye And take it on the chin at length And you may see what little there is Or you may turn around and meet What it is you've struggled toward long last What it's been like, swearing, swaying, swerving, Wearing way, away—oh, very fast!

How Far You Go

Let the singer sing your song, Let the dancer dance to your tune, And turn your face toward us all To let us know that nothing's ever gone No matter how far you go.

Telemarketers, and Fingers In A Knot

In "Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues", Bob Dylan Writes about how he cannot move, That his fingers are "all tied in a knot", Which for some reason is a condition I recognize these days Because I so often suffer from it. All my illnesses and symptoms conspire To make me constantly aflutter, my gait hobbled, One hand always resting on the walking stick, Trying to figure out how to carry things through doorways And yet be able to also open and close the doors... I am always fumbling with my pill bottles To such an extent That while handling one of them okay I knock another one over. If I don't knock over what I intend to manipulate, I knock something else down and end unmanned. Anything that falls always falls to the goddamn floor. Now I need THAT, so I have to retrieve it, Except I can't bend down quite that low without agony, So I have to go get the grabber that, Like my cane, I bought at WalMart's cripple counter. I shower, dress, count out the pills, And am already tired each morning Before I can exit the bedroom and get to the kitchen. Life is hell, unless you somehow like this sort of thing, Always being awkward, askance, anemic, Tired and falling down before the beginning And as mad as hell at everyone And at yourself that you can't do any better. Then maybe the phone rings and I rush to answer it And can't believe how often it's mere jerkoff junk-call, A recording that's horrible and probably illegal-- Why won't telemarketers ever Die? (is there no God?)-- But more than that, it's all so savagely misleading For people like me who are sick and can't really hurry. Nonetheless, I keep trying--it's force of habit. If I ever can, I'm going to stop answering the goddamn telephone. Things get kinky. Things get weird. And ridiculous concepts of decency and dignity Aren't going to make it ever stop. Might as well try to bring back the forties.

"Gatsby's Pains & Tribulations". Pp. 113-117

When it hurts to be alive, what do you do? Is death the primary option or are there more? I ponder it, but reach no conclusion. What if death is no surcease of pain or discomfort? What if one's mental agony goes on? Should I write a novel about it? How could that ever be of interest? I suspect it's all been done. There's not, and never has been, anything more boring than descriptions of such cold discomfort--at any rate, I can't imagine it. When it hurts to be alone, what do you do? I could go out (I sometimes do), but no one's there and those who are not there have no cognizance of their absence or of mine and we are all in the stew together, even if we are alone... I guess that doesn't quite make sense, though I know what it means and it may be that you do, too... We hang around, we wait to see, and wish that things still meant things like they used to do, but most of those old things are gone or, at the least, eroded, faded, worn away, reduced to pity's matters... If we could get out of all of this, wouldn't we? Or is that just me? Is everyone else acquainted, familiar with, and not embarrassed by, these deathful knells, these trembling spells, these waits upon the edge of every ditch or trench? It may be so... Which, though? I can't even keep track of what I postulate...