Today I leave for all that’s good
A land that’s far away
That cultivator of the stars
That lion’s den, L.A.
Today I leave for all that’s good
Oh Shirley you must be joking me,
Shirley Temple can’t be dead
The little never grown up girl
all curled around the head?
Let her die in the 1930s
in peak of dimpled cheek
Let her not love Nixon
nor ambassadordom seek
Please don’t take my Shirley, lord
But if her death you cannot stop
then may she sail eternally
on that goodest ship of lollipop.
It unfolds like parts in some self-destructive watch
tick-tocking us into a poorly made film
disguised as lofty and worthwhile
It starts with an asian man and a camera.
And then kills him like it kills our appetite for this film
Like killing beauty
A rough thing to watch.
Our fun loving protagonist insults
dead women friends.
A bored man who watches his maid work for fun
Who exercises with his hat.
Who sings a broken Beatles song
Mine, me, me, I.
Some journalist who wrote one book.
If he spent even 1/64th the time he spends talking,
He’d at least have a whole lot of books about nothing.
In this film, there’s no convincing people to sell out
They do it freely.
It’s in Italian, so if you want, you can look away
though be warned, your subconscious
will probably still pick up on arrogant Italian phrases
and repeat them back to you later while you sleep.
Little dialogue gems like:
"She’s nice, that must mean she’s a dog."
"At my age, beauty isn’t enough."
"I’m a writer, not a pimp.
An insult to surrealism and women.
And to surrealist women.
A Rotten Tomatoes staple.
With opera music to make even Terrence Malick’s eyes roll.
A Great Beauty nominated for A Greater Oscar.
It should win best forgery
Best misspent use of time
Best loss of hours not given back
Best isn’t worth a dime.
I’m taking back Comcast equipment that didn’t work. I’m in line. The Steve Harvey show is on. Steve is talking to an older asian woman, but evidently Comcast doesn’t care to hear what they’re saying because old Steve is on mute. So instead, arms locked with Comcast gear, I stand watching the images flick - a couple of yet to be discovered silent movie stars. The asian woman has a laser pointer and she’s hovering it over photos of couples sleeping in bed. The red dot dances over the space between them. And here they are wrapped in each other’s arms. And here they are turned away from one another. An early valentine to the misbegotten.
Steve’s spotted tie doesn’t match his striped jacket and he fidgets and pulls at the tie. Maybe all this talk of couples in beds makes him uneasy. Maybe there was no one in bed with him that morning to talk him out of that outfit.
And as I’m told to step forward to window four, my neck continues to crane towards Steve and the empty space. Towards the unfixable tie and the red dot that keeps the couples oh so far apart.
In a slump of winter despair last month, I bought a light that’s supposed to fight seasonal depression. It’s called a happy light. If I’m being honest, I was hoping it would imbue my little skin cells with some good old vitamin D, a la pseudo tanning bed.
But instead, it’s just an awful florescent light. Far worse than light wrought by any hospital or DMV. I’ve used it only twice. The first was while blow drying my hair before bed. This is great, I thought, until my dilated pupils kept me up until 3am. The second and last time I used it while working out and almost puked from all the happiness.
The moral of the story: lights don’t make you happy. The sun does, but in Chicago, that prospect still has a long way to go.
The “Dignity of Work” and what that means for Chicagoans. Latest on Huffington Post. Read it heeeer.
I’m driving the everyday drive on the highway. It’s dusk and 5:30 p.m. Chicago winter is some smug version of Robert E. Lee: winning the battle, failing to see the spring about to Gettysburg its ass. Out my window, the street lamps are like little clusters of friends showing me which way to look on the way home. Over here, one says. Look at that Greek church. It’s less like a church and more like a portal, I think. So many see-through windows to the west. And I look through them, but I’m also driving so I can’t look as longingly as I’d like.
The church is the gem in this otherwise spice-less life slice. The Budweiser ads and car billboards clog up the sunset and sometimes the street lamps don’t have much else to point at. But I always notice the church. A big thing dwarfed by the even bigger city thing across from it. A thing that thought it knew its place, but now isn’t so sure. Beautiful and confused. The Anna Nicole Smith of churches.
And soon it’s a confused thing seen through a review mirror. And I wave goodbye to my friends the lamps and their enemies, the sky-clogging sign bastards. And I exit.
Just because you can communicate doesn’t mean you get what you want, I think, looking at the six people, heads stuffed into iphones, around me. I feel like a candy tantrum-throwing three-year-old, except instead of snicker bars, I’d like my friends back.
Being ignored for a phone is like being picked last in gym. A deliberate sidelining in the kickball game of life.
The color of passion, right?
And Joaquin Phoenix’s shirt
Red is the color that River Phoenix’s veins are no more.
And probably one of those colors you should have studied
On that failed Great Gatsby quiz.
Red is people and all their mistakes
Death being the big fat mother.
You have a body that dies, the floating Scarlett Johansson voice says
like some sexy Buddha app.
“You have me and you don’t.
The heart is ever-expanding, not empty”
And all that other crap that robots like to say to make humans feel guilty.
Red like Spike Jonze’s loneliness
Red like the phone
Red like the strawberries I feed my parakeet
To make him feel so less alone.
I wish someone would feed me a strawberry
Take me out of my cage once in a while
Play my old Shins songs to help me remember
What the not in a cage feeling is like.
Sex is Red without the love
Love is Red without the hurt
Red is Scarlett Johansson’s voice plastered on Joaquin Phoenix’s body
A modern marriage
A two-way street
A virtual someone’s serenade
by a silent parakeet.