The Religious Question........

What can you say about Jesus?

What can't you say? You know, I've been a Christian for a long time, and, strangely enough, I think I've only recently begun to understand who Jesus was. People like to put all these titles on Him, King of Kings, Lord of Lords. They're all deserving and, in my opinion, true. But, when it comes down to it, Father would be the best name I could use. But I don't mean that in a child like sense. I mean a Father and a grown son who start building this at first uneasy, but eventually trusting relationship. The Father has his head on straight. He knows his stuff. The son is only recently an adult and is figuring out what his purpose is.

They begin this neverending conversation on life and what it means to truly be and feel alive. The conversation doesn't end when the son screws up and runs off, attracted by worldly desire. It only deepens. He comes back, tail between legs, beaten and bruised and tired. The Father isn't angry. He's there to say, you lost sight of me for a minute, but I was watching you the whole time. The conversation continues. The plot thickens. Life, like an endless carousel, continues. The conversation has peaks, valleys. It ebbs and flows. The son occasionally thinks he has it all figured out, like the Father has taught him all He can. Then, out of nowhere, something happens and he is again humbled, realizing that his Father and him are not done talking. Even at the end of his life, with all his other relationships coming to a close, his life lived well and his dreams achieved, the conversation is still going. He's still learning what it means to live right up until the last second. He dies, his Father is still there. Then, with a smile, He concludes the conversation. That's it.

I think some people are too keen on ending that conversation. They think they've reached the nirvana of their relationship with God. But I don't think you can in mortal flesh. There is still so much darkness about us, about humanity. That's why I stopped trying to feel like I had my shit together a long time ago. I just said, I don't mind be a little clueless. In fact, part of me welcomes the idea.

I used to tell people the worst thing about growing is realizing how evil the world really is. That revelation was enough. Knowing the truth gets even worse from there, I decided to just let God show it to me in time,let me deal with the wtf moments one by one. It's working so far.

The Big Question.......and a 100 more.

In the chill of an early Fall this past year, I found myself in a moment that held me captive. It wasn't some kind of esoteric, layered thing where I felt the need to analyze. Instead, there was this sense that I was coming to terms with the greater mysteries of my life, those quiet aspects of myself that I mostly leave to the recesses of my sub conscious. These were the big, huge underlying questions we're so afraid to ask ourselves. The biggest being AM I HAPPY?

That's the toughest question there is. It's easy to sum things up, count enough blessings to outweigh the curses, and say yes. But that's not really it, is it? There's so much more to that question, so much more to what true, undulated happiness really is, where the innocence of childhood kept the big terrible truth of this world locked away in the bliss of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. This was back when God was uncomplicated, before the theological debates of tired old men challenged us to take sides. This was when the wind on your face and the sand between your toes was all you needed to form a true smile, something not forced by convention.

All at once, we're asked to grow up, to choose a news station we can trust, read off a preferred book list, date a certain variety of woman or man. It's all pre-concieved, this sense of lost purpose evacuated by intelligence. We're all waiting on the moment where we can finally say "Ah hah, happiness achieved".

That moment isn't necessarily a realistic conquest. Happiness is, for the most part, an emotion. It was an emotion when we were kids too. That's important to understand. Kid's have limited mental faculties. Logic and reason are still mostly in the immediately post embryonic stage at 7 to 12 years old. Emotions, for better or worse, are all kids have to go on. So happiness, to a kid, is as simple as getting a kiss from ones secret crush or passing the spelling test. As kids, those things were all it took to feel flawlessly happy.

As adults, we know how terrible the world is. We know how selfish we are. All these things that adults hid from us as children are all too soon directly in our face, challenging us, pushing us, angrily asking for time, money, sex, opinions and rain checks. And there really wasn't a transition stage from A to B. Our teen years were melodramatic, a long, badly written Dawsons Creek marathon. They served to make us even more confused, toiling with our self esteem and stoking the fires of our burgeoning tempers. But time reveals the occasional answer.

As I stood there, October wind at my cheeks, this moment I spoke of earlier came like a revelation in the dark. It was this sudden sense that the answer to many of these questions would never fully materialize. That, in and of itself, is an answer of sorts. I will always find sorrow in life. I will always find joy in life. Sometimes, I might even find one within the other. The point is, life is not about easy answers. It's how we find our answers, the process of what we go through to get to that place. We will spend our whole lives defining who we are...and asking questions.

Something's I don't question. I don't question my faith or my ambitions or my dreams. I know what I believe and I know what I was put here to do. Those things are in stone.


I question politicians, moments, ideas, sins, successes, insults, obituaries, books, myself, the media, liberals, conservatives, women, children and men. I question these things because I don't have all the answers yet. I'm just beginning to think I don't care if I ever do. But man, I love sure do love asking.

The Beast In Me......

There is a beast in me, as Nick Lowe once said, and he is caged by frail and fragile bars. He was born with me, a deterrent to my better intentions. He wants blood, the sinew, the gristle. He wants to bite and break and chew until there's nothing but desecration and malice where there used to be some semblance of peace and harmony. The only way he stays at bay, a few inches from a breathing existence, is my admission that he exists. As long as he knows I know he exists, he has limitations. He can't just come crashing out of me in a rage. I've got my eye on him. But he knows, as the one in you and the one in all of us know, that once we let our guard down, hell will follow.

I have chosen, in my short lifetime, to use him constructively. His anger and hate are exhaled when I can get lost in a heavy metal song or when I can write a character in a screenplay that embodies his violent, nihilistic nature. My pursuit of literary art has satiated his need to be known. I feel as long as he has the idea that he can roam freely on the pages I write or get released in the sweat of a mosh pit, he has an illusion of the freedom he craves.

But when those outlets are not available, when I'm at the end of my rope, the fuse burned out and finite, he's there to take the reigns and steer me towards a crash no one saw coming. It's happened before and it'll happen again. It's like clockwork. It's the worst thing you said to your best friend, the moment as a child when you rebelled against the love of your parents, the drug, the man or woman you shouldn't have dated. It's all those things wrapped up in a metaphor. It's something we all war against....all of us.

This blog has no full intention other than being realistic. We all have a dark side, a unlovable side. It drives us, stabs us and it pretends to comfort us. What we do with it makes all the difference in the world. Choose wisely. There's only so much you can do with a wild, untamed beast that never gets fed.


"The Beast In Me" by Nick Lowe

The beast in me
Is caged by frail and fragile bars
Restless by day
And by night rants and rages at the stars
God help the beast in me

The beast in me
Has had to learn to live with pain
And how to shelter from the rain
And in the twinkling of an eye
Might have to be restrained
God help the beast in me

Sometimes it tries to kid me
That it's just a teddy bear
And even somehow manage to vanish in the air
And that is when I must beware
Of the beast in me that everybody knows
They've seen him out dressed in my clothes
Patently unclear
If it's New York or New Year
God help the beast in me

Why I Have Faith......

There is something wonderfully relieving about having faith in something larger than yourself. It sort of negates that awful feeling that when you die, nothing happens. That, at the very least,is comforting. But to believe something, to really have faith in it, you can't merely have it for reasons of comfort, or kind of have it as a back up plan. The truth is, when you decide to believe something, anything, you have to mean it. You have to believe it with a sincerity that means you might have to die for the tenants that hold it together. It means, that no matter what you see, no matter what your eyes tell you, you don't waver. You don't allow the world around you to get into that one sacred place in your soul where it all makes perfect sense. You don't.

I have adhered to and defended my faith since I was thirteen years old. My basic belief system and point of origin have remained all these years unscathed, even after years of science and opinion have been presented to me, voices of reason and logic saying "you're wrong". They sometimes take the form of professors, smart people with multiple degrees making a point on a board. Sometimes its a bearded hippie with no future laughing at your beliefs like he laughs at your taste in music. Sometimes its your best friend, or your mother, or your father. Sometimes its the silence you feel late at night, when all the world is deathly quiet and dark, when your thoughts of mortality and your guilt for past mistakes sneak up like a long lost enemy. Sometimes its the moment when you're most alone, when every one has turned their back.

But what makes faith real is the decision to respect the power and intention of those things and then choose to refuse them. I'm talking to people of any and every faith when I say this. This blog is not about my faith. It's about FAITH itself. You find something to believe in, something that suddenly holds you together, that keeps you sane. That thing becomes your bloodline, your rock. You depend on it. You fight for it. You grieve when imbeciles that share it distort it and make you look bad. You love it when someone decides to delve into it, see what its all about. That's a personal victory for you. Faith is not easy. It's basically choosing to believe in this one thing, believing in it with all your heart and soul, knowing you're taking perhaps the greatest risk of your life, and then not looking back. That's not something you can manufacture. It has to resonate with you as a person.

Having faith comes with responsibility. It means respecting and understanding those who don't. People are born into this world with a few guiding principles. Those principles may change or they may stay the same. The important principle later in life is choice, the choice to believe in something or not believe in something. Those that do make the tough decision to believe in something have to relate and understand the decision others makes not to. If more people did this, less anger would exist towards the idea of belief. The rising number of legalistic religious fanatics keeps the silent fire of the respectful in the dark. Had I never decided to believe what I believe at thirteen, I don't know that I would have as an adult. I'm too cynical.

The adult world likes to believe in things it can see, in logic and in reason. It attempts, very often, to distance us from the bewildered state of childhood we once knew, where every day brought a wonderful, beautiful new discovery. We were young once, fresh skin and bone, new to this quite odd existence. Then, we could believe, believe in a power and wonder that defied our poor ability to understand. I find myself often relating to that kid, that starry eyed kid who put his faith in something much larger and greater than himself.

As a 24 year old man, I can tell you that the discoveries of that kid since have been incredible, shocking, humbling, dark, visceral and beautiful all at the same time. And I owe those discoveries to the faith that has kept me going. That faith has never left me. When all else has failed, when humanity has burned out from exhaustion, the surviving elements will be as follows: cock roaches, Kieth Richards and Max Barber's unwavering faith. I don't have a problem telling you I know I'm right. Find something you believe in and maybe you'll feel the same way.

The Punisher: A Movie Worth Watching

I have always considered The Punisher my favorite Marvel comic book character. I won't be naive and use the term "superhero". That would demean the characters integrity and purpose. He has long been the most polarized of graphic depictions, a bad good guy or perhaps a good bad guy. It's not easy to say which. Frank Castle is easily the most layered and psychological of the created vigilantes. He's not someone you can call wholesome or really even inspirational.

He's a killer, a merciless, badass hombre with little to no shame in what he does. There's no getting around his breaking every rule that is traditionally applied to comic book heroes. That's what I love, what got me fascinated. The reality is that he's grounded in reality. He's Batman without a mask or full conscience. He's dangerous, mentally on edge and culturally despised. That's what I related to, a hero who fed into the outcast ideal, in a way understanding and sympathizing with criminal elements himself. Short of becoming a villain, he walks the line as close as he can. That makes him plausible, human even. That he's existed on such a tight wire makes him more serious, more adult. I don't think he's ever been fit for the consumption of children. He's a grown up alternative to the kids idea of a hero, more close to what a "superhero" might actually look like. His reaction to his situation is understandable and realistic. That it birthed such vigilance is not a long shot.

I say all that to comment on the 2004 film, The Punisher, starring Thomas Jane. It came and went without much fanfare. Then it found a new life on DVD, eventually making all kinds of revenue as a favorite of the devout. I am and have long been among these. I saw it sometime after it was released and felt it really hit the nail on the head. Done on a embarrassingly low budget, the film nevertheless mined its bare bones, to the point script for all it was. That simplicity somehow made it richer, darker and more powerful. There are no one liners, no cheap fourth wall cracking glances, just two hours of simplistic vigilante justice. It wasn't trying to be more than that. The extended version is even better, darker and more esoteric in spots. It adds a little more bite to the character.

Anyway, the reason I bring all this up is to make the entirely valid point that a Thomas Jane fronted sequel needs to be made...and soon. The shit sandwich that was Punisher: Warzone left a bad, b-movie gore taste in my mouth. The ass clown playing the title role just made me wanna slit my wrists. It was a bad day at the races to say the least.

There needs to be a well budgeted sequel to Thomas Jane's portrayal, a deeper, richer story that will take the character to new plateaus. I want that movie. As an ardent fan and supporter, I demand it. You set up a good story...now give it some life. Give this talented actor some room to take it a scary, bloody place. I want controversy and mothers protesting, a Focus On The Family hearing. I want a book end, either in one sequel or in two. Fans will eat the food if you show them the menu. Trust me. Stop being a prick studio and follow up.

We're waiting.

The Sarcastic Wonder Of Randy Newman

Disclaimer: I am a very happy, content person with a lot of wonderful friends and a terrific family. This specific blog is NOT directed at any of them. This is meant to be taken as an idea rather than a recommended state of mind.

I am a cynical, jaded, sarcastic 24 year old writer. It's just the truth. I don't trust the government, stupid people annoy me and I have a low threshold for BS. I wear a smile, its true. That smile is the equivalent of a knowing wink. I'm smiling to keep from losing my mind. I'm also smiling at other cynical people who are "in" on the joke. We're a dying breed and we find solace in acknowledging one another's presence. We don't have to converse. We just nod in that wonderful gesture of silent truth. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not a manic. I'm not a depressed or angry person, not by any means. I'm just not a huge fan of humanity. I think people are rude, greedy and apathetic to a fault. I didn't come to that conclusion lightly. Plus, I'm human and its not hard to admit how selfishness finds its way into even the best of us. I'm just as guilty on occasion. But alas, I view this cruel, crazy beautiful world through such a lens. I don't think I'm alone. You can't work at a sub par amusement park in a boring suburban town for six years and listen to the idiots we pass off as customers and not want to blow your brains on the wall sometimes.

The only way I get through the day without strangling random people at Walmart is music, glorious music. It's my buffer between average cynic and Patty Hearst. Specifically, I found a few years ago this incredible kinship with the songs of Randy Newman. I think when we think of musical structure, we inherently think of limitations, the limits of three chords and melody and what any one person can say in three or four minutes. With Randy, those sort of limitations are null and void. I think with him, there is this sense of how many layers one song can have? You can hear one his songs one time and you get this basic idea. Then you listen again and there's a whole opposite idea right under the surface. Half the time, with Newman, that second idea is just a clue in the pantheon of greater ideas floating around in the song. So there's this wonderful well of intrigue with his lyrics, these usually scholarly sentences spoken not from a protagonists standpoint, but often from the antagonist and written in such a way that we see this person as human and flawed and not necessarily evil through and through, just lost in a world that doesn't make sense to them.

I relate to that as a cynical person, not as a criminal or a villain. But I think you have to realize that society creates antagonism. It almost literally conceives and then births this idea of rebellion and dissatisfaction. For me, that's a truth worth examining. It doesn't mean we condone evil. It doesn't mean we glorify it. But, its imperative to comprehend what makes a person evil or bad. I don't think that my brand of cynicism is the base level for villainy. If it were, we'd be overrun. However, I'm also aware that most criminals began as apathetic human beings. I'm talking about people disenfranchised and hurt by a greater system. I'm not talking about liberal or conservative issues either. I'm talking about a system that, one way or the other, has been designed to control peoples lives. That system creates antagonism which then can lead to criminality.

Randy Newman's music is a terrific and accurate reflection of that antagonism and how it comes about. Listening to songs that deal with racism and anger and sexual frustration from a sort of unreliable point of view have the potential to show us where we've gone wrong. So its music that is always teaching me to recognize my part in the creation of bad ideas and bad people. What part do I have in that? And what part do you have in that?

I think that's what Newman is getting across. I really do. This blog was meant to be a rant and a recommendation. If you too suffer from being a cynic, I recommend taking the load off with any one of Newman's records. It's medicine for the soul.

Film Review Of J. Edgar

Movie: J Edgar

Review: A-

The after effect of Eastwoods painstakingly researched biopic is two sided, leaving us feeling both aquainted with J. Edgar Hoover and almost fully in the dark about who he truly was. In a sense, we get to know the man as well as...well....almost everyone who ever knew him. Eastwood plays out Dustin Lance Black's thorough and lengthy script with an edge that we've seen before in the raw visage of Gran Turino and the anti-outlaw tao of Unforgiven. He reigns in the heavy dialogue with wonderfully grand camera angles, often panning up from the floor or swooping down upon the characters as if eavesdropping.

Played with an almost eerie diligence by Dicaprio, Hoover is not an easy pill to swallow. There's a beast within the man caged by fragile bars, a desire to save his country while also reaping the benefits of his celebrity. This almost sickening obsession is both painful and surreal to see. He's not an exceptionally mean spirited man or, by any means, a "good guy". It's almost as if the jury can never come to a verdict on the true nature of Hoover. He's as revered by inside men as he is polarized in text books and think tank discussions.

This is a film that, by default, has way too much ground to cover. That Eastwood and Dicaprio pull it off with very few hiccups (save for that obvious old man makeup) is something of a miracle. The people in Hoovers private circle are covered thoroughly and quite honestly it seems. His autocratic mother, played with defiant grace by Judy Dench, is the devil in his ear. Her influence leans heavy on his opinion of himself. His closest confidant, Clyde Tolson, portrayed by the excellent Armie Hammer, may or may not be his homosexual lover. The film brilliantly dances around this possibillity, allowing that Tolson was game and Hoover played ignorant. It's fascinating tabloid fodder at the very least.

What ends up coming across in J. Edgar is that ruthless men, for better or worse, rise to the top and get things done. You can say what you will about the man, but he consumed the FBI for the near entirety of his life. A defining scene comes near the end. After Hoover has died, Richard Nixons immediiate reaction is chilling....."Get into his office. I want those fucking files".

Best TV Dramas Of The Last Decade

The Sopranos: The hands down best drama ever produced on television, a fly on the wall look at a family man who also happens to be the Don of New Jersey. At once the epitome of evil and a man who loves his own, Tony Soprano is perhaps the best conflicted character in television history, a man torn between allegiances that will never abandon either. The Sopranos stayed away from stereotypes as often as it embraced them.

Sons Of Anarchy: The adrenalized pulp action of SOA is balanced by character development reminiscent of The Sopranos. It's a show about realistic people in epic situations. More importantly, its a show independent movie fans and mainstream popcorn folks can comfortably agree on. The tao of Jax Teller is as much Scorcese as it is Spielberg.

Six Feet Under: Alan Balls gorgeous funeral home drama was possibly the most emotionally investable show ever written. Grounded almost completely in reality, its dark humor and excellent, deeply affecting storylines were something cable had never seen. The story of the Fishers is very American, in a modern sense, and it touches a nerve with everyone.

Deadwood: High vocabulary, high art western drama with no flaws unless you're uneducated, which in turn means you'll never know whats going on. Al Swearengen is the easily the most likable villain in television history. He knows he's the bad guy. He has no illusions about it. That's what makes the show work, along with David Milch's excellent dialogue. This is perhaps the most underrated show maybe ever.

Rescue Me: Denis Leary's brilliant, comically dark firefighter drama was amazingly as funny as it was offensive, shocking and raw. The searing dialogue, like stand up insult comedy from hell, was always relatable to its audience. The endearing asshole character Leary played was bar none one of the best love him or hate him travelers in the pantheon of that kind. Rescue Me was never given its due.

Madmen: The best glacially paced drama to ever hit network televison. It's a show where a lot happens but very slowly, to the point where we get to know the characters uncomfortably well. Don Draper also happens to be the best fictional character on television today, thanks to his literal and unfailing struggle with honesty. This is appointment TV for thinkers and talkers.

Dexter: Dexter is straight comfort food, but its filet mignon. It's a weekly hour of quirky bloodshed and who dunit plot excercise...and its endlessly engrossing. No show about a serial killer has ever contrasted light heartedness with dark, visceral violence quite so well. Gotta love it.

Dying Pretty: A Synopsis Of Epic Mortality

There is beauty in the way that death occurs. I don't mean beauty in that it brings joy or that it creates memories that we cherish. I mean that death, like birth, is arftul, natural and certain. Every waking hour from our bloody, R-rated entrance into this cruel, crazy beautiful world is one less until our unknown exit. Some of us live in fear of it, don't ever talk about it and pretend that its just a bad dream or something that happens in a movie. Others of us test its existence. We jump out of planes, eat red meat, have promiscious sex in red light districts or do ample amounts of hard, street dealt narcotics. Then there are those of us who think of how it might go down. We think of the best possible way to go, some of us opting for a death in slumber while others prefer some daredevil accident. It doesn't really matter....because we're all going to die.

I don't care. I just wanna die pretty, not as in me looking pretty, but as in the nature of it. I wanna die having seen this world from someone else's point of view, having understood the complexities of women, having come to that solace that old age brings. You ever notice how most old people aren't afraid to die?

I was in Las Vegas one time with my fiance. In Vegas, there is a noticable abundance of elderly people. It seems a nice place to spend one's retirement. We were at this one casino, a fairly unspectacular establishment. This elderly lady won $2,000 from a slot machine. Her face lit up, her husbands face lit up. They looked like twenty year olds for about five minutes. It was as if all the cares and issues of getting older were nothing, just an aspect of life that went along with everything else. It really affected me. The truth was it had nothing to do with the money. It had to do with the moment. In that moment, the giddy teenagers didn't come back...they just came out. You never truly lose who you were. You just share that person with the older one. You're always gonna be you.

You're more you when you die than when you were born. You will die having learned what seems like a lot and really isn't very much. But what you learn defines who you are. And, when you die, who do you wanna be? That's the ultimate question. What do you hope people say and think of you when you're gone? Do you care? Should you care?

I think we all wanna die pretty, die having left something, a remnant of our soul and self, behind. I think, or like to think, that we all want to invest in one another, to love those we come across with a selfless passion. I hope that's my goal. And we're human, meaning these are goals we strive for and maybe, hopefully pray to achieve in spite of our nature. What's in a goal? What's in a dream? What's in death? For the folks we will all leave behind, there can be love in death, a love that outlives our shell of a body, a love that is louder than the weeping of grief. That's what it means to die pretty. There are different ways to go about it, various avenues to take.

One way to die pretty, my way of dying pretty, is to never give up on the pipe dreams. Never let someone say you're too old, too young, too stupid or unqualified. Never let that person ruin your ambition. You get one life, one shot, one chance. The last thing you need to do is spend it in a cubicle. The last thing you need to do is stay in one place. The last thing you need to do is die old with regrets. Live every single, solitary second with a purpose. Don't take your friends or your family for granted. Don't take yourself for granted. Fight for the kind of life your heart hurts for. If you have to die trying, feet in the mud, eyes on the prize.....that's still dying pretty.

So let's live well so we can die pretty. If you try it....I will too.

Like What You Like....Ignore Pretentious People

I have forever been a proponent of liking what you like and not caring for the opinions of others. The truth is, I don't apply this to film. Sorry, I'm too jaded and too pretentious on that front. I will tell you that your favorite movie sucked...and sleep like a baby. But when it comes to music, I simply can't be the annoying indie hipster kid who has a natural distaste for all things major label. I can't stand those little pricks. You know the kid that asks you what you like and then proceeds to tell you that you are a brainless cretin, a victim of too much TV and too little coffee and poetry? That kid can die.

I'm here to tell you, I have been alive for twenty four years. I have a degree in English and Communications, have read everything from Hemingway to Steinbeck, have written and and dissected poems, studied primary and secondary orality....and I listen to a good quantity of the so called shallow music that these jerkoffs find insulting and vapid and blah, blah, blah. Yeah, sue me. I also listen to the stuff that intellectual, selective people listen to....Dylan, Springsteen, Newman, Zevon, The Pixies...you get the point. But I really don't mind generic radio rock. Who cares if its music without irony? Why the $%#^ does it all have to be ironic? I'm not always in an artistic, ironic mood. Sometimes I just wanna sing "Heat Of The Moment" in my car and feel like a human being.

I also don't mind good pop music....stuff that interesting figures in that genre (Duran Duran, Madonna, Hall And Oates, etc) have pumped out over the years. It doesn't matter. I'm not trying to impress anyone. I like synths and overwrought, double entendre laden lyrics. It's all in fun and its usually pretty clever. The beat is nice and the best part is I don't have to turn my brain on to enjoy it. It's just comfort food for the brain. To think some doofus who dropped out of art school and works at the Coffee Bean has some God given right to judge that...it doesn't add up.

I put music into three categories....stuff that makes me think (Dylan, Kristofferson, REM), stuff that's catchy and has no purpose other than to make me hum along ( most generic radio rock and pop) and the waste basket....The Beibers, the Britneys....people I just can't find any redeeming quality in and that I honestly can't enjoy on any front. That's it. There's no gray area.

I don't care about corporate sell outs, about indie street cred or studio polish this or that. I care about "does it make me think", "is it catchy", "do I enjoy how dumb this is", "would this make my Mom angry if she heard it"....things like that. If the answer to any of those questions is yes....I'll shell out ten bucks for your record. Who cares? Like what you like....unless its a lame movie. Then you suck and we can't be friends.....just kidding. No really, like what you like, my opinion excluded. It's important not to let other people drive your opinions. Be yourself, do your thing and pour coffee on the hipsters head. He won't fight you....he's a pacifist.

Warren Zevon At A Glance

Rock n' roll and Stravinsky aren't typically labeled bed fellows. The art of top 40 lyricism and the poetic structure of Kerouac also don't seem to have any shared quality. They are, by all conventional means, not related by anything but circumstance. Though far flung, circumstance did allow for such a bastard marriage. One perpetually flawed Californian, an OCD, swamp voiced intellectual composer with a sex addiction and a fear of committment, spent his stoned California nights marrying these diverse opposites on a Steinway with warm beer and cheap cigarettes for company. He was the poster child for two things, rehab and Rhodes Sholars. His eclectic mix of personal self destruction and high IQ made him the most interesting of the artists booting demos in Laurel Canyon around the end of the 60's, a time when the Brill building kids over in New York were shooting smack and crafting structured hits for half baked pop groups. His work delved deeper into the psychosis of man, into the raw perversity and the blood drenched violence of exploitive cinema. His trademark was to elevate anti-heroes, beautiful losers and social geniuses lost in a crowd of idiocy.

His name, one you might see in your local bargain bin, was Warren Zevon. The son of a Russian gangster, Zevon grew up in a torrid world of mafia violence and wealth. Rather than follow his fathers path, he found a kind of maternal solace in music, especially that of classical composers. He studied under a protege of Stravinsky, learning at a young age to read and compose complex music. This obsession became useful later on when, as his family life crumbled around him, he became aware of pop music. He found a basic escape in the rebellion of The Stones and The Beatles. The intrigue and overt simplicity of pop allowed for him to graft on the complexities of classical arrangement. Soon enough, he was creating pop symphonics and writing lyrics more in the vein of Hemingway than John Lennon.

His pantheon is one of the great California stories, a string of perfect, intellectually stimulating records with biting social satire. The idea he seemed to push across the fault line was one of layered question. His work asked the eternal questions of why and how and who. They were snapshots of the idiot parade outside his door, a world apart from his mind, as much a prison as a breeding ground for brilliance. Locked away in his study, Zevon painted pictures of rapists at junior proms, werewolves mauling old ladies and trees that looked like crucified thieves. His imagery was often that of a philospher, the details requiring a trip or seven to an almanac or an atlas. His music, a shakeup of opposing sounds, was Beethoven married to Carl Perkins.

The depth of his lyrical output kept him at odds with any real mainstream success other than "Werewolves Of London", a novelty tribute to his shameless love of b-movie horror and mystery novels. His greater works, among them"Muhammads Radio" and "Desperados Under The Eaves" ,were recorded by better known artists, some of them doing little but helping the audience lose the meaning in translation. Lina Rondstat sucked the beauty out of "Poor, Poor Pitiful Me". Jackson Browne oiled away the heroin tribute "Carmelita".

The truth is nobody sang Warren's songs like Warren. He made the perpetually screwed up characters in his songs seem lived in and tired. He was the same weary they were. The lust he had for sex and the magneticism to alcohol made him a very difficult and odd human being, a man who's OCD carved most of the time in his day out for superstition and routine. But these vices made him a darker, better writer, one who's anger with himself created a wealth of black humor and divisive opinion.

In all the storied history of popular music, a black sheep of the ilk Warren represented hasn't been known. His cadence and ability have driven the most diligent artists to shrug and admit defeat. He was maybe the one guy who matched Randy Newman step for step as an integrater of satire with serious social commentary. His legend is one that also belongs to David Foster Wallace and Harry Neilsson, writers who's ambiton and ability never reached the audience they should have.

You should buy a Zevon record, maybe Excitable Boy, and drive out into Topanga Canyon some time, maybe down the Las Vegas strip or even Route 66...it doesn't matter. You'll find a voice that's original enough to saturate your surroundings and make you think hard and long about nothing at all. Then, go home and do something with what's left of your life.

The Finest Film I've Ever Seen: There Will Be Blood

The Finest Film I've Ever Seen: There Will Be Blood

(Plot synopsis:The film follows the rise to power of Daniel Plainview - a charismatic and ruthless oil prospector, driven to succeed by his intense hatred of others and desperate need to see any and all competitors fail. When he learns of oil-rich land in California that can be bought cheaply, he moves his operation there and begins manipulating and exploiting the local landowners into selling him their property. Using his young adopted son H.W. to project the image of a caring family man, Plainview gains the cooperation of almost all the locals with lofty promises to build schools and cultivate the land to make their community flourish. He has no intention of doing so; his only purpose is to make money. Over time, Plainview's gradual accumulation of wealth and power causes his true self to surface and over the course of his endeavors, men die, the locals get nothing and Plainview gets rich. In his life he makes few friends and many enemies and even his adopted son H.W. is eventually alienated-Wikipedia)

(First off, see this film. See it as soon as you can.)

I remember the first time I saw There Will Be Blood. There was a sense at the end that I had seen a film about something darker and more visceral than I could imagine in my most secretive nightmares. This was a story about humanitys downfall and the purity of evil. I mean that not to say evil is good or should be revered. In this case of Paul Thomas Andersons epic, it means that evil can have a code and be structured, almost to the point of having its own morality. I think most audiences can respect, if not kind of relate, with a villain who has no illusions about his sin. From any perspective, a character that knows who and what he is, what he represents and where it will lead him is a god send to the audience. They can tune into the motivation of the anti-hero, relating to he or she on a base level of instinct.

I think its perfectly acceptable to question whether this is a healthy endeavor, to have an audience spend ample time with a flawed, harsh main character, especially, if when its all said and done, he isn't redeemable. In the case of There Will Be Blood, Daniel Plainview never comes within a mile of redemption, even as baptismal water is poured over his greased hair. Even then, his intentions, while not as sickening as that of the young pastor who humilitates him, are purely self motivated and wrong. But, in the case of a film such as this, its a good truth to know.

In a real society, bad guys win. Greed can win. You see it in politics and in hypocritical houses of God. You see it in your every day dealings, people who are entirely driven by their own desire. We're all guilty at one point or another of doing the same. What struck me about this film is that its tyrant is perfectly self aware. He's a liar, but he's not justifying his deception. He's gladly allowing himself to be a pariah in bloom. At first, he's simple and seems a family man. But the adopted son is his greatest mascarade. He uses these simple tricks to drag innocence through the muck. It works, as it works time and time again in our everyday lives.

What does the film say about humanity as a whole? That there are good folks, bad folks and those in between. The folks in between pepper this film heavily, souls lost and found in their own anguish, forced to deal with the reality of life and death in a moment in time when the latter was much more common. Through those eyes, one can see the disillusioned grandeur that built empires of greed and angst. It's a sufficient answer to a multi-faceted question. Can evil have order and thus be successful? Yes, unfortunately...it can. And Daniel Plainview is the bastard child of this idea, a man of sheer will power driven by nothing but the lure of control.

I watch There Will Be Blood quite often. As an aspiring filmmaker and screenwriter, it represents to me the pinnacle of what poets can achieve, a true depiction of evil working out its on demons. It's scary territory, especially if you're a moral person who has standards. But, in its grasp of the darkness, it illuminates the idea of goodness. There is, beneath the oil and carnage of the film, a light. It's dim, but its there to be seen if people strip away the layers.

I reccommend watching this film with a most open mind and no distractions.

TV in 2011: Year In Review

I'm a serial TV drama lover. I love to find a good show and sink my teeth in. Sometimes I'm blown away (Sons Of Anarchy), sometimes I bow down before the awesomeness (Deadwood), sometimes I fall in love with the quirkiness (Dexter) and sometimes I walk away thinking its the best television show ever (The Sopranos). Either way, I am restless mentally unless I have at least one show I'm plugged into. This year was fruitful.

I managed to get through most of Madmen this year. I love the writing, love Don Drapers character, but its one of those shows I have to be mentally prepared to invest a few hours in. It's my type of drama, very much grounded in reality. It's also way too smart for network television. It's a beautfiul slow burn, a show that peels back the layers of each character at an almost glacial pace. In the end, its probably the best writing on TV. Still, I recommend it to the thinking man or woman with time to spare. If you're a blood and fire hound, it'll put you to sleep. If you're like me, and you enjoy intellectual analysis, its worth your time.

I started and finished Friday Night Lights in a month. I had avoided the show like a plague. Football, small towns and teenagers sounded like Dawsons Creek drivel to me. SURPRISE....it turned out to be one of the most unpredictable, gratifying and tightly written dramas I've seen. The show isn't really about football. It's about realistic small town characters dealing with love, death, sex and religion. The psychosis of the show is almost jilting. I watched two episodes and got sucked in almost immediately. That NEVER happens to me. But it did with FNL. Kyle Chandler's Coach Taylor is one of those brilliant characters that you wish were real, a guy who never compromises his ideals...ever. Trust me on this one....you'll wind up getting addicted to the narrative direction without much effort.

I managed to get through two episodes of Damages...meh. It was interesting except for the flash forwards to the end of the season. That got old fast. I just said no.

I finished Rescue Me this year. What a show! Denis Leary and Peter Tolan have kept me on Tommy Gavins emotional roller coaster for two years. This final season seemed to end happily and then broke my heart...then made me laugh..then ended. The death of one of the key characters was hard to stomach. It was also brilliant. I'm happy with how it all went down.

I'm trying to finish Justified. Part of me likes it. Part of me thinks its Walker Texas Ranger for smart people. I don't like the episodic mini stories. I like connective tissue on a series. Nevertheless, the writing is good and I keep coming back.

Sons Of Anarchy was excellent this year. The season was one big bloody explosion of drugs, sex and rock n'roll, a visceral, raw, adrenalized pulp soap opera. I can't get enough. Kurt Sutter is in Hemingway mode...if Hemingway were into adrenalized pulp soap operas. Sons is like a graphic novel adaption except there was never a graphic novel. I like that.

I am cautiously beginning Breaking Bad. It has never looked insanely appealing, but that doesn't mean I won't get clued in.

Anyway, I still need to start Boardwalk Empire. Dexters been on fire this season as well.

Peace,

Max