Bedbugs XVII

Bedbugs XVII




Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.

Click here for last week's Bedbugs.




Locking myself up won't change what's in my head and
it still leads back to the same place, horns that sound
like no other statement in mind still return to the same state.
Still not caring how many shades of red managed to impress
drunken staff members. The best advice is to tell
them you'll run. Celebration from the three of them which
are rendered as emotions, not people. Joy handed out
in healthy rations still bring a lingering nasty thought:
I didn't earn it, it was given to me.
The pills arrived yesterday. Family dove into them, I
went for a drive instead. Had a new coat of
mental paint applied. I chose the color
and texture and amount. All are desperate
to choose for me; comes up to the waist, their pile
of complaints. Silence between sounds is a
rarity I savor, far more refreshing
to seek those out.
The theater was empty as I suspected, save one
figure on the stage with its back
turned to me. Leaves too much room to let other
things in, and the floor is slick with leaves and metal
shavings and a lack of anything inspiring passion. Outside
is much better but nobody's out there..wait-clouds gathering
into a face's shape..




Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:

-shining through to the skin
-broken patch of interest
-scare me again outside
-sick of the loop
-worse when it's your fault, she says
-surgery you can bring a friend to
-stuck in the same state

-adam

Learning How To Practice 3: "Work"

by Brian Hughes

I don’t like to work. As a matter of fact I complain inside my head all day long about my job, extolling on why my work sucks. I wear the tired frown on Monday and the energetic grin on Friday. I constantly try and rationalize that the work I do is trivial and redundant.

Well, you know what? I have news for myself. The problem is not the job – it’s me.

I first have to ask myself why I am stuck doing what I am doing? I am doing this line of work for a variety of reasons: I have no college education (though I am in college now), I have not been trained in a skill, it was my father’s line of work, I told myself that I could not take any job seriously if it had nothing to do with art, and finally – my old reliable friend – good, old fashioned laziness.

The second question I have to ask myself is do I derive satisfaction from the job? Does it make me happy? No on both counts. There are a lot of questions I can ask now. Why do I stay in a line of work I don’t enjoy? What does “satisfaction” mean? Couldn’t I come home and be satisfied that I put in a solid eight hours of work; and from the cash I earn I can take my girlfriend out, feed and clothe myself, pay my rent, buy my girl and myself some nice things and support my writing habit. Why can’t I look at this line of work as a means to keep myself alive and well RIGHT NOW? After all, I don’t have to take this line of work home with me, which frees my mind for writing, which is the activity I am truly passionate about.

From a Buddhist perspective, I can look at my job as a means for cultivating practice. There are innumerable times in a week where I can work on mindfulness, concentration and relaxation. But instead, I run my unreal thoughts through my head all day long like a film reel out of control – bitching and moaning, bitching and moaning. And as I do this, I cultivate stress, I perhaps snap at others – all the while getting half of my work done because my head is divided between work and the constant complaining.

How can I be brought back to the present moment, instead of getting caught up in all of this delusion? I can leave post-it notes around my desk reminding me to take deep breaths and come back to now. Another good way for practicing in the workplace is using your phone as a sort of bell to snap you back to the here and now. These are little things I can practice throughout the day so that I don’t get caught up in the story of my life – which most of the time has nothing to do with reality.

The cold hard fact about my workday is that I cannot, nor should be, working on or worrying about my novel. So what am I to do? If I am present to my reality of work, then – there is no novel to worry about because there is only the work I am doing at work in the moment. When I am participating in the task at hand with my coworkers, I am free from the constant bickering and complaining that is in my head because I am too in the moment to worry about anything else. This is one of the main reasons why people get “back to work” after a stressful time, or when perhaps a loved one dies, because they know that being in the moment will take them away from the pain for a while. I have to discipline myself that my work is work and my writing is writing and that is just fine. It is when I combine them that all the unnecessary stress comes in.

Then what is the reality of my work situation? If I want to do another line of work – there is the door. No one is stopping me. If I am so unhappy, I should fine another line of work that would be more agreeable to me. This kind of work just might not be my thing. I can also be happy that I am employed and not out of work, and that I enjoy all the niceties that come with a regular paycheck. I can be grateful. I can experience the ups and downs of the work environment and recognize it as a way I can strengthen my Buddhist practice. When I meditate regularly, I notice that I find myself in harmony with everything and the discord I have withers away.

The job can stay as it is. I need to smile and continue to be more mindful and present. I need to end the war and suffering going on in my head and just sit more often. And according to Buddhism, this is the path to freedom.

If you are interested in other writings from this series, please look here: (1) (2)

Journey To Published (4)

This video blog will chart the progress Brian Hughes will be making to get his novel The Boxpress Manifesto published.

Here's Part 4 of the journey...

Please look here for other videos in this series: (1) (2) (3)

RAMBO, and The Art of the Boycott by Frank Palmcoast

When he's not watching, with beads of sweat, his fellow, legally blind, senior citizens parallel park, Frank Palmcoast is catching seven dollar movies at the local multiplex from sunny Pompano Beach, Florida. He's retired, he's angry at the world, he can't spell to save his life, and he hates Hollywood almost as much as Hilary Clinton, but that will not stop our irreverent, dementia fightin', AARP card carrying everyman from giving us a fresh take on all things Hollyweird. Besides, how can he pass up that marvelous senior citizen discount?

This week our Senior film critic offers his take on the new Rambo feature and offers up his boycott list of 2008!

************************************************

The next time Sly thinks about making a movie he should just go to bed, call his wet nurse and dream he's still important! This flick reminds me of Mohammad Ali's numerous comebacks. It has all the classic one liners, "Hero's never die, they just reload". Rambo the Viagra man. Now he is in Burma, who gives a rats ass what happens there. He's retired
and living in all places---the jungle. I ponder how a retired vet gets his army paycheck in the jungle and he's the only possible human that can get fat in the jungle! Another one liner, "It's not my fight".If your a real man you will go see Rambo, if not, stay home and watch Sex In the City or Oprah! John Rambo is one pissed off vet.A Lot of explosions, lots of decapitations. lots of exploding heads and a few arrows to the face--it's not Mary Poppins!
He kills, he maims, he disembowels all those evil Asians--god bless America.I think he would perform his stunts better if he would use his walker. This is a chick flick for men and having said all the above I must say,"Rambo is a bloody good time"!

************************************************

I the expert boycotter, have been negligent in my boycotting duties. Have no fear, I will present my " 10 boycott list". My new found duties, music and film critic has to a degree hampered by efforts in the boycott field. The following items definetly need serious boycotting: 1). Betty White and her petmed commercials, 2) RLS, restless leg syndrome 3)Shrines that are erected for dead actors 4) Volume that's increased on commercials 5) Half the time of any program is devoted to commercials 6)Restricting pets in condos 7) Mentally Old people 8)Andre Rieu Concerts 9)Pony tails on old guys and last but not least, 10)Bob Dylan singing to Burkowski. More to follow!

Prints in Concrete (3)- Francis Bacon: Second Version of Triptych 1944

Prints in Concrete- Francis Bacon- Second Version of Triptych 1944 -(1988)



Looking at works of art and the profound effects they had on me. The analysis will not be geared intensely towards the works themselves, but why I feel I had such a deep response to it.


Francis Bacon- Second Version of Triptych 1944 (1988)





Date experienced: November 2006

Location: Tate Modern, UK


Tate Description:

Part man, part beast, these howling creatures first appeared in Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion, which Bacon painted during the Second World War. One critic described that picture as a reflection of ‘the atrocious world into which we have survived’. Bacon identified his distorted figures with the vengeful Greek Furies, while the title places them in the Christian context of the crucifixion. In this version, painted in 1988, Bacon changed the background colour from orange to blood red, and placed more space around the figures, plunging them into a deep void.

It’s not often I round a corner in a museum and am literally shocked. I had no idea I’d be walking straight into an original painting I’d always admired but only seen in images the size of a baseball card.

The first immediate impact of these works, were their sheer scale. Having never read of their dimensions before, I was astonished to see they were easily seven or more feet tall- and take up the wall of an entire room in length. One is easily intimidated being in their presence.

The attraction to red in art as stated in my look at Rothko’s Maroon series was immediate (indeed, these works were experienced in the same day). The previous version of this work from the 1940’s depended upon a burnt orange for its background. The reds behind these ‘creatures’ felt like a similar consistency as Rothko’s series: the more you observe it, the more subtlety you saw in the shades.

Strangely enough, I never interpreted the red as indicative of blood or violence, possibly from having experienced similar affecting reds just hours before. As remarked in the above quotes, the feeling of ‘falling into a deep void’ is immediately what I felt walking into the room (closest to the painting on the right). While excited, I found myself backing away at the same time. This feeling was far stronger than the repulsion of the monstrous forms in the paintings. If you’ve ever experienced the feeling of free-falling before sleep you will understand the experience I had. That kind of fall often jolts me awake for a long time, as I’ve had a great fear of that kind of experience. Jumping from a building would probably be the worst way to go in my mind.

While the distortion of flesh and fury is inherent and obvious in nearly all of Bacon’s works, that was never what really affected me. I feel more admiration at the ideas and technique than disgust at the creatures upon seeing his works. There’s always been something ‘else’ there.

I realized more about what it was while conducting interviews with filmmaker Paul Solet, on the set of his award-winning short film GRACE in 2006. Much of the film’s color scheme, despite being a highly disturbing film, did not match the usual desaturated, decayed, rotten-wood palette of nearly every horror film of the past twenty years. It’s bright and utilizes vibrant purples, reds, pinks, greens to knock the viewer off balance.

In our interview he mentioned the production design’s color scheme was influenced by Francis Bacon. And how “default morbid mode” in modern horror cinema depends upon “dark.” From the time of day to the lighting scheme to the look of every set. But Bacon often does an opposite; using brighter colors, crazy pinks and salmons and vibrant purples and reds to knock the viewer off-kilter even more, as we don’t expect these “pleasing” colors to be utilized in an image that can provoke anxiety, torment and fear.

I’d written previous articles on horror films that have not only been considered modern or past classics, but are considered some of the scariest of their generations; often this was something I saw filmmakers employ in their visual arsenal. Two quotes from a recent documentary of The Shining stand out and clarify my point:

“The Shining is the perfect example of a horror genre movie that does not employ the classical horror genre visual elements.” -Janusz Kaminski, cinematographer

“I think the thing about it is that (Kubrick) creates a setting that has a certain kind of peacefulness that belies the story that he’s telling.” –Caleb Deschanel, cinematographer

Bacon’s color schemes, and several great genre filmmakers(often ones who had not helmed horror films before) step outside the box and in doing so, worked on my nerves even more. We all fear similar things, but it takes a true talent to bring you to the same place through such unconventional approaches.

Grace is (c) 2006 Paul Solet/Gracefilm, LLC.


-Adam Barnick

The Boxpress Music Time Show with Brian Hughes

Show #3: "Perfect" Part 2
On this week's show, as with last week, Brian ones again explores what makes a song "perfect" by playing two songs and discussing them.

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Trip

I went to Atlantic City today

right off the cuff, and I

ate a grinder at Subway

and proceeded to Trump Towers and Caesar's.

Well Caesar's has only old people

trying to gamble away old age

and I felt sad and empty for them-

but they don't feel sad and empty- they feel pleasure.

So I followed a couple-a killers

to the boardwalk- the fake town façades-

and noticed the dune-grass was

uniformly planted- but nevertheless acheived

its oceanic affect.

I wanted to find a perfect shell,

but it isn't the seagull's priority

and I am on their turf.

This man I avoided when I

bolted into the ocean came upon me after and

I was annoyed. Exposed. Violated. I

didn't know what to say and he

couldn't say much so we mentioned our

shell-seeking and then I escaped.

Well he brought me over a perfect sky-

blue and grey conch and boy was I

embarrassed. Humbled. But excited. It washes

nice. I would give it to you, Val, but

it serves better as a reminder for me.

Besides I like it too much.

by: Mary Wyatt Matters

Bedbugs XVI

Bedbugs XVI


Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.

Click here for last week's Bedbugs.




Watching it rain again from office floor 218; even with weather,
you’re just a spectator. Says one thing, does whatever will harm
seems to be your and my and their MO. Someone
with no face slips me a note and is in the
elevator before I know it. One minute later I forget it’s there.
The color in the kitchen stands out only because
it's fading faster. Upstairs there is nobody but a man
scrawling in lipstick on each wall FOULED WITH
OUR SOULS.. Neglecting the crime scene that is a measure
of everyone’s broken dream which can’t be quantified
but we know when we lost it. Back to the playground
where it all was safe? The rattling I hear when I walk
can’t possibly be an instrument. Thinking about jumping is
as noncommittal as most lives care to be.
Can’t understand who’s next to me unless the manual
came with the box. Soaked through by moisture,
not worth the effort. How many shades of
grey can there be in paint? A lot. Noises
come from the smaller room, inside’s a projector
with oil and blackness spilling from its bulb. The
movie, nobody can understand it better.
The old loop from the reunion. Again.
Either ten seconds or ten years pass. Not sure which,
it’s time wasted either way. Texture is blind
but so is everything hiding under the bed.
Punctuate the moments you need to keep with you
and get back in line, they say. I’m not scared
of waking up, I’m scared to stay asleep
at least nine percent of the time. Numbers don’t matter
here, embracing something warm hearing the sounds
in my sleep.







Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:








-horns that sound like no other
-celebration for the three of them
-joy handed out in healthy rations
-comes up to the waist
-silence between sounds
-leaves too much room
-clouds gathering into a face's shape


-Adam Barnick

The Story Slice: Maureen: Part I

by Brian Hughes

The air was muggy at Complex as the who’s who lined up twenty deep at the open bar. Everyone was celebrating the opening of Alberto St. Croix’s new exhibit “Tampon” at The Whitney Museum. Hordes of “beautiful” people ascended through the large wooden freight elevators. Rain, Alberto’s assistant, was seeing to all of them. Rain’s favorite color of the week was fuchsia: everything he had on him was fuchsia color, whether it was his suit to his jeans to his tie to his hair and socks. Rain made eye contact with Cahil and threw wide his arms out to embrace him; Cahil reluctantly gave in.

“There’s my boy scribe! How are you?” Rain screamed over the thumping dance music.
Cahil was an “on-the-town” beat writer for The City Savior – an upscale, expensive, ten-pound magazine that let everyone in on what was cool.
“Terrific, and yourself.”
“I’m at the best party in town, how can I be anything but marvelous? Let me ask you something right off: I’m coming to the tenth anniversary party for The Savior – right?”
“Of course.” Apparently everyone called the magazine “The Savior.”
“What are you up to? You look terrific! I love the blue blazer and the shirt – very Banana. Covering any big stories other than this one?”
Cahil was looking at all the eye candy before him. He always kept a memo pad and a digital tape recorder in his pocket. “I’m leaving for California next week.”
“What are you going to be covering in Hollyweird? Any scoops you want to tell me – any dirt?”
“I’m going to California to find three girls I should have fucked, but didn’t,” Cahil tossed casually off his chest.
“Really? I thought you were engaged.”
“Happily.”
“How deviant! Good luck with that.”
“Some people have bachelor parties, I have this.”
“Fabuloso! I want to dance! Here I go! I’m dancing!” Rain broke from his conversation with Cahil and started getting down.
“When can I expect to get some words with Alberto.”
“I don’t know … he’s with Dominick Dunne right now.”
“And have you seen Maureen Shea?”
“I haven’t, and I invited that bitch! She better be here.”

Maureen was Cahil’s first target.

A mutual friend introduced Maureen to Cahil on a warm November evening at The Hungarian Pastry Shop of the Upper West Side. He was warned of her uproarious laughter: a laugh that would make your contacts tremble. But instead of it confounding him, he was lassoed and saddled by her infectious inner joy. They’d hook up just a few days later and swap stories at the Eggshell in Central Park: Cahil stupidly confessing about his psychotic French girlfriend, talking to Maureen as if she were a confidant and not a possible suitor. Cahil mistakenly thought he was in love, but he wasn’t – and in the process, he lost Maureen – who would then find a young man she’d settle down with for three years.

“Why do I do these things?” he would think over and over. “They sit before me, dipped in gold, on a pedestal, awaiting my courage to take them home. First it was Maureen, then the colossal California trio of Heather, Alex and Colleen! Why? Fuck!” And as with Maureen, they shared common characteristics: college graduates, literary, big breasted, and funny. He lost out on the conquest, but most importantly, he suffered the loss of the experience - of living. And before he set off on that great journey of life, love, progeny and learning, he wanted to stand before them one more time. Tell them that he was sorry and that they will always live in a nice cozy tree house somewhere in his heart. Make peace with it and get the hell out. That’s all he wanted.

But first, he’d have to locate Maureen.

LOOK! KING BACK!

In 2002, Jonathan Roumie and I were asked by an enigmatic filmmaker to help him make two films on one day, Martin Luther King Day. And for three years, on that great holiday, we helped create, produce, edit and screen two films in just one day, by the man who went only by the name KING.

On MLK day, 2005, we were ready to help him once again, but he was gone, never to return.

The enigma reappears now with the release, on this Martin Luther King Day 2008, of "Looking Back", a return into the mind of KING.

-Peter Rinaldi

But First, watch all of the KING films!
King (1) 2002
King (2) 2002
King (3) 2003
King (4 - pt. 1) 2003
King (4 - pt. 2) 2003
King (5) 2004
King (6) 2004

Journey To Published (3)

This video blog will chart the progress Brian Hughes will be making to get his novel The Boxpress Manifesto published.

Here's Part 3 of the journey ...

For other video blogs in this series, please go here: (1), (2)

Prints in Concrete (2)- Rothko: Black on Maroon/Red on Maroon

Prints in Concrete- Rothko: Black on Maroon/Red on Maroon series

Looking at works of art and the profound effects it had on me. The analysis will not be geared intensely towards the works themselves, but why I feel I had such a deep response to it.

Mark Rothko Painting Exhibit -Black on Maroon/Red on Maroon series

Date experienced: October 2005

Location: Tate Modern, UK

Rothko’s Black on Maroon/Red on Maroon series.

Description of series:

Mark Rothko saw these paintings as objects of contemplation, demanding the viewer’s complete absorption. They were originally commissioned for a restaurant, but Rothko soon realised that their brooding character required a very different environment.

In the late 1950s, Rothko was commissioned to paint a series of murals for the fashionable Four Seasons restaurant in the Seagram Building on Park Avenue, New York. He set to work, having constructed a scaffold in his studio to match the exact dimensions of the restaurant. However, the murals were darker in mood than his previous work. The bright and intense colours of his earlier paintings shifted to maroon, dark red and black.

Rothko was influenced by Michelangelo’s Laurentian Library in Florence, with its blind windows and deliberately oppressive atmosphere. Rothko commented that Michelangelo ‘achieved just the kind of feeling I’m after - he makes the viewers feel that they are trapped in a room where all the doors and windows are bricked up, so that all they can do is butt their heads forever against the wall.’

Recognising that the worldly setting of a restaurant would not be the ideal location for such a work, Rothko withdrew from the commission. He finally presented the series to the Tate Gallery, expressing his deep affection for England and for British artists, especially JMW Turner. All nine paintings are included in this display. Perceived, as the artist intended, in reduced light and in a compact space, the subtlety of the layered surfaces slowly emerges, revealing their solemn and meditative character.

Click here for complete images and information on this room’s exhibit.

Familiar with Rothko’s work on a surface level, what this exhibit taught me is how seeing an image in a book of art, or an online photograph, becomes borderline pointless once one has experienced the works themselves in person. Images are included here just as reference.. but the subtlety is only properly communicated in the presence of the authentic paintings. No photograph or book print can truly capture shades and texture.

The immediate size of the works, is what is still a large room despite the museum deeming it compact, drew me in. The slightly reduced lighting scheme of the room took a few minutes to adjust to, and slowly bring out the color shifts in the paintings.

This was another exhibit I probably spent an hour in. Looking for the best distance to view these works, I noted my immediate attraction to red which has been a constant since childhood. And yet it isn’t a color that fills my life. I never wear it, my living space barely has any in it. And yet when I encounter it I’m drawn in. Often in modern stylized films I find people have used red the same way..it only shows up to make a specific point and is never placed throughout a film. The Sixth Sense being the most obvious example that comes to immediate mind.

Slowly letting your eye match the light level, and letting your mind adjust and drift upon the multitude of color shifts, from one to another or from a darker to a lighter shade of red (or the dominant color I was witnessing)…brought a certain kind of focused peace. AFTER a feeling of being subtly trapped, as remarked above. Though it is possible that I walked in expecting to feel that having read the description above, which is printed on the wall as you enter the space.

I remarked in my previous ‘Prints in Concrete’ post of the melancholy feeling Dictio Pii's music contained of days and seasons rolling by, slowly and yet quickly.. Here I felt as if I was watching the graduation of a sunset's color change, but simply accepting and understanding this is something that is meant to happen and things will work out in my favor. The colors only slightly resemble the natural event…but that was the eventual image and feeling I’d settled on from contemplating what was in front of me. Thinking deeply, but completely at peace.

.

The rolling changes of color and density in a storm cloud was another image that came to mind. It felt as if passing through a storm cloud would bring you to this relaxed state; much like the often vivid sunsets appearing after a violent storm clears the sky. I was locked in by a door which was illusory, and composed of the same thickness as a cloud. All I had to do was think/walk through it, and rest on the other side. Often this room’s color palette is described as brooding.. was I not seeing it, or was I SO used to being in a brooding state at the time that this was what produced the ‘comfort?’ That is something I still contemplate. Regardless, I file the experience under positives.

While most rooms in a museum are naturally silent and reverential, I did note that this may have been the quietest room I had been in all day. It’s also possible that the noise levels were the same as any other room; but the level of contemplation I was at had turned the world’s volume down.

-Adam Barnick

The Boxpress Music Time Show with Brian Hughes

Show #2: "Perfect" Part 1

This week, and over the next couple, Brian will play and talk about songs he feels are "perfect" in every way: from the lyrics, to the arrangements, to the themes, and much more.

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Bedbugs XV

Bedbugs XV







Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.


Click here for last week's Bedbugs.









I can’t hear at the pitch that you’re thinking
and there’s any number or reasons
that he’s ending up anthropomorphic and
ready to save anyone whether they ask
for help or reverence, wild night all in your head.
Nobody knows where you are as we uncover a journey
far more wonderful and sad; Friday alone
is life's jazz standard you dance to.
Nobody’s fault but that guy in the mirror,
fractured or not.
Tails up, we dance to songs hammered out by blood
rushing through bodies’ tubes as I look around and realize
I forgot all of them blur together and the third
floor, she somehow finds humor in it. Chipped green
faded Statue of Liberty paint, only room for six of them
in the truck, fighting over scraps of words with
no purpose. It’s college all over again. Give up?
I don’t even know me.








Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:








-says one thing, does whatever will harm
-the color in the kitchen stands out
-neglecting the crime scene that is
-thinking about jumping
-nobdy can understand it better
-texture is blind
-hearing the sounds in my sleep


-Adam Barnick

The Story Slice: "The Reginald"

by Brian Hughes

Kelly was a Doorman at The Reginald; but what he really wanted was to “own my own building, ya know - a real classy joint.” So he started taking nighttime Architecture classes. When no one was looking, Kelly would steal some time studying from his textbook. It was buildings like The Reginald, or The Enclave, just a few blocks south, which so fanned the flames of his desire of what buildings in the great metropolis should be: a masonry of brick upon brick, steel frame, metal cladding, and Art Deco tapestries all over. The Reginald was built just before The Depression and was the resting places of dignitaries and Hollywood stars. Most notably, Franklin Delano Roosevelt stayed in Penthouse 2004 on his visits to New York, and Fidel Castro was known to have a quick fling with a Rockette in suite 1931. Its spacious halls and red carpeted floors reminded Kelly of his favorite movie The Shining.

For the most part, Kelly enjoyed the tenants and found them a likable bunch. At years’ end Kelly was often doused with extremely generous tips. It wasn’t a bad job, it paid the bills. Kelly felt indebted to his Uncle, who himself was a Doorman for 43 years, using his connections to nab Kelly the position. The tenants Kelly favored the most, were the old timers. Media mogul Jon Hewitt, who restored The Reginald to its original grand beginnings, made headlines when he decided not to try and buy out the older tenants of the building, but to keep them there free of charge. Hewitt was only too happy to eat the profits, responding to what he called “the pillaging of our National treasure – the Senior Citizen.”

Carroll Dickey was an ex World War II vet and Kelly’s favorite. “Mayor Carroll” as he was known, was as big a baseball fan as Kelly was, and would often ride Kelly up and down when his beloved Yankees went on a losing streak. Carroll was an ex Brooklyn “Bum” – and did as most ex Brooklyn Dodgers fan’s have – became a New York Mets fan.

Every afternoon, Carroll would take a walk over to Madison Square Park, read his paper and feed the pigeons.

“The Kansas City Royals are going to mash the Yanks,” he’d say to Kelly.
“You’re crazy!”
“Gomez is going to hurl a two hitter against them tonight.”
“The Royals are in last place! They stink! Come on …!
Carroll had a way of becoming increasingly vitriolic and graphic with his language when he spoke about something he disliked. He’d grab Kelly by the arm, and with a menacing look he’d whisper:
“The Royals are going to grind the Yanks up in a meat grinder, you see: a meat grinder – until their spleen and liver and entrails are pouring over their belts and onto their pinstripe suits.”
“Really?”
“And when the Royals are through grinding those rich cocksuckers, they’ll eat their innards and shit them out right on home plate in front of a television viewing audience. And it’s going to make the news and everything!” And Carroll would have his say and be out the door.

Kelly also had to deal with unwanted visitors. A binder of photos and descriptions were kept behind his desk of such characters. The city was in the midst of the holiday season and it seemed like half the building was away in Aruba. Kelly had been working many graveyard shifts. He sat at his post, his eyes at half mast. He felt a mean piss coming on. The pages from his text book started bleeding together and the words and lines began crisscrossing each other. Maybe he should hit the head, he thought, throw some cold water on his face.

He radioed Louie the porter. Louie was a huge history buff; for three hours before his shift, you could find him on the third floor of The New York Public Library on 40th street, leafing through the latest history release. “I blew it,” he’d say, “I could have been a retired History professor by now.”

Mandrik Carlsson opened the front doors, walked down the steps and was swiftly moving toward the elevators. He did not give so much as a glance to Kelly. He was gruffy and tall with salt and pepper hair and a prominent handlebar moustache.

“Uhhh, Mandrik. Uhhh … excuse me! You are … wait. You are no longer allowed in this building!” Kelly hurried over to the elevators and found Mandrik staring at the second car; it was almost as if he were looking through it. “Come on, Mandrik. Don’t, ya know, make this difficult. It’s cool, come on.” Mandrik rolled his head to the side and gave Kelly a smirk, then a manacing smile. The elevator arrived and Mandrik rode it up.

Kelly, under normal circumstances, was a “nervous nelly.” He paced briefly. He was not allowed to leave his post, unless someone was covering for him. “Shit, man. Where the heck is Louie?” he said aloud.

“I’m right here,” Louis said with a smile that lifted his silly putty-like face.
“I have to take a wicked piss Louie – can you cover me for a few?”
“Sure … sure … sure.” Louie noticed that Kelly had hit the button on the elevator. “The bathrooms are downstairs.”
“I know where they are, Louie – give me a break, huh?”
“I don’t know anything,” Louie said as he walked over toward the doorman post.

I’m not allowed to go up like this, I could get canned, Kelly thought, as he rode the elevator up to the fourteenth floor. I should just call the cops, let them handle it. I should turn my back on this. What if Mandrik knows. If he knows, he’ll kill me.

Kelly was walking toward the apartment. “Mandrik? Mandrik?” Soon he was at door 14R. He knocked. “Mandrik?” The door swung open and Mandrik stood there wearing a skin tight flowery dress, eyes bulging from his sockets.

“Come in here you mother fucker!” hissed Mandrik as he grabbed Kelly by the tie and neck and flung him into the living room of the apartment. Kelly collapsed and just missed cracking his head on a big glass coffee table by a few inches. Mandrik grabbed an envelope full of photos and threw them hard into Kelly’s face. “The balls you have to come up here! After fucking my wife!”
“Calm down, Mandrik, calm down," said Kelly, "she still loves you! She doesn’t want me!”

Kelly backed up against the big bay window. Mandrik grabbed a steak knife and lunged at Kelly, who had begun yelping. The site of a bedraggled Mandrik approaching him with a knife and wearing a dress, was almost too much for Kelly. He couldn’t even scream. He was on the verge of passing out. Mandrik had the knife at his throat:

“I’ve been to prison. I’ll go again, it’s no skin off my balls, got it! You don’t know her name, you don’t know what she looks or smells like anymore. You got it prick?”
“Yes, yes, I got it, yes.”
“Not one more word to her – EVER!”
“YES! YES!
Mandrik picked Kelly up and kneed him in the ribs several times. Holding him upright, he punched Kelly twice in the face, then let him drop hard to the floor.

There were knocks on the door. “Is everything okay in there?” a neighbor asked. “Is everything okay? Do you need me to call the police?”
“No! Go the fuck away!” yelled Mandrik as he raised the bottom portion of the dress to his nose and smelled. She would come back to him, he was sure of it. Placing the steak knife back in the kitchen, Mandrik grabbed his Adidas bag and left.

Kelly was bleeding on the carpet and moaning. Tears fell from his eyes. “I don’t want to be a doorman, I don’t want this shit. No. Why? What the fuck? What the fuck?” Kelly started slinking across the floor towards the door. “I just want my own building … my own building … MY OWN FUCKING BUILDING!!!!

And he burst into tears.

Someone was knocking on the door again.

THE BUCKET LIST by Frank Palmcoast

When he's not watching, with beads of sweat, his fellow, legally blind, senior citizens parallel park, Frank Palmcoast is catching seven dollar movies at the local multiplex from sunny Pompano Beach, Florida. He's retired, he's angry at the world, he can't spell to save his life, and he hates Hollywood almost as much as Hilary Clinton, but that will not stop our irreverent, dementia fightin', AARP card carrying everyman from giving us a fresh take on all things Hollyweird. Besides, how can he pass up that marvelous senior citizen discount?

This week ... his take on The Bucket List.

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A great movie about death. Two great elderly actors that handle emotion and the fun parts well. Both actors bear their soles in front of the camera and I really felt what they felt!
I thank god this movie had an ending because many other movies this year didn't. At times for me this was a globe trotting version of Grumpy Old Men. I believe this flick was to be about the way these two older men spend their final days but the film wastes a third of the time hanging out in the hospital. By the way I almost didn't see this movie because of the poor reviews but I'm sure glad I saw it. The acting of course was outstanding and the story was ok and these bad critics need to "FIND THE JOY" and you'll have to see the movie to understand that! For me The Bucket List is a combination of Shawshank Redemption and As Good As It Gets, Go see this movie and you will laugh and shed a few tears. I for one new all about Kopi Luak before I saw this movie and I think this movie would be very hard for someone facing a serious illness. I just loved Nicholson's joke about 3 things old people learn:1) Never pass up a bathroom,2) Never waste an erection and 3)Never, ever trust a fart!
Don't miss it!

Journey To Published (2)

This video blog will chart the progress Brian Hughes will be making to get his novel The Boxpress Manifesto published.

Here's Part 2 of the journey ...

Go here to visit Part (1) of the series.

Prints in Concrete (1)- Dictio Pii

PRINTS IN CONCRETE – Dictio Pii

Looking at works of art and the profound effects it had on me. The analysis will not be geared intensely towards the works themselves, but why I feel I had such a deep response to it.

Markus Schinwald’s film exhibit- Dictio Pii

Date experienced: October 2005

Location: Tate Modern, UK

My second visit to the Tate Modern contained this experience: in one of the film rooms I was drawn in by a deeply haunting, repetitive piece of music, laced with a voiceover which kept the same text, but spoken by different people. This is a combination of several descriptions of what I experienced, trying to give a complete summary of a non-narrative:


Dictio pii (2001)
The mysterious and obsessive behavior of seven characters is portrayed in this enigmatic series of films by Austrian artist Markus Schinwald. Schinwald's highly choreographed films follow no logical narrative. Instead the artist weaves together fragmentary stories of disjointed emotions and longings, deliberately invoking narrative stereotypes and cultural clichés. This work, Dictio pii (2001), consists of five films, screened consecutively without any apparent break between them. The action takes place in a vacant hotel where seven characters in various forms of physical constraint move in and out of view with no discernible motivation. Doors open, strangely garbed figures enter through them only to vanish again in the next room. An old lift attendant incessantly brushes dust off his jacket. An aging diva in a white dress with a fetishistic prosthesis around her neck smokes one cigarette after another. A young man perpetuates his artificial smile by gripping a taut silver chain between his teeth. A girl's body inflates pulsatingly, and a man lets a woman bind his arms. The images are accompanied by a male voice, intoning a cryptic philosophical monologue. No individual film contains a cohesive story, although the same characters re-appear throughout the sequence. Schinwald has worked in sculpture, dance, fashion, film, and performance. Much of his work alludes to psychoanalysis, and a fascination with the power of gestures. In Dictio pii, the repeated, and more or less meaningless sequences of actions performed by the various characters, create the chilling and compelling mood of a dream or nightmare.

I know I tried my best to transcribe the repeated voiceover dialogue, seemingly coming from the minds of each inhabitant. Though my details weren’t exact, I have found the speech online:

We are the perfume of corridors
Unfamiliarised with isolated activity
Traitors of privacy.

We are Utopian craftsmen
Scope heeled diplomats, pretty beggars
Not the product of poverty
We don't take from anyone.

We are pillared by mild sadness and polymorphic history
Eternally skeptical,
But We Believe.

We are immortal volunteers
Living in the sensation of being everything
And the certitude of being nothing.

We are just an outline.

We disband prompted paths of movement
Extend our bodies,
Become abysmal dancers.

We are illiterate of perfection, following the curves of belief.

Interested only in the gestures of bending.
Scaffolded postures,obscene geometry.
Frozen irony.

We are deranged.

Run in a continuous loop, purposefully obscuring a beginning/ending, later I found this was its purpose:

If I were to make a movie, then it would probably tell a story. My films, however, especially Dictio Pii, do not have a beginning or an end. They only really consist of a middle part. It’s a kind of pseudo-narration in which certain acts are alluded to, but not carried out; it’s a kind of artificial ruins, as though one had removed the scenes from the script that were moving the plot forward, just taken them away and left the rest. -M.S.

And yet the hotel connects them all, even if emptied of purpose. Apt, considering how a hotel is a temporary resting ground where none call home.

I spent, I believe, a full hour in the exhibit. It could have been longer. I am not sure how many people walked in and out of the exhibit, though many stayed for a period coming close to mine.

Its immediate conscious attraction was absolutely its soundtrack. Two long strings of music that seem to carry off and echo until they are replaced by new variations of the same note… eerie, haunting, longing, melancholy. If the aftereffect of throwing a rock into a pond had its own sonic signature besides its surface sound, it could be this track. Slow, liquid, flowing, slowly dissipating.

The most recent comparison I can give it are the tracks contained in composer Mark Isham’s soundtrack for the 40’s set noir, The Public Eye..which are also full of longing, summarized by the feeling of walking down a long alley alone at night while a city sleeps. (Search itunes for “The Public Eye” and you’ll hear the comparison if comparing it to Pii.)

This was and is a favorite piece of music for me, connected to deeply emotional times in my life. Naturally there has been an unconscious reminder of these times.

This music/soundscape of Dictio Pii also suggested to me the consistent passing of days, watching the sun come up and descend as we rush through our lives(even though it also suggests such slowness and stillness). Often I can feel the world is passing me by, and moving on without me when I feel I'm not making progress in life. In a way, that perfectly ties into what Schinwald states above, that his films seem to inhabit a middle ground where the elements moving the plot forward had been removed. The character(s) in this film certainly feel like they were left there, and there's a shocking sense of emptiness in the broader shots of the hotel. The people, and their purposes, moved on. Only these characters/symbols remain.

Constriction, paralysis, and being trapped in an open space are themes the visuals immediately suggest. “Trapped” is another theme I’ve found myself to be obsessed with, in creative work and in life. Whether trapped financially, emotionally, mentally, I’ve experienced/observed it in various degrees as we all have. Characters/symbols in Dictio Pii are imprisoned in repetition; whether through gestures, phrases, or poses.

I realized it was the body language that really kept me in that room, though. Some time has gone by with me pondering just why.

After some research into the artist recently I stumbled upon a breakthrough of sorts; unfortunately it’s not as to why this particular instance haunts me, but what it is: Schinwald’s work touches on (while I believe it's not intended as a direct expression of) Freud’s theory of The Uncanny, which until this week I had not read a proper articulation of.

The concept of an instance where something can be familiar, yet foreign at the same time, resulting in a feeling of it being uncomfortably strange. Because the uncanny is familiar, yet strange, it often creates cognitive dissonance within the experiencing subject due to the paradoxical nature of being attracted to, yet repulsed by an object at the same time. This cognitive dissonance often leads to an outright rejection of the object, as one would rather reject than rationalize.

For myself, it’s much more of an opposing balance of rationalization and rejection. I was uncomfortable in that room and that’s also a reason I stayed.

Over the years, through articles I have written and films/stories I have kept returning to, is a deep-seated fascination and fear of this subject. A human figure doing anything but learned, ‘human’ behavior or movement patterns is something I have always found compelling and deeply disturbing. Filmmakers like David Lynch have repeatedly tapped into this; his symbolic doppelgangers in the third and final episodes of Twin Peaks could be the best visual depictions of this; though any time something that touches on The Uncanny has crossed my path, I’ve gravitated towards it. I studied books on the paranormal as a teen; often in ‘eyewitness reports’ of strange beings are reports of ‘humans’ moving in ways they shouldn’t, with no context, or communicating in a way that suggests an imitation of English, and not an articulation. The 2002 adaptation of John Keel's The Mothman Prophecies hints at elements the novel depicts; characters that look human but are "wrong." Entities that repeat the same phrase for an hour.













Lynch and Schinwald both depict through their choreography, a world where otherwise banal situations come off as quite alien and disturbing. Both feel expert in their depiction of psychic or emotional states manifested in their physical equivalent. And yet Pii doesn't feel an homage or tribute to Lynch. Though it's the feelings of the Uncanny, combined with the haunting music, and its multilayered depictions of 'trapped' that have made me return to the memories of experiencing Dictio Pii again and again..

Brief interview with Markus Schinwald re: the uncanny and Dictio Pii

Short, small sized clip of Dictio Pii intended to highlight the soundtrack
(click on the middle white stripe, under 'projekte' click on Dictio Pii)

Larger, low resolution version of the same clip- direct access



-Adam

The Boxpress Music Time Show with Brian Hughes

Show #1: "Fly Me To The Moon"
Brian Hughes begins his weekly radio podcast by playing and dissecting three seminal versions of the classic Bart Howard popular standard "Fly Me to the Moon (in other words)".

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Bedbugs XIV

Bedbugs XIV







Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.


Click here for last week's Bedbugs.







Onstage I was happy to say that "Millington" was petals that
came off envy, knowing any words I wrote on the beach
pay for it and get out! Mental vegetation encouraged
as all triumphant knowings, bristles painful to run
though challenge me and my forgotten friend like no other
world in the world. Spies rust over like everything else.
Sleeping nine hours a day, waking to find yours stuck in
the moment you said "Well, I've lost." Stacks of hundreds of
dreams are in the hallway. One day motivation will
get them collected. Building's mortar listed by thieves
waiting on all four corners of the box. My watch works
fine on every page...last smile you get today.






Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:








-Anthromorphic and ready to save
-wild night all in your head
-Friday alone
-all of them blur together
-she somehow finds humor in it
-only room for six of them in the truck
-I don't even know me

The Throes (Part 2)

Click here for The Throes (Part 1)

The Throes
Part 2:
"I'm Bleeding...I think"

It’s morning. John’s cell phone is ringing. He is passed out on this bed, naked. He finally hears it and jumps up, grabbing it off the dresser.
John/Hello?
He has to hold his right arm out to the wall to support himself. He looks like he is going to pass out.
Voice on Phone/I hope you are happy with yourself.
It’s Sammy.
J/What?
He feels something on his leg. He looks down. There is dried blood all over the lower half of his body. He looks at the bed. There is dried blood all over the sheets.
Sammy on phone/Some friend you are.
John feels his legs for some place where the blood is coming from.
J/Sammy? Hold on man, I’m bleeding…I think.
S/Good. I hope you’re fucking bleeding good, ya drunk bastard.
John can’t find a cut. Something’s weird. He puts his blood covered finger to his nose, takes a sniff, and then licks it.
J/Its Ketchup.
S/What?
J/Sammy, seriously man, tell me what happened. Why is there ketchup all over my bed?
S/How the fuck do I know. Ketchup? That is fucking ironic considering you went home with Mustard.
An image comes rushing back to John. He was out the night before with Sammy and two girls that they playfully code-named ‘Mustard’ and ‘Ketchup’, one a blonde and the other a redhead. John was integral to Sammy’s plan, for it was unsure to Sammy which one was going to take a liking to him, with John’s role as “caretaker” of the other. But at some point in the night ‘Ketchup’ must have fled, leaving the single image in John’s mind of a very uncomfortable Sammy watching as ‘Mustard’ flirts with John.
J/She went home with me?
S/You really don’t remember? Are you being serious? She’s not there?
J/No. I’m sorry man. I really don’t know what happened. And now there’s ketchup all over my bed. I gotta stop drin-
S/Whatever man, I gotta go.
J/Shit, man-
Sammy hangs up. John puts the phone down. He looks back at the sheets. It looks like a murder scene. He shakes his head.

_______________________________________________________________________


John enters Mr. Flynn’s home office. He’s got a cup of coffee in his hand. He is not looking good.
Mr. Flynn jumps up from his desk. He pushes John back out the door into the hall.
Mr. Flynn/Didn’t you get my text? You gotta get out of here.
In all the Ketchup hoopla John must have skipped his message.
J/No I didn’t get it. What’s the matter?
MF/She doesn’t want you in the house anymore.
J/Who?
MF/My wife. This whole thing backfired. She demands that I fire you. She told me you came on to her and she will never feel comfortable around you again.
John is floored. How could she do that? Why? He doesn’t know how to react.
J/Can’t you talk to her.
MF/She won’t listen to anything I have to say.
J/No, I mean, can’t you tell her the truth?
Mr. Flynn laughs like that is the silliest suggestion ever.
MF/Good one.
J/So, that’s it? I’m fired.
MF/John, you did exactly what I asked you to do. You are a loyal confidant to me. I can’t let you go. Just stay away for now. Let some time pass. She’ll cool down.
John has to hide his anger. What the hell is she up to? Why would she do this to him?
Behind Mr. Flynn’s shoulder, Kira’s bedroom door opens. She pops her head out, locks eyes with John, starts shaking her head and mouthing the word “No”. John tries not to let his eyes linger on her so Mr. Flynn won’t notice she’s there. He’s confused.
MF/This is all my fault. I should have realized my wife is an honest woman. I will not let you suffer for my mistake. (lowering his voice) But you have to leave immediately.

______________________________________________________________________


John is ascending the subway steps, checking the text message that has come in. It’s from Sammy. John freezes.
“Cops were here. They are coming to your apartment.”
John jogs to his apartment building. There is a cop car double parked out front. He keeps his distance. He is about to call Sammy when another text comes in from him.
“Mustard never came home. No one knows where she is.”
John’s ketchup-stained hand starts to tremble.

to be continued...

The Story Slice: "Can You Please Teach Me How To Die Well?"

by Brian Hughes

Hans Stogler was excited. Friday had arrived, work was done, and all that was left for him to do was make good use of his thousand dollar Brooks Brothers gift card. Hans hadn’t bought new clothes for himself in some time. The company bonus check, along with the gift card, had been included in a holiday envelope. Somehow Hans had been able to convince his company that he worked harder than he did. This made him smile.

“Where are the three shirts for a hundred and fifty-nine dollars?” Hans asked a tall, rather austere looking salesman wearing a Golden Fleece two-button suit. He measured Hans’ arm and neck, then walked him over to a huge wall of dress shirts.
“Our sale selections are just over here, sir. Would you be interested in a traditional fit, or a slim fit?”
Hans didn’t know. “Traditional.”
“English Spread collar, wing collar, tab collar, button-down collar, or plain collar?”
“Button-down please.” Hans hated how the wing collars turned upwards and downwards after several washes, stiffening like a dead penguin. Button-down held the collars in place. Hans liked that.
The salesman was pulling out a wide variety of shirts when a customer got his attention.
“I’m ready, Sir,” the customer said to the salesman.
“Excuse me, Sir,” the salesman said to Hans.
“No problem, go right ahead,” Hans replied as he searched out his size. He wasn’t at all particular, and he was far from a fashion expert. As long as the shirts were new, had that crisp feeling to them, and were his right size – that was about all that mattered to Hans.

Once Hans picked out twelve shirts, he was led to a wall of casual khaki pants. Hans told the salesman his size and that he was interested in no pleat pants. He tried on a navy blue pair and found them very comfortable. He placed five additional pairs of khaki’s at the register and was ready to make his purchase.

Hans walked out of Brooks Brothers with two heaping bags of new clothes. It was a good beginning to the new year. The Connecticut evening was unusually warm for January as he walked briskly to the Metro North train station at Stamford. Hans unbuttoned his wool overcoat and let the light wind blow through it.

It was then he remembered his cell phone. There was a message. It was from Doctor Lehman. As Hans listened to what the doctor said, he slowed his pace down. By the time the Doctor had finished, Hans had slowed down to a complete stop. His stare was vacant as he closed his phone. He wanted to cry, but couldn’t – instead the wind hit his eyes and welled them up for him. He shook his head and began walking again – slowly, but distracted. Why did I wait, he thought.

Early the next morning, as a matter of formality, Hans visited Doctor Lehman – confirming what he already knew. Then, he caught the 10:07 am train north. Sitting inside a closed conference room, Hans sat with his superiors and told them about his uncertain future:

“Take all the time you need Hans.”
“Thank you, Harry. I appreciate it.”
“And if we can be of any assistance to you, both emotionally and financially – don’t hesitate.”
“That means a lot.”

Hans got back on the train and headed south to Grand Central. He was hoping to get some shuteye on the trip back home, but it was impossible. Instead, he took his iPod out of his coat and listened to some of his favorite classical compositions. He decided that if he wanted to feel bad about himself, at least once, it was his right. He earned it. And as the strings soared mellifluously through his ears, he scrunched up his legs against the train seat and began to cry. It was a good cry. All fifty-five minutes of it.

The first shirt was far too big. He had begun to regret buying the traditional fit. After trying on the second, egg colored, shirt, and that too did not fit, he knew the rest of the shirts would be a washout. Should he return them? What would be the use of that, he thought to himself. He only wore button-down shirts at work. The khaki’s fit perfectly – he’d hold on to those.

After listening to several podcasts of lectures on Buddhism, on the futility of possessions and the necessity of simplicity, Hans had a hankering to throw his entire apartment away: all the books he never read, all the albums and the cds of those albums, his matchbook collection from restaurants he visited all over the world – all of them were small beans to him now.

The only desire he had at that moment, standing small in front of everything he owned, was to sit and meditate. Hans hadn’t sat in more than two years, having abandoned his faith for the internet long ago. So he sat for twenty minutes, hearing the rumbling in his stomach and the discursive thoughts running through his mind. I’m not ready, he thought. I’m not ready.

After a successful stoop sale, in which he sold off most of his music and all of his books, Hans grabbed his Brooks Brothers shirts and headed to the nearest Good Will center. The thought that someone less fortunate than he would enjoy his new, crisp Brooks Brothers shirts brought a smile to his face as he walked down towards 14th Street.

When he arrived at the building, he looked up – uncertain and a bit scared. He walked up two flights and knocked on the door. A man dressed in a monk’s garment addressed Hans and asked him inside. After being poured some tea, the two gentlemen walked into a small office and sat down. He didn’t know what to say at first. All he knew was that there were endless self help books on how to live one’s life to the fullest; countless books on how to make lots and lots of money, and make great gains in real estate, but there were few books that taught you how to die well. How does one die well? Dying is important, Hans thought as he looked across the table at the monk and smiled, the monks hands resting calmly in his lap. Dying, or the death of those we love is probably the most important thing we will ever have to face. How do we do it?

“How can I help you today?” The monk asked.
Having first been lost for words, Hans knew exactly what to ask.

Journey To Published (1)

This video blog will chart the progress Brian Hughes will be making to get his novel The Boxpress Manifesto published. 

Here's Part 1 of the journey...

MY VENT ON MEDIA by Frank Palmcoast

When he's not watching, with beads of sweat, his fellow, legally blind, senior citizens parallel park, Frank Palmcoast is catching seven dollar movies at the local multiplex from sunny Pompano Beach, Florida. He's retired, he's angry at the world, he can't spell to save his life, and he hates Hollywood almost as much as Hilary Clinton, but that will not stop our irreverent, dementia fightin', AARP card carrying everyman from giving us a fresh take on all things Hollyweird. Besides, how can he pass up that marvelous senior citizen discount?

Frank is not only pissed at Hollyweird, he's missed at media in general ....

************************************************

I not only feel that it is my duty but my obligation to vent not only on film but all media. The year's end is a time of traditional media happenings: For example, upon tearing away the last page of the calender, the producers use this excuse to recycle hours upon hours of video footage on the pretense that us viewers need to relive the past 365 days and for every minute shown, a minute of advertising? Then theres the matter of reminding us of all who died in the past year! This past year has seen much discrediting of Hollywoods protesting of everything. Hollyweird wants everyone to think and act like Barbara Streisand but their efforts seam to be faltering. Americans may not be keen on the Iraq war but they appear even less keen on hearing Hollywood's opinion on it. Movie's like Lion's for Lambs and Redacted failed miserably, especially the latter which grossed a paltry $65,000. When Anna Nicole Smith died I thought the world would see less of bimboism but then Britney Spears and now her sister
gained such fame and Britney lost custody of her children. Even Oj Simpson
didn't lose custody of his children. Well for now, as we say in the business, that's a rap!