I can't help it, if I wanted to,

I can't help it even if I could

I've begun packing. The wife is useless, mostly by my proclamations. We found a house. But finances be tight. We've got to make good on our year lease (we got something of a sweetheart deal), and the wife has a nest egg, but things are in transition. And I find like my parent's marriage, I keep afloat, and she's the saver. But then again she makes so much more than me. Which is an issue, but there you go. I have too many fucking DVD's, so this is another chance to box them up. It looks like everything will be closed up by the end of June, so we'll probably be able to move in by August. We are getting some work done on it, but it's minor things. And now I have weekend plans to baby proof a room.

Look, honestly, I don't want to live in Burbank. I never did. The commute (if I keep it up) will be that much quicker, but this house is a temporary solution to our long term problems. And I hate thinking of myself as a deadbeat dad. LA friends, I will get you drunk if you give a helping hand. FYI. The place is slightly better than my condo, and a little bit more space. I showed it to my mom, who was in town for the weekend. We commiserated over LA prices.

I took her to the MOCA. Preston Fairy was there for a signing. Real heads who know the deal know that "we" were the Preston Fairy of Snakes on a Plane. But there was a Robert Rauschenberg exhibit, and I must say I almost cried looking at Factum I and II. The idea of the piece was that Rauschenberg wanted to show that his art was not the act of randomness that others may have suggested. But in the two versions, there are millions of little differences. So much of creating art is creating failure. So much of art is trying to create precision in randomness. So much of art is instinct mixed with discipline. He both succeed and failed miserably. That's great art.

But like, fifty-two cards when I'm, I'm through dealin, Now fifty-two bars come it, now you feel 'em

You gotta get, that, dirt off your shoulder

I GOT PLUGGED VOL.1
From the Criterion newsletter:
"Rough edged, combative, and honest, Marco Bellocchios 1965 I Pugni in tasca (Fists in the Pocket) has the jangly assault of a punk-rock album. The DVD Journal"

As linked above (here) I did review me some Cemetery Man and it was hard in trying to get it all in. Sometimes when I write, well, shit, like anything it's feast or famine. What was so hard wasn't the actual writing, per se, but trying to live up to a film that I adore so completely. There are few films that are so much a part of who I am. I have learned and stolen a lot from it. "He's only eating me! Mind you business, I shall be eaten by whomever I chose!"

But the shot I love best, the shot that made me fall in love was Dellamorte, after putting a heater under a blanket of the final version of She, goes to his car and lights a cigarette. As he does so the flames from the house hit the window just as he's lighting his smoke. It's one of my favorite moments in all of cinema. And like Truffaut said, it's not literature, it's not painting. It's fucking cinema.

One of the harder reviews I've ever had to write

This shit's gonna be hard.

Why? Why?

Tell them that it's human nature Why? Why? Does he do me that way?