So, I’m supposed to start a new weekly editorial series in a couple weeks. I’ll have a platform to write just about whatever I want as long as I can somewhat relate it to film. Or, at least that’s what I’m hoping for, but it remains to be seen if that becomes reality. I have these warped ideas of what I will write about, and it is possible (read: very likely) they will all be denied and I will be forced to resort to writing the same kind of film analysis as the other “film critics” or else be kicked out entirely.
I should note that this is a non-paying, volunteer position and the only reason I am even doing it is because I am a narcissistic son of a bitch who wants to increase the number of eyeballs on my words and my mind. Therefore, it won’t really interest me too much to compromise on these articles. Inherently, I would like to write a more streamlined version of these film responses that I am doing here. At least at first it would be streamlined because, like everything I do, the longer I do it the more random, unusual, and downright demented it becomes.
It’s a compulsion for chaos, I think. An odd desire to see the good fail and the bad succeed and the sky fall and the seas boil and all of the seven deadly sins doubled and exploding at once. It is also possible (read: very likely) that I am simply a very lazy, scattered person and am unable to focus for long periods of time on a topic anyone other than myself would be interested in.
What does it mean when you are your own greatest fan? Does this mean the rest of the world is wrong, or does it mean you are a fucking idiot? Certainly I enjoy reading my own work, but it may be because I insert so many inside jokes and bizarre asides that I can’t help but laugh. It also doesn’t hurt that I get to read my own writing in my own voice with my own vocal inflections and sound effects and mental images flowing freely like the alcohol at a politician’s wedding.
And asides like that are exactly part of the problem. Because here I sit, at my computer, at my desk, in my room, in my house, on my property, in Central Jersey, on the East Coast, in the United States, on Earth, and in the solar system spinning through the blank ether, simply giggling like a small child who has eaten too much candy. It’s the jokes that no one will understand that are the funniest. No, no, it’s the jokes that aren’t even jokes that are the funniest.
The insane streams of dialogue that really have no meaning at all except in a very particular portion of my mind that exists in Bizarro world.
I just finished reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. It’s an easy read, very short and very entertaining and I feel more than a small kinship with Hunter S. Thompson and his tendency to go off the rails literally and figuratively. It’s also funny that the library keeps it under the “Biography” section – it has to be one of the least informative (at least in the traditional sense) biographies ever written. Partly because it’s not even a fucking biography. Maybe call it non-fiction because it has moments of truth or call it fiction because it has moments of insane imagination, or call it something else entirely because it refuses to distinguish between the two. Which is a concept that is very important to me. To be able to write and express and send out my vibrations and words without regard for people’s actual concept of Truth or Fiction or Reality. Fuck all that. We’re writing here and we are looking for something that people will pick up and read and maybe laugh a bit and maybe even cause the person to wonder what kind of drugs the author was taking.
But what is true and what is not? Hey, we’ll never know (alright you could just ask me and I’ll tell you…) we just are here for the ride and the feelings and to see where the story goes.
But for the record, I don’t think it’s very hard to tell when I am telling the truth and when I am talking out of my ass.
But also for the record, I recognize that I have a very poor judge of fact and fiction and after so many years and beers it all sort of blends together anyway.