mon cœur brisé

mon cœur brisé
Originally uploaded by cgfrangos.

Well, I had an almost bad Christmas (but was rescued by a last-minute invite to my friend's family's house for dinner) so why shouldn't I have an equally as almost-bad New Year's Eve? Considering I had no plans for tonight, it's almost nine o'clock p.m., and I'm still reeling from some bad news I received last night, I can't see this picking up and turning into some happy Pee Wee's Playhouse-type environment anytime soon. In fact, I've never had a good New Year's Eve. Not a one. Another night, another needle. Another year, another chagrin.

Playing poker with my parents and sister while eating Spanikopita with a foil-wrapped quarter embedded in the middle of the pie (for good luck in case you're wondering) while I was still in elementary school was fun, but I didn't know any better then. I wish that still satisfied me. It simply does not. It can't. I'm not meant to live my childhood for the entirety of my adult life. I'm not saying I need to go out, smoke, and drink but it's nice to exercise the options from time to time. And when thee biggest night to just let loose and enjoy your life up until that point comes and goes every single fucking year without so much as a modicum of fanfare, it essentially makes every day, every night, every year, every life blend into every other. Listening to Pink Floyd in my bedroom when I was a teenager growing up in Pennsauken, New Jersey was somehow an act subversive and full of hope yet listening to "See Saw" on iTunes on New Year's Eve (without the obvious Pink Floyd listening aides) makes me wonder what went to so horribly wrong. Not wrong so much as dull, and tedious, and without spirit.

I do remember being invited to hang out with a friend and his girlfriend to watch the ball drop on television (good ol' Dick Clark and his Rockin' New Year's Eve (is he dead yet?)), but the other friend that I had to pick up on the way had me waiting in my car until a hair after 11:58pm. So I drove back home because the fun of shouting "Happy New Year's" in a different habitat was robbed from me at that point. Sure, I could have waited for him to finally ready himself and, as we drove, shouted it on the 5 minute trip to said destination instead, but I wasn't in the mood at that point. It was as if I were Ultraman and had been on Earth for more than 3 minutes with my Color Timer blinking the entire range of colors one might find in a box of 64 Crayola Crayons (and I'm talking the the lame colors that no one uses like Chartreuese. When Ultraman flashes Cerulean, time is up and all hope for saving mankind is lost).

Then I lived with someone who was frightened to leave the house on New Year's Eve during the Y2K scare (didn't missiles get accidentally deployed or all money loose value or something? I'll bet you a can of tuna and a roll of duct tape that they didn't) and the following year, post 9-11 . . . forget about it. I was homebound on New Year's once again thanks to Bush-Laden.

Sure I could always go out by myself but where's the fun in that on New Year's Eve? Isn't it supposed to be a fun night out to spend some time with other muppets and contemplate all that you want to accomplish in the oncoming year? I'd probably be in a better mood tonight, but I am constantly being reminded of my "you're a nice guy . . . let's keep this friendly" status. Just like last night. That's the bad news from paragraph numéro un.

Sigh. Sigh, Sigh, my darling.

Every time I get no further . . .

The lyrics to "Like a Friend" by Pulp are some of the best I've ever heard and it just hit me as to why it resonates with me much more than many of the other songs that I love. Three point fifty-seven minutes of pure perfection that I identify with (except for the part about bodies in trunks, although I understand what he's trying to get across). I've been in that situation many times before and the memories, good or bad, swell up within me when I listen to it.
So I've been trying to better identify with the arts by digging for deeper meaning in that which I both create and/or enjoy, cherish, respect. But does all art have to have meaning?
A friend commented on the illustration from my previous post (working title: "Manifesto of Melany") that although he liked it, he wanted to know what was I trying to tell with the drawing and then asked what did I want an audience to get out of it. Great questions that I could not answer. His thoughts, and ways of looking at things, are modern Bohemian whereas I like what I like because I do or don't.
I suppose some of this has to do with the time I met Neil Gaiman at a comic book convention in Philadelphia when I was an impressionable teenager. Repeat:impressionable!
Back then, he was simply a comic book writer. Sure his comics were sophisticated, dark, and nonpareil, but I was a kid who was just learning about art, writing, and films (mostly foreign and usually horror). I was infatuated by auteurs such as Dario Argento, Woody Allen, and David Cronenberg to name just a few. I felt that it was better to talk to him about something non comics-related so I wouldn't come off as a drooling fanboy. As a result, I struck up a conversation with M. Gaiman about Argento's film "Suspiria." What he told me was that he liked it. He also told me that he was once a film critic in years past and that he didn't particularly enjoy that job very much. All he could ever say in a review was whether he liked a film or not. I guess I related to that and, from that point on, decided to figure out many different ways of saying "I like(d) it" rather than figure out what the artists were trying to say. I hope Gaiman wasn't being glib with me to scoot me away.
At 32, I'd rather be more like the tweed jacket/suede elbow patch wearing intelligentsia (favorite word, btw) that I admire and be able to readily quote Pauline Kael to strengten my arguments, drop the name Albert Ellis when appropriate, or recall an NPR segment without using the words "um," "like," or "thing."
"Thingee," on the other hand, is readily acceptable.
Hopefully, this has been the "film thats so bad [you stayed] till the end."

Est-ce possible!

Like a red bull & vodka before hitting the road at four in the morning, early morning doctor's appointments and days off don't mix. They're alright if you want to hold onto your vacation days from an inflexible "time accrued" policy at work but when you get up and realize that going to the gym early in the morning is a no-can-do, it starts to chip away at your "day of full activity before returning to the daily grind." My daily grind is 7am-3:30. At least I can do the "gym thing" after work and not have it eat into my night. Normally. Sometimes. It's usually the difference between the "bare essentials at the express-line work out" and "doing it like the book says." Going through motions vs. feel the burn.

Kinda like a marriage. Haw haw. I'm so funny.

Today I am going to continue reading "Shalimar the Clown" by Salman Rushdie and hopefully get back to my illustration of a woman with confused political ideologies. See above picture. It's a work-in-progress, so please leave comments if you'd like, although the political leanings/hypocrocies aren't evident yet. Look how fashionable the Marxist trend-setter is. How she smokes like an actress from a New Wave French film. Elle est tellement branché! I think I'm going to call it "Manifesto of Melany." Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?

Last night, I had a great time over coffee with a new friend. And when the java joint closed shop and kicked us out, this particular great coffee & chat moved over to a nearby diner for a slice of late night pie. My silly need to reference the pop culture of my youth had me ordering a cherry pie warmed (is lava-hot technically "warm?") in the spirit of Agent Dale Cooper. I forgot to say "damn fine cup of coffee." Since I didn't get the pie and coffee at the same time, I am forgiven for the oversight.

I can't wait for my book club to meet this week. We will be talking about "Holidays on Ice" by David Sedaris. I thought the first story was extremely funny. The third story was extremely good. The rest were darkly amusing. He good.

It's just a pull on the left. Then a pinch to the ri-i-i-i-ight.

In a mood, or moment, of self-improvement I've decided to get into shape. Better shape (i.e. other than circle). Yay me. So far, I've managed to shrink my stomach to a point where I now eat the once inadequate suggested serving size amounts and become full. Comfortably full. Like a gourmand's version of the Pink Floyd song as opposed to a 70's prog rocker's one (puff puff, drop drop). The classic nourishment vs. narcotic debate, wouldn't you agree? In setting out goals for my transformation, I feel like that was an important one to start with.

Anywho . . . I've been going back to the gym with pretty consistent attendance. The next time I'll be going is on Tuesday, after work. Until then, I have to live with and in my world of pain. Not a "pain= gain" positive discomfort, rather a "what the hell was I thinking= didn't sleep at all Friday night" outright hurt. It all satrted with a sled hack squat, not concentrating on form, and looking down when I shouldn't have in an instant of self-doubt. In the mortal words of many an asterisked 60's comic book editorial note, "'Nuff said."

I pulled or pinched something in my neck. Owie, fuckin' ow ow ow. I've been reduced to eating Tylenol like it's candy corn (mmmmm, candy corn) and moving my head in a fashion better suited for Robocop. I'm sure it'll go away by next weekend so I can both draw from a model at this swanky artists' sketch group AND help my friend's sister move from one Brooklyn apartment to the other. Or at least I hope it will.

Donations of muscle relaxers accepted.

Law of Inertia Magazine

Law of Inertia Magazine
Originally uploaded by cgfrangos.

Although today's video games look and play so much better now (and that is debatable), they were so much more special back when they looked like this. Discuss amongst yourselves or add comments.

Perhaps

Like a defeated Marxist who embraces capitalism, I'm posting my first ever blog (for reals) as opposed to blogging lite on Myspace, the online version of an impenetrable high school clique. Maybe I will write more often on here and thus stoke whatever literary fires I once had. Maybe I will post some artwork (done well or not) or talk about books I'm currently reading at a snail's pace. Maybe I'll just use this here blog to shake loose creativity that's been crammed into the furthest corners of my mind throughout a mindless forty hours spent at work. Who knows? Let's see what good comes of this.