Well, dear readers, the smell of the Mary Jane cigarettes is in the air, thanks to the kiddies who live across the street when they’re not in school. I do not like the smell of the Mary Jane cigarettes, the marijuana, the pot, I do not like that smell at all. But that’s what they do, these little kiddies – they stand out there, sometimes skateboard, sit in their cars, which take up most of the parking spaces, have their chums over constantly, and the summer cannot come to an end quickly enough. I wonder how I have managed to go my sixty-seven years without ever having taken a puff of the marijuana cigarettes? I wonder how I have never had the cocaine or the heroin or uppers and downers and dolls. I haven’t even had a Valium. I have disdain for drugs and I have since I first became aware of them. I had incredible pressure put on me when I was young – I was laughed at, castigated, made to feel like I was some outcast, all because I didn’t want to join anyone in smoking the marijuana cigarettes and whatever else they were doing. Why? Why was I so adamant? Because why do I need something artificial to do ANYTHING to me? I don’t. I never have, I never will. Some say, “It relaxes me.” I can relax all by my lonesome without anything. Some say, “I love being high.” I say I can be higher than you without doing anything because I have, you know, a brain and a personality and I use it howsoever I choose. I don’t actually care WHAT they say. You’d think after all this time that this stuff would just go away, but it doesn’t because kids think this is hip and with it and it makes them feel like they’re one of the crowd. Sorry, Charlie, I have never wanted to feel like I’m one of the crowd and I never will. I don’t do a pack mentality. I don’t run with the herd, but sometimes the herd runs with me. I just go about my business and have never cared whether that business is in or out. I have come up with projects or things and have been laughed at. I’ll give you an example: When I decided not to play the conventional publishing game with my first novel, I went with a print on demand publisher because a) I wouldn’t have to wait three years to see my book published IF we could even find a publisher who’d want what one idiot agent called a “soft” book – she loved it, but didn’t want to handle it because “soft” wasn’t in right at that point in time. Well, other authors I knew looked askance, told me I’d be hurting myself and thought it was literary suicide. Well, guess who was right and guess who was wrong. Me and them, in that order.
The first three books, everyone reacted like that. But I knew, I saw where things were heading, and by the fourth book, books published by my publisher, the print on demand company, were on the best seller list. Oops. They bought up every other print on demand company and became huge – they are now owned by – wait for it – a REAL publisher. All those people who were derisive have changed their damn tune, but would never actually say to me, “Gee, guess I was wrong.” They just couldn’t see it, but I could, and now we have major authors doing the same thing I did in 2001. I now get asked all the time about that world and how to do it. Funny how things change. What won’t change is my loathing of the marijuana cigarettes and other drugs. What won’t change is my ever needing to do what’s in or hip. I can’t imagine being a kid today and the pressure they must feel to be part of the herd. Sami and I had a lot of discussions about it and especially drug and sex peer pressure – thankfully, she’s her own girl and is strong enough to tell those idiots to go take a hike. A lot of that attitude made it into Welcome to My World, because I wanted Molly to be a role model, just like I wanted Adriana Hofstetter to be a role model. In any case, the kiddies across the street, home from whatever sickening college they’re attending, are behaving like twelve-year-olds because, I suppose, twenty is the new twelve. And so, they’re out there with their skateboards, their BMWs and their marijuana cigarettes, which they gleefully smoke on the street without a care in their entitled world. End of rant.
Yesterday, I finally got ten hours of blessed sleep, arising at noon. I really needed it, too. I did some stuff on the computer, worked on this little song I’m writing, then I did a jog. Then I had a little meeting during which I ate a patty melt and no fries or onion rings. Then I came home, did some more work on the computer, and had a quick second meeting. Once all that was through, I finally sat on my couch like so much fish.
Last night, I watched two motion pictures on the Flix of Net. When I’d watched It Follows, I looked up the other credits of its leading actress, Maika Monroe. She had a film out last year called The Guest that starred Dan Stevens from Downton Abbey. As it happened, it showed up on Netflix so I watched it. It was mostly a very bad movie, although Mr. Stevens was so far from Matthew Crawley that that was occasionally fun. And Miss Monroe was again very good. Most of the rest of the cast were not to my liking at all. The script was rather silly, and the direction standard issue and yet another director enamored and obsessed with John Carpenter, both visually and musically. The last fifteen minutes of the film were, for me, so bad it was not to be believed. They have a Halloween kind of maze, supposedly in the high school auditorium – this maze was like a ride at Disneyland and it was preposterous. Obey the damn laws of your universe – screenwriting 101. The story was okay, but ultimately very unsatisfying because there was no one to really like or root for. Of course, distributors who saw the film at some festival fell all over themselves to buy it. The winner can’t be very happy, since the film grossed under $400,000 here in the US and didn’t do much more anywhere else. Oops. Although, it’s rather hilarious to find that the film got pretty much raves from this generation’s lame critics. I believe the director made a horror film before this – apparently that has gone to his head because he, in an interview, actually says that he wasn’t sure he wanted Dan Stevens because he was too thin and that he gave him the role only with the understanding that he’d bulk up for the film. Sorry, chum, who are you again? I know who Dan Stevens is and I’m sure he was offered to you and you jumped at it and then he did whatever he did on his own. I just don’t believe Mr. Stevens was groveling before this director. Maybe I’m wrong.
I then watched another motion picture on Netflix, entitled A Simple Plan, starring Bill Paxton, Billy Bob Thornton, and directed by Sam Raimi. I’d never seen it or heard of it. Well, I thought it was pure and utter dreck from frame one to the end credits. The characters are so unrelentingly stupid that you just sit there wondering how much MORE stupid they can get (and they do get more stupid). It’s about two brothers (think George and Lenny from Of Mice and Men, with Billy Bob as Lenny), and one of Billy Bob’s friends, a fat, loudmouth drunk. Oh boy. Oh joy. They find a crashed plane, and discover there’s four million bucks in a bag. They take it. I think you can probably connect the dots from there. The script was just horrible, the direction was okay (the brilliant visual conceit was to make the color film more like monochrome with just color here and there – like that’s so unique – perhaps they’d never hears of Track of the Cat), and Danny Elfman, the composer, his conceit was an orchestra made up of strings and flutes and a little percussion, and three de-tuned pianos – very original, the de-tuned pianos unless, that is, you’ve seen Wait Until Dark. But it’s all for naught, these conceits. But here’s the shocker. I always enjoy reading about these things. Apparently, this was a novel that Mike Nichols read pre-publication – he optioned it. What appealed to him in this story is anyone’s guess, but after the novel’s author turned in what was apparently a horrible screenplay, Nichols left. Then Ben Stiller was set to direct, and he apparently worked with the author for nine months on the screenplay. After, the author said Ben Stiller taught him everything about screenwriting. Say what? At that point in his career, Ben Stiller had written almost nothing, nor had he directed much. But, if what’s on view is what Mr. Stiller taught the author, then it’s all very understandable. Then John Dahl was the director, and then finally Mr. Raimi. I thought other than Mr. Paxton and Bridget Fonda, that the cast was blah. Then I come to find that this film’s screenplay was nominated for an Oscar! And Billy Bob Thorton’s supporting performance was, too. Watch the film and tell me if that makes any kind of sense to you, or if it’s just what the Academy has devolved to. Anyway, I thought it was just awful, and while the critics fell all over themselves to praise it, it flopped at the box-office.
After that, I just relaxed and did stuff on the computer, then went and put my motor car away, which is when the heady aroma of the Mary Jane cigarettes wafted in my direction.
Today, I have to jog in the morning, then I have to grab a bite to eat, and then we have our first Kritzerland rehearsal, which I’m very much looking forward to. After that, I have a meeting at seven, which I may or may not go to depending on how tired I am after rehearsal.
Tomorrow I lunch with Kay Cole. Wednesday we have a Kritzerland rehearsal for two singers who can’t make today’s rehearsal. Thursday I have a lunch then it’s our second Kritzerland rehearsal. Then we have our stumble-through on Saturday and Sunday is sound check and show.
Well, dear readers, I must take the day, I must do the things I do, I must, for example, do a jog, eat, have a rehearsal and maybe attend a meeting. Today’s topic of discussion: What highly praised films can you personally not stand? Let’s have loads of lovely postings, shall we, whilst I hit the road to dreamland, where I shall not dream of the heady aroma of the Mary Jane cigarettes.