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Poesía Sin Fin (Endless Poetry) - Alejandro Jodorowsky
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Film
- Hits: 1143
Because I've seen almost everything he's made, and I want to see more, and I'll believe it to be genius until I realize otherwise...
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A bad film by Jodorowsky is still, by a long shot, better than any great film by Hollywood.
In a dead man's house...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 1929
It's a bit surreal, this, after a few nights couch surfing to end up here.
The owner's girlfriend, her father just died...74...unexpected, out of the blue, last week...the house, it's unoccupied, in the NE corner of the city, last 'burb before Stoney Trail, a bad hood filled with the tiny boxes that would forever inspire one against home ownership...
It's bleak. The fridge is full, packed with foods that will never be eaten. He wasn't expecting it either. A lunchbox, packed for the no-tomorrow. A bologna sandwich that slowly turns green over my extended weeks. The basement, he was a proper doomsday prepper, there are stacks of toilet paper, canned goods, potato chips, every imaginable supply to get you comfortably through the first months after a nuclear holocaust. Think "Cloverfield Lane". And there's the liquor, fully stocked as well, multiple bottles of all the bar standards, Vodka, Gin, Rum, Dark Rum...other, stranger liquors, "You'd be doing me a favour..." she tells me, "watching the house and all, and seeing that the walks are shoveled and it looks lived in...",... "Never mind I'll take it" I tell her.
There's no internet here, and I've recourse only to the liquor in the basement and the few books I've packed along and a few more I find along the way...
Not that there's that much time. I'm mostly at work, 12 hours a day, it's not worth the returning home between shifts, traffic, the 20 KM drive, better to stay at work, really, it's just a place to sleep.
But I need more than that. 5 weeks here, staring down the kittens and the merry monks, it's making me mad...
There are cabinets filled with the knick-knacks and collectibles of yesteryear...
Every bathroom is filled with crocheted cozies, to hide the toilet paper, to catch the splashes from the sink, the shower, every bathroom is a living bacteriological mat...
The indecency of toilet paper, discreetly concealed beneath a fashionable red crocheted top hat...
I know, my grandparents had their place similarly done, it was an era, for sure, the make-work and home-improvements done by the dutiful housewife...
There are the innumerable stuffed animals, the kind you won at fairs a long time ago, stuffed with sawdust, and there are the trophies (bowling, other), old family photos, there are the "collector plates" painted with kittens and statues of princesses and kittens all mounted upon the shelves and ledges...
...and even a rather competent oil pastel of a kitten in the bedroom...
I hate it, but I have to grudgingly admit the artist clearly knew their kittens.
The house, it's haunted, finish you're 12 hour shift, come home, avoid touching anything, doing anything, sit at the little encampment you've set up at the kitchen table and drink. Make your notes as you descend even further into the underworld. Read, if you've postponed the drinking, your book, because there's no internet here, no diversion from intelligent thought, realize how far you've fallen, the internet, the sum of all knowledge in - at best - 10 page paragraphs,, it's a different sort of knowledge, knowledge of many superficial things, mostly regarding science and politics, but nothing of depth...
...and without it's distraction, with only the book in front of me and the percolating recollections of notes I used to write, things that used to interest me, and it slowly dawns that I'm becoming shallow...
And it's haunted. When I moved in I closed all the doors to the rooms I would not be entering, the closet door in the master bedroom, did not want to be responsible for cleaning when I left. But a few mornings, a few shifts when I return home from work, the closet door is slid wide open, there's no explanation, there's nothing in there that I need, it doesn't open without considerable force, have to pull it, remount it on it's hinge, before I can coax it into opening, nothing in here at all, the dead man's clothes, but I go to bed it's closed, wake up and it's open, and this is curious.
5, almost 6 weeks. More than I can stand. Not my house, I throw away the food that's obviously turning in the fridge, clean up after myself, time to go. This is madness.
Fussy
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: People
- Hits: 1205
He's a bit fussy, this regular, owns a high end dealership that sells cars to people with more money than imagination.
Fine cars, cars that everyone stops to admire, cars that advertise you're in the midst of a midlife crisis and can afford the very best that money can buy, but you haven't had an erection in 20 years...
You know them.
Immaculately dressed. Shoes, expensive, polished, no scuffs, suit, tailored, coat, brushed, always well put together. You'd expect this if you did what he does.
He's fussy, has a regular table, never has a reservation but expects his table to be held for him regardless. If it's not, or if there are other reservations on "his side" of the restaurant, he might just walk out. Before sitting down he wipes his chair of imaginary crumbs, inspects his wine glass for water spots, he doesn't drink wine, uses it instead for sparkling or soda water, never drinks wine, I've seen him a couple of times, at his staff Christmas party, after only a couple of glasses he's out of control, it's better he doesn't.
He orders, usually something not on the menu, a few sides, he doesn't pay extra, that's how it here, if you can afford to pay you probably won't have to, if you can't, well, don't order it...
He spends nothing, is in 4 to 7 times per week. His own bill, it's small, under $30.00, for us, that's not small, that's tiny. And he's cheap, tipping 15%, really, not worth the time or effort, but sometimes he brings in customers, friends, and they spend money, tip properly, and so you gotta put up with a lot of the bad to get to the good.
By which I mean he's not tough to serve, not a "bad" guy, but he always gets what he wants, and it's easy to be the good guy when your getting your way. The test is when you're not getting what you want, how you respond in the face of adversity, he doesn't do so well there...
He's bought an elk off of some Indians he knows, dropped it off at the restaurant, the owner offered to "help him" clean and quarter it but then the car dealer, he got sick, squeamish, couldn't deal with it, and so the owner cleaned the meat up himself and put it in the freezer and told C**** that he could pick it up anytime. He knew he was being fucked but he just wanted the meat out of his freezer...
It hasn't left the freezer. When he came in the next time he started ordering his Elk in a variety of ways, ground up in hamburgers, as scallopine in various sauces, the owner doesn't like this, it's a pain, the first time he charged him $18.00 for the service. The sauces, the sides of gnocci, vegetables and pasta that accompanied it, C**** queries me on it, "You know it's my Elk?" he asks me, "Does (*the owner) know?" and I tell him yes, he pays, grudgingly, but continues to order it.
He brings in guests, orders his Elk by saying "Tell (*the owner) I want my special Veal", excessive nodding and winking, his guests ask "What's that?" and "I''ll have what he's having" and comedy ensues. C**** doesn't like sharing, it's his Elk, and you see within this small selfishness a real impoverishment of spirit and imagination.
Every day, as he's leaving the owner tells him to take the rest of the Elk, bids the Nephew to carry it out to the car for him, it's cleaned, ready, the owner wants it gone, C**** makes excuses, he's driving a nice car, doesn't want it on the seats, he has a meeting, he faints at the sight of raw meat...
A busy night before Christmas. It's busy, C**** comes in with a couple of the restaurants regular demons, all special orders, C**** his "Special Veal", his buddy, 2 different dishes in varying portions combined as one, his buddy's girlfriend, an old school chef's salad with boiled egg and chicken and bacon and all the fixings...
...they hear the singing in the back, who can't? The owner is letting loose, opinions are being screamed at full volume, they sit hushed and quiet, they know they've taken it a bit far...
...afterwards, time to pay, leave, C**** approaches the owner "I'll pick up my Elk now..." and the owner, still busy, screams at him, another time, he's too busy now, and the sly bastard, he's still got the Elk in the restaurant freezer and is still ordering his special Veal...
The Nephew's Parrot
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Conversations
- Hits: 1118
...and the Nephew tells the story of how when he was 10 years old his family had a parrot, and all the parrot could say was "Fuck You A*****", which it had picked up from his father...
In the smallest of things you can find the greatest of explanations...
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