Mr. Smith Goes To Washington
Okay. Okay, I’ll admit it. I’ve been a bit lax with the posting for a little while lately. And by "lax" I mean not one post. And by a "for little while" I mean for neigh on three weeks. And by lately I mean . . . . But you get the picture. Also, I have given up on that "scheduled posting" shite. I was going to make my blogs shorter and more frequent, but then I decided, as this was "Letters from a Comic Genius," that I was going to write you a letter. I was going to write you a book. I wanted to see your reaction. I wanted to see how it looked. Because, after all, with your red balloon you were a super high-tech jet fighter. I would have written afore mentioned book sooner, but I was unfortunately lost in Amsterdam. But that is not the point of this post! Not that my posts have points . . . . But if one were to try and discern a point, one would discover that it is a tribute to a great friend. But, alas, I am not prepared to delve into that subject yet. So, while I give my fertile brain time to organize my thoughts, I’ll just distract you by giving you the sordid details of my hedonistic night life!
A few nights ago, I can’t remember how many, the past weeks sort of blend into a nostalgia-fun-time blur, I went with my good friend Andrew LeTellier and the lovely Amy McMenamin to Northampton for a return trip to the outrageously unique Pleasant Street Theatre. Quick note on Andrew, though he has made some whopping mistakes, as many of my readers will agree, he is, without a doubt, one of the best human beings I have ever met, heard of, or read about. Quick note on Amy, she’s hot. But I digress. We went to Northampton to see the directorial debut of Scrubs star Zach Braff (Dr. John Dorian, J.D.) in Garden State, which he also wrote and starred in. It’s the story of a young man who returns to his home after a ten year absence to attend his mother’s funeral and undergoes a kind of second adolescence, making up for his lost childhood by adventuring around the suburbs and coming to grips with his problems. Natalie Portman, so dreadful in the two recent Star Wars films, is perfectly cast as the adorably unique object of Braff’s affection. Peter Sarsgaard plays Braff’s friend, seemingly a loser, but happier than one would expect. And Ian Holm plays Braff’s emotionally repressed psychologist father. The film has the school boy wit Braff brought to Scrubs, with some admirable random humor thrown in for good measure, but, like Scrubs, is heart-wrenching and heart-warming. I was worried that Braff, so loveablely uncultured in Scrubs, would become some quirky, indie director, concerned with taking week-long stands and making obscure points, but I am relieved to say that after this film he has become more endearing, and respectable. Perhaps timing may enter into it, but as of now, for whatever reason, Garden State is my favorite movie. The simplest way to put it is the film is enjoyable to watch, and I like the way it makes me feel. I feel that, for what is was trying to accomplish, what it was trying to be, it is perfect. Then again, it wasn’t really trying to be anything.
Sadly, that was the last good visit I had with Andrew. He left for Maine last Friday morning. Andrew is now attending St. Joseph’s University, pursuing an education in education, and many foxy laydays . . . and men. Andrew may have been a lot of things, some of them not admirable, but he was a damn good friend to me. Though I will see him again, I sure miss him.
Andrew left Friday morn, and William Murray, another one of the best people to come out of Holyoke Catholic (and for my class, that’s saying something) left Sunday morning. With that, I’m the last. Well, Pawel and I. He’s only twenty away, in Amherst. But for all indents and porpoises, I’m here alone. I gotta say, it’s kinda sad. I’ve been going through several stages of emotions over the past weeks. First, teary nostalgia, then melancholy, then hope, back into nostalgia (it was during these nostalgic stages that I was listening to a lot of ‘90's music, and Christ, didn’t they sing anything happy in that decade?), then anger. That was easier to deal with than sadness. Steve and I had a lovers’ spat of sorts, and we both acted like jerks, inexcusably defiling our sacred friendship. This obviously made his absence enjoyable as opposed to grievous. Tony joined in, not really on either side, but more so on Steve’s, and that made his being gone seem like a good thing. However, Steve and I recently reconciled, and my eyes were opened to the fact that Tones is indeed a great guy, so all is good again. Kinda. ‘Cause now I’m back to the state of melancholy at their departure. And listening to more sad music, goddamn you, Semisonic! . . . Your "Closing Time" brings me to tears. Not so much your "Gradutation: Friends Forever," Vitamin C, but you are attractive.
But, being more alone than I have been in quite some time has given me time to think. About my life, about life in general. It’s long been a belief of mine that school systems in this country are not at all properly set-up. I feel it is a terribly cruel thing to do to have children be together for at times 13 years of their life, only to pull them apart when they are closest to forming unbreakable bonds of love and friendship. It especially wreaks havoc on romantic relationships. I’m not saying that we shouldn’t all see the rest of the world, and I’m not saying we shouldn’t meet other people. I’m not saying that we shouldn’t go to communal schools in the first place. Maybe this finality helps us cope with loss and the ends of beloved times later on in life. Maybe it helps spur us on to desperate acts of love. Maybe it helps us open up. I suppose it, like death, could very well be an inevitable and in some odd ways helpful part of life. But that doesn’t make it right. Especially with our class at Catholic, because there were so few of us, because we were in a more open environment, we grew closer than almost any other high school. This made parting that much more painful. I won’t lie and say that there aren’t a few people I’m happy to see drift out of my life, but I love many of you dearly and, if for nothing else, I will miss every one of my class because of the years we’ve shared and the memories we’ve made.
With our class leaving, the last remnant of any old tradition remains with this year’s Seniors. I fear dark days are in store for Holyoke Catholic. Dark days are here; hell, days have been dark since my class were Juniors, but things will get steadily worse. Sr. Connie is perhaps the worst person I have ever met. I’m not saying she’s the worst person in the world, I mean, there are rapists and murderers, child pornographers and cruel Third-World dictators, the people who made Catwoman the Movie . . . but I have fortunately never met any of these people. She has seemingly done everything in her frighteningly increasing power to erase every last vestige of what was great and noble about that school. She is the most inept administrator since *insert least favorite president here*.
There are five rays of hope that I can see. They are mostly conjecture and rumor, but we need something to go on. 1) As crusader for coolness Tony Celi has pointed out in his blog, http://fallenangelzeon.blogspot.com/, a great bastion of HCHS Spirit remains in the Performing Arts Club, which is difficult for even one as shrewd and conniving as Connie to get her insect-like pincers on. The HCHS PAC remains strong, and, what’s better, will probably gain in strength. Mr. Goddu, it seems, is fond of last year’s three production schedule and will continue that into this year, hence the earlier show dates. (Now, readers take note, this is one of several possible reasons for the earlier show dates.) 2) My brother. Sure, he may be loud and annoying and sometimes kinda dim, but he has heart. He and others like him still inhabit the school. 3) Many of you are privy to this information already, but for those of you who aren’t, this may be a tasty slice of hope pie. Andrew LeTellier’s mother has ambitions of one day being principal at Holyoke Catholic. She is applying for the job of principle at Blessed Sacrament, and in a few years plans to transfer to our good ol’ Alma Mater Minor. Mrs. LeTellier is capable and intelligent. I’m certain she will become principal, and when does, will be an effective one. More Importantly she has the purest, most unflinching spirituality of anyone I know. She is caring and decent. Mrs. LeTellier is the perfect person to lead a school as great as Holyoke Catholic. 4) As much as it pains me to put this: Sr. Marlene. While Connie has driven away many of Catholic’s great old teachers, only to replace them with under-qualified neophytes, she will never remove Sr. Marlene. Sr. Marlene and others like her, Mr. Abert, Mr. Matte, Ms. Moon, Mrs Sullivan, Mrs. Boyle, Mrs. Cygan, all still have varying degrees of school spirit in their hearts. Each will work to strengthen young minds and preserve traditions. (Sr. Marlene not so much work to strengthen as sit back, make bad jokes, and let people fail.) All are part of the once great Catholic. 5) By the time the new school is built, Mrs. LeTellier is principal, and the smoke has cleared, we will be alumni of age to have a say in what happens at the school. So, if we are not all dead, and haven’t all forgotten the magic of the place, we can actually make a difference. *Cue Brendan*
Speaking of Brendan. . . .
I’d like to now talk about why I consider Brendan one of my best Friends:
You who actually read my blog, you who don’t skim lightly over the precious contents like cheap whores I hate all of you! Where was I? Oh, yes. Those of you who read my blog regularly know that I see a lot of movies. You know that I am what some would call a "film buff," and, yes, I realize, given my rippling musculars, that is indeed a delicious pun. You know as well that I have supped with the lads before. I have experienced life. I do not shut myself in a room watching films, except on Saturday nights . . . and that’s none of your business. So, I understand both worlds, the world of the cinema and the real world. I feel, therefore, I am competent enough to say that Brendan, my friend, is a rare type of person who seems like he was plucked directly from a movie. This may not seem like a compliment, but let me further explain. You see, characters in movies are made to appeal to the masses. They are always more attractive, more confident, more articulate, and always much cooler than you know they’d be in real life. Such is the way with Brendan. Brendan has a certain aura of cool about him. Similar to Steve, and yet, seemingly his polar opposite. They’re both charismatic and both get on well with people, but while Steve has his own way, namely insulting and acting like a wild man, Brendan has a remarkable attitude that conveys both his laid back nature and a fervent willingness to listen, encourage, advise, and help in any way possible. (He once went out of his way to organize plans to set me up with girls, so concerned and dedicated a friend is he.) Brendan is the lead singer of his band, The Quick Fix, as Steve was for his, and he too has a unique stage presence. More the soulful yet fun-loving folk rocker, Brendan is. Brendan was my first friend at Catholic. I do not make friends easily, and indeed it was Brendan who made the first, and come to think of it, the second and third steps toward friendship. He moved, I believe, not out of pity, seeing me all alone on the bench at lunch, reading away. Brendan spoke to me simply because he’s a damn good person. He didn’t see me and think, ‘Poor guy, I’ll be his friend. It’ll be bothersome putting up with his antics for four years but I’ll make the sacrifice." No. He thought, as he thinks when he sees anyone, "I’ll talk to him or her just to get closer to another human being. The first thing Brendan and I discovered we had in common was a sense of humor. All of my friends have unique senses of humor, but Brendan’s is especially interesting because at most times he has a normal, nice-guy, better-than-average sense of humor, but is capable of enjoying a wide range of comedy, from the dry to the slapstick to the insanely random to the dark. Brendan is intelligent, he’s honest, and in some areas he’s the most talented person I know. I believe, no offense to my other musically inclined friends, that Brendan is the best singer-songwriter I’ve ever met. Out of all the music I listen to, Brendan’s songs are some of my favorites. While he can’t match Steve for showmanship and skill in some aspects, nor Andrew in comedy and goofy likeability, watching him play live it’s one of the most enjoyable experiences I can think of. Now, those who don’t know Brendan well would think that he is much like a movie character in one way at least: his lack of depth. Brendan is not the type of person who makes known the extents of what they think and feel, and so can seem a little simple at times to anyone who doesn’t care to look closely. One might see Brendan as a great guy, a supportive friend, a talented musician, and not much else. Brendan has fathoms of depth. He is strong enough to keep them under control and doesn’t go posting his feelings on some publicly viewable online journal . . . uh . . . ahem . . . look over there! Brendan can be sweet-heartedly romantic. I have seen him angry and restless. I have heard reports that he picks fights with sailors. Okay, that last bit wasn’t true. But Brendan’s most admirable quality, and there are plenty to choose from, is his ability to stay level-headed and rational, while still emanating his laid-back cool vibe, in any circumstance. He can be so un-threatening and likeable, in fact, that you just want to punch him in the face. Brendan is a person you can’t help but like to be around. He makes friends instantly. His mere presence soothes and comforts. Knowing a person like Brendan exists, and knowing him personally, makes even the most unbelievable movie moments that much more credible.
Another fanTAStic individual is my good buddy Mike Pytka. Most of you who are only partially connected with the school know Mike as the wonderfully talented and charismatic savior in last Spring’s Godspell. Everyone else knows him as a fun, compassionate person who also happens to be a superb dresser. Unfortunately, Mike has been going through some hard times as of late. It seems the worst of things often happen to the best of people. For further details, check out Mike’s eloquent yet friendly deadjournal: http://deadjournal.com/users/westsideskier/ (If you have some Kleenex handy). And send some love his way. He’ll appreciate and no doubt reciprocate.
Know only Mike, if you’re reading this, that you are in our thoughts and prayers. Things’ll get better. We’re all here for you.
Whew. This has gotten too personal, huh? We need some mindless, faceless entertainment coverage!
Music: I haven’t bought a new CD in a while. I am at a weird juncture where I want new music, but I have absolutely no desire to go get any. Thus, I’ve been re-discovering some CD’s I already have. Counting Crows, especially. I can’t get enough of their melancholy, melodic ballads full of vaguely familiar images and vintage Americana. Warren Zevon is always fun to bend the ol’ ear to. And, as already said, plenty of early-mid ‘90's sad songs. Also, women folk artists. Ani DiFranco and others. I like ‘em!
Movies: My brother Sam ended my streak of lousy DVD purchases with two of my all-time favorites. One is the period comedy Without a Clue, which presents the impossible scenario that Sherlock Holmes was just a dopey actor employed by the real genius detective, Dr. John Watson. It stars two great thespians, Michael Caine (as a delightfully bone-headed, womanizing, drunken Holmes) and Sir Ben Kingsley (as the frustrated and arrogant Watson.). The other film, which is, in my opinion, one of the top five all-time greatest westerns, was Tombstone. It’s based on the true story of the shoot-out at the O.K. Corral and the subsequent war between a group of vicious outlaws and the Earp brothers and Doc Holliday. The film has impressive production values, an incredible cast, action as fast, furious, and relentless as an emptying six-shooter, and some take-your-hat-off admirable performances. Specifically that of Val Kilmer as the tubercular dandy, Holliday. I recommend you see it simply for his death scene. Were a performance like that to happen today; a sexy method actor in a historical movie playing a roguishly likeable outlaw with odd facial hair and a weird self-developed accent *cough Johnny Depp as Cap’n Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Carribean cough* it would be nominated for an Oscar.
I also recently saw the quirky Irish comedy An Everlasting Piece, about two insane asylum barbers who inherit a local wig business from a deranged patient, Billy Connoly. And Evolution, that wacky and slightly gross sci-fi with Davie Duchovny. On a kooky Worcester trip I ened up watching the worst film ever made, Plan 9 from Outer Space, by the one and only Ed Wood. It’s a cult classic, people, and it’s insanely funny, so go see it! I saw another Crime Comedy genre film. It was called Gun Shy and starred Liam Neeson as a legendary DEA agent who’s nerves of steel were ruined by a bust gone horribly wrong. He’s forced to do one more job before retirement and has to deal with unhinged mob hit man Polvio, played to looney perfection by Oliver Platt. Sandra Bullock was there to provide a much needed female character. This film has come the closest to perfect for the genre out of any I’ve seen in a while. And there was Multiplicity, with Michael Keaton and Andie MacDowell. Keaton proves he’s a natural at comedy in this enjoyable and occasionally side-splitting romp. Last night I saw the movie "O" with Caitlin. It’s a modern reworking of Shakespeare’s Othello, the story of the Moorish warrior condemned to madness, death, and tragedy by the machinations of his fiendish servant Iago. Josh Hartnett played Hugo, the evil white guy. Is that what you’re trying to say? Huh? Shakespear? That all white people are evil? It certainly was a well made movie. And Josh Hartnett, is one of the finest actors of his generation. The film is well written and acted, and perfectly captures the moods and themes of Shakespeare’s epic tragedy. Plus there was a totally unnecessary jungle love scene! Boo yeah! One last one, I think. I saw Shiner, a film noir (that’s new-wahr) thriller about a vicious boxing promoter struggling to find the men that murdered his son as his life slowly unravels. Michael Caine, of the afore mentioned Without a Clue, played William "Shiner" Simpson, the film’s aged anti-hero. While the film was darkly entertaining, it was not at all enjoyable to watch and not at all what it was made out to be. I expected to see Caine as a Sean Connery-in-The Rock-type-badass, kickin’ ass and takin’ names, as the saying goes, but it was a more slow-paced thriller with random bursts of insane confrontations. However, the film was well made, and seeing Caine back to his snarling Cockney roots was refreshing.
One of the best compliments to pay an entertainer is to say that they have a good stage or screen presence. This is in actuality saying that it is enjoyable to see them on stage or screen, no matter what they’re doing, simply because it’s them. You see, when I go to see a Tom Cruise movie, I may like it, I may hate it, but I know for a fact that if I like it, it will not be attributed to the fact that Tom Cruise is in it. There are several actors I’d pay this compliment to. Here they are, in no particular order:
Val Kilmer
Kurt Russell
Oliver Platt
Michael Keaton
and the best one of them all, the one who’s mere image and voice could make a movie fun . . .
Michael J. Fox.
And now, Rich’s Sexy Celebs of the Week:
Sandra Bullock
Julia Stiles
Charisma Carpenter
Books: Still working on Go Ask Alice, and at the same time, Right Ho, Jeeves, by P.G. Wodehouse. Nothing like 70's drug madness and prim British humor.
I found a new graphic novel as well. 100 Bullets. It’s a noir crime mystery type, with a healthy mix of cliches and originality from the genre. Plus it’s violent and slightly realistic. And one guy has a gun! Actually, every character in the friggin’ thing has a gun. But it’s worth a look.
Video Games: Mario Kart for game Cube is hard.
I love this time of year. As Summer fades gracefully into Autumn, there is a certain quality to the air, as sharpness, a scent, a feeling. The emotions stirred and memories invoked by this current mid-season are the very best. I need to go on some hikes. Who’s with me?
It seems there’s something I’ve forgotten . . . talked about Brendan, turned off the iron, paid my bookie . . . oh, wait! I know. I forgot the best part of the blog, The Update. (Moorish warriors call it "The Daily.")
Updates:
I promised in my last post, which was published on a Thursday, that I would try to post the next day, which would have been . . . carry the five . . . inverse popsicle . . . a Friday. I did not post that day. Nor the next day, nor the next, nor the next. And so continued on this downward spiral of pills, hookers, and not publishing for three weeks. What is to blame for this tragedy? Or rather who? My good friend Michael "Golden Boy" Pytka. You see, Mike had an end of summer bash that Friday eve at his house in West Springfield. It was an enjoyable party. I arrived late, but baring gifts in the form of gold, frankincense, and handsome leather-bound journals, I made the most of my preliminary time there. This preliminary time lasted all of 30 minutes, for I was not informed Mike had a pool and was forced to drive the 20 minutes back to my house to obtain the necessary swim wear. 20 minutes later I was back and ready to hit the pool. And my brother for not telling me about said pool. Pat "The-best-person-ever-so-long-as-he’s-not-angry" Dandrea, Mike Martin, Jenn Murray, Becca Gay, and Andrew ‘Jackson" LeTellier joined me in my aquatic frolicking, and before long we were trading Cartoon Network Adult Swim anecdotes (quite apropos), making world pools and shedding layers of clothing. We gave up on the whirl pool after it was discovered that there was no way conceivable to sink that damned ladder and we went inside, wet and naked. We watched the conclusion of Disney’s Aladdin and Andrew and I stole and devoured several cookies. After that things died down and we left. Oh, that reminds me! I left my bathing suit at your house, Mike! I want it back!
The next day I was in Charlemonte, MA for my Uncle Matt’s wedding. Matthew Knightly, or Whitey, as he is nicknamed due to his white-blonde hair, is the youngest and possibly the coolest of my mother’s 5, count ‘em 5, siblings. He had been an ardent bachelor for the 18 years I’d known him, and has for the past 15 years been living life one crazy night after another as a bartender/manager in some of New York’s hottest clubs. Lately he has been devoting more and more time to the country, though, spending weeks hiking, camping, and fishing. (All my uncles, on both sides, are passionate fishermen.)
He became married to my new aunt, Kate Bingley, one of the sweetest, smartest, prettiest people I’ve ever met that Saturday outside a rustic country home near the Berkshires, on a sprawling lawn, among flower gardens with the afternoon sun silhouetting them both against the Appalachian mountains in the distance. Instead of rice, we had bubbles! My little cousin played the music on her violin (lemme tell ya, she swipes a mean bow, especially for a ten year-old. It was a perfect mixture of rustic beauty and refined elegance, of fun new trends and venerable old traditions.
The ceremony was short and sweet, and soon after its conclusion we were walking down the road flanked by stately old oaks and votives in white paper bags to an even larger field upon which a pavilion had been set up. Bouquets of locally picked wild flowers adorned the tables which filled the sheltered space and surrounded the dance floor. Smooth stones from the bed of a nearby stream acted as paper weights for the soft cloth napkins. And it was the only function I had ever been to in which the kid’s table was just that. My younger cousins were delighted by the crayons available near their places. Crayons they could use on the paper table cloth. Glowsticks, bells, bubbles, and all manner of trinkets and party favors filled baskets located on either end of this kid’s table to end all kids tables. It was from these baskets that sam found the bug-eyes he uses so well to frighten the staff of Dunkin Donuts. Bub’s Barbecue did the catering (how cool is that?). And, as it was in the woods, there were several stun gun-toting park rangers on hand in case of nosey bears.
After dinner came the speeches. None as good as that of my Uncle David, the best man. I had often thought of him as a trifle boring and pretentious, but I will not begrudge him this: he is a mighty fine public speaker. As I knew he would be. His speech was filled with as much warmth and love as it was jokes and good-natured jibes.
After speeches came dancing. The revelry continued in spirit despite the fact that it began to pour and the dance floor was readily becoming comparable to a slip n’ slide. I retired to my tent (yes, many of the guests slept in tents) long before the party ended, which reports say was just past dawn, and so missed many antics. Several hours after I had left, my brother, always crazy but in this wild party setting, bat shit insane, and my Uncle John, by this time rather sozzled, convinced each other to slide across the wet dance floor on their bellies. They ran out into the field and came dashing back, then leaped unto what they believed to be a frictionless surface and slid all of three inches. My uncle thought that his clothes were going to tear off of him from the pull and his naked corpse would roll off the floor and among the tables. Luckily this did not happen. But the wedding was beautiful, the reception a blast, and the whole sitch quite velvety.
My mother’s siblings have long had trouble getting married, and the last one I thought ever would was Matty, but I am as happy about his union with the lovely Kate as I have been in a while. I am ecstatic for them both, and for the whole family.
On the weightlifting front: We have acquired a new bench upon which I have now bench pressed 260 lbs. This bench comes with the option of turning, rather like a Transformer, into a shoulder press machine. And upon this I have discovered that I can military press 160 pounds. I had never worked my shoulders in such a manner before and it was interesting and rewarding to do so, but I was most pleasantly surprised with the knowledge that I could lift and hold many of my peers over my head. So look out, world, I’m in a liftin’ mood!
Last Friday, one week after the tumultuous whirl pool at la casa de Mike, I drove to Worcester to see my long lost friends, Tones "Malarkey" Celi and Cait "Caitlin" Szewyck. I met Tony’s friend Phil, a weird amalgam of EJ, Tony, Steve, Sean Doherty, and pie. Together with Phil, we went out to Applebee’s for dinner and if any of you think an Applebee may be something other than someone’s last name, see Tony’s blog. We then walked around the seedier parts of Worcester until we came eventually to Clark University, which holds the new crime-fighting lair of everyone’s favorite super hero, Tony. At said lair we watched Waterman, the new cartoon on Newgrounds. It was hilarious, and I thank you Tony for introducing me to it. Then we journeyed, sans Phil, to Caitlin’s dorm. I won’t divulge the details of what went on there, but suffice to say it involved me, Caitlin, and Tony, along with pillows, blankets, and alien objects, and we stayed up all night! Fill in the rest of the story yourselves. Use your imagination, and if something sounds a little too raunchy or unlikely, make it even more so. Then spread rumors. Doctored photos coming soon! Anyway, at 6:00 I felt it was time to take my leave. I’d done enough damage uniting friends and buying chicken in that burg. So, on zero hours of sleep for that day, I began my journey home.
I made it home alive. I drove from 6:20 until 7:45, got home, got out of the car, and went on with a strenuous work-out, benching 255, and doing 14 sets of curls. I made my way into the house, into my bed, read a sentence in my book, and promptly fell asleep for 5 and a half hours.
Well, that’s it for now. Orange you glad I posted. Look for a weekly supplement coming your way this later week.
Current Mood: Tired, but accomplished.
Current Music: Counting Crows, Anna Begins
A few nights ago, I can’t remember how many, the past weeks sort of blend into a nostalgia-fun-time blur, I went with my good friend Andrew LeTellier and the lovely Amy McMenamin to Northampton for a return trip to the outrageously unique Pleasant Street Theatre. Quick note on Andrew, though he has made some whopping mistakes, as many of my readers will agree, he is, without a doubt, one of the best human beings I have ever met, heard of, or read about. Quick note on Amy, she’s hot. But I digress. We went to Northampton to see the directorial debut of Scrubs star Zach Braff (Dr. John Dorian, J.D.) in Garden State, which he also wrote and starred in. It’s the story of a young man who returns to his home after a ten year absence to attend his mother’s funeral and undergoes a kind of second adolescence, making up for his lost childhood by adventuring around the suburbs and coming to grips with his problems. Natalie Portman, so dreadful in the two recent Star Wars films, is perfectly cast as the adorably unique object of Braff’s affection. Peter Sarsgaard plays Braff’s friend, seemingly a loser, but happier than one would expect. And Ian Holm plays Braff’s emotionally repressed psychologist father. The film has the school boy wit Braff brought to Scrubs, with some admirable random humor thrown in for good measure, but, like Scrubs, is heart-wrenching and heart-warming. I was worried that Braff, so loveablely uncultured in Scrubs, would become some quirky, indie director, concerned with taking week-long stands and making obscure points, but I am relieved to say that after this film he has become more endearing, and respectable. Perhaps timing may enter into it, but as of now, for whatever reason, Garden State is my favorite movie. The simplest way to put it is the film is enjoyable to watch, and I like the way it makes me feel. I feel that, for what is was trying to accomplish, what it was trying to be, it is perfect. Then again, it wasn’t really trying to be anything.
Sadly, that was the last good visit I had with Andrew. He left for Maine last Friday morning. Andrew is now attending St. Joseph’s University, pursuing an education in education, and many foxy laydays . . . and men. Andrew may have been a lot of things, some of them not admirable, but he was a damn good friend to me. Though I will see him again, I sure miss him.
Andrew left Friday morn, and William Murray, another one of the best people to come out of Holyoke Catholic (and for my class, that’s saying something) left Sunday morning. With that, I’m the last. Well, Pawel and I. He’s only twenty away, in Amherst. But for all indents and porpoises, I’m here alone. I gotta say, it’s kinda sad. I’ve been going through several stages of emotions over the past weeks. First, teary nostalgia, then melancholy, then hope, back into nostalgia (it was during these nostalgic stages that I was listening to a lot of ‘90's music, and Christ, didn’t they sing anything happy in that decade?), then anger. That was easier to deal with than sadness. Steve and I had a lovers’ spat of sorts, and we both acted like jerks, inexcusably defiling our sacred friendship. This obviously made his absence enjoyable as opposed to grievous. Tony joined in, not really on either side, but more so on Steve’s, and that made his being gone seem like a good thing. However, Steve and I recently reconciled, and my eyes were opened to the fact that Tones is indeed a great guy, so all is good again. Kinda. ‘Cause now I’m back to the state of melancholy at their departure. And listening to more sad music, goddamn you, Semisonic! . . . Your "Closing Time" brings me to tears. Not so much your "Gradutation: Friends Forever," Vitamin C, but you are attractive.
But, being more alone than I have been in quite some time has given me time to think. About my life, about life in general. It’s long been a belief of mine that school systems in this country are not at all properly set-up. I feel it is a terribly cruel thing to do to have children be together for at times 13 years of their life, only to pull them apart when they are closest to forming unbreakable bonds of love and friendship. It especially wreaks havoc on romantic relationships. I’m not saying that we shouldn’t all see the rest of the world, and I’m not saying we shouldn’t meet other people. I’m not saying that we shouldn’t go to communal schools in the first place. Maybe this finality helps us cope with loss and the ends of beloved times later on in life. Maybe it helps spur us on to desperate acts of love. Maybe it helps us open up. I suppose it, like death, could very well be an inevitable and in some odd ways helpful part of life. But that doesn’t make it right. Especially with our class at Catholic, because there were so few of us, because we were in a more open environment, we grew closer than almost any other high school. This made parting that much more painful. I won’t lie and say that there aren’t a few people I’m happy to see drift out of my life, but I love many of you dearly and, if for nothing else, I will miss every one of my class because of the years we’ve shared and the memories we’ve made.
With our class leaving, the last remnant of any old tradition remains with this year’s Seniors. I fear dark days are in store for Holyoke Catholic. Dark days are here; hell, days have been dark since my class were Juniors, but things will get steadily worse. Sr. Connie is perhaps the worst person I have ever met. I’m not saying she’s the worst person in the world, I mean, there are rapists and murderers, child pornographers and cruel Third-World dictators, the people who made Catwoman the Movie . . . but I have fortunately never met any of these people. She has seemingly done everything in her frighteningly increasing power to erase every last vestige of what was great and noble about that school. She is the most inept administrator since *insert least favorite president here*.
There are five rays of hope that I can see. They are mostly conjecture and rumor, but we need something to go on. 1) As crusader for coolness Tony Celi has pointed out in his blog, http://fallenangelzeon.blogspot.com/, a great bastion of HCHS Spirit remains in the Performing Arts Club, which is difficult for even one as shrewd and conniving as Connie to get her insect-like pincers on. The HCHS PAC remains strong, and, what’s better, will probably gain in strength. Mr. Goddu, it seems, is fond of last year’s three production schedule and will continue that into this year, hence the earlier show dates. (Now, readers take note, this is one of several possible reasons for the earlier show dates.) 2) My brother. Sure, he may be loud and annoying and sometimes kinda dim, but he has heart. He and others like him still inhabit the school. 3) Many of you are privy to this information already, but for those of you who aren’t, this may be a tasty slice of hope pie. Andrew LeTellier’s mother has ambitions of one day being principal at Holyoke Catholic. She is applying for the job of principle at Blessed Sacrament, and in a few years plans to transfer to our good ol’ Alma Mater Minor. Mrs. LeTellier is capable and intelligent. I’m certain she will become principal, and when does, will be an effective one. More Importantly she has the purest, most unflinching spirituality of anyone I know. She is caring and decent. Mrs. LeTellier is the perfect person to lead a school as great as Holyoke Catholic. 4) As much as it pains me to put this: Sr. Marlene. While Connie has driven away many of Catholic’s great old teachers, only to replace them with under-qualified neophytes, she will never remove Sr. Marlene. Sr. Marlene and others like her, Mr. Abert, Mr. Matte, Ms. Moon, Mrs Sullivan, Mrs. Boyle, Mrs. Cygan, all still have varying degrees of school spirit in their hearts. Each will work to strengthen young minds and preserve traditions. (Sr. Marlene not so much work to strengthen as sit back, make bad jokes, and let people fail.) All are part of the once great Catholic. 5) By the time the new school is built, Mrs. LeTellier is principal, and the smoke has cleared, we will be alumni of age to have a say in what happens at the school. So, if we are not all dead, and haven’t all forgotten the magic of the place, we can actually make a difference. *Cue Brendan*
Speaking of Brendan. . . .
I’d like to now talk about why I consider Brendan one of my best Friends:
You who actually read my blog, you who don’t skim lightly over the precious contents like cheap whores I hate all of you! Where was I? Oh, yes. Those of you who read my blog regularly know that I see a lot of movies. You know that I am what some would call a "film buff," and, yes, I realize, given my rippling musculars, that is indeed a delicious pun. You know as well that I have supped with the lads before. I have experienced life. I do not shut myself in a room watching films, except on Saturday nights . . . and that’s none of your business. So, I understand both worlds, the world of the cinema and the real world. I feel, therefore, I am competent enough to say that Brendan, my friend, is a rare type of person who seems like he was plucked directly from a movie. This may not seem like a compliment, but let me further explain. You see, characters in movies are made to appeal to the masses. They are always more attractive, more confident, more articulate, and always much cooler than you know they’d be in real life. Such is the way with Brendan. Brendan has a certain aura of cool about him. Similar to Steve, and yet, seemingly his polar opposite. They’re both charismatic and both get on well with people, but while Steve has his own way, namely insulting and acting like a wild man, Brendan has a remarkable attitude that conveys both his laid back nature and a fervent willingness to listen, encourage, advise, and help in any way possible. (He once went out of his way to organize plans to set me up with girls, so concerned and dedicated a friend is he.) Brendan is the lead singer of his band, The Quick Fix, as Steve was for his, and he too has a unique stage presence. More the soulful yet fun-loving folk rocker, Brendan is. Brendan was my first friend at Catholic. I do not make friends easily, and indeed it was Brendan who made the first, and come to think of it, the second and third steps toward friendship. He moved, I believe, not out of pity, seeing me all alone on the bench at lunch, reading away. Brendan spoke to me simply because he’s a damn good person. He didn’t see me and think, ‘Poor guy, I’ll be his friend. It’ll be bothersome putting up with his antics for four years but I’ll make the sacrifice." No. He thought, as he thinks when he sees anyone, "I’ll talk to him or her just to get closer to another human being. The first thing Brendan and I discovered we had in common was a sense of humor. All of my friends have unique senses of humor, but Brendan’s is especially interesting because at most times he has a normal, nice-guy, better-than-average sense of humor, but is capable of enjoying a wide range of comedy, from the dry to the slapstick to the insanely random to the dark. Brendan is intelligent, he’s honest, and in some areas he’s the most talented person I know. I believe, no offense to my other musically inclined friends, that Brendan is the best singer-songwriter I’ve ever met. Out of all the music I listen to, Brendan’s songs are some of my favorites. While he can’t match Steve for showmanship and skill in some aspects, nor Andrew in comedy and goofy likeability, watching him play live it’s one of the most enjoyable experiences I can think of. Now, those who don’t know Brendan well would think that he is much like a movie character in one way at least: his lack of depth. Brendan is not the type of person who makes known the extents of what they think and feel, and so can seem a little simple at times to anyone who doesn’t care to look closely. One might see Brendan as a great guy, a supportive friend, a talented musician, and not much else. Brendan has fathoms of depth. He is strong enough to keep them under control and doesn’t go posting his feelings on some publicly viewable online journal . . . uh . . . ahem . . . look over there! Brendan can be sweet-heartedly romantic. I have seen him angry and restless. I have heard reports that he picks fights with sailors. Okay, that last bit wasn’t true. But Brendan’s most admirable quality, and there are plenty to choose from, is his ability to stay level-headed and rational, while still emanating his laid-back cool vibe, in any circumstance. He can be so un-threatening and likeable, in fact, that you just want to punch him in the face. Brendan is a person you can’t help but like to be around. He makes friends instantly. His mere presence soothes and comforts. Knowing a person like Brendan exists, and knowing him personally, makes even the most unbelievable movie moments that much more credible.
Another fanTAStic individual is my good buddy Mike Pytka. Most of you who are only partially connected with the school know Mike as the wonderfully talented and charismatic savior in last Spring’s Godspell. Everyone else knows him as a fun, compassionate person who also happens to be a superb dresser. Unfortunately, Mike has been going through some hard times as of late. It seems the worst of things often happen to the best of people. For further details, check out Mike’s eloquent yet friendly deadjournal: http://deadjournal.com/users/westsideskier/ (If you have some Kleenex handy). And send some love his way. He’ll appreciate and no doubt reciprocate.
Know only Mike, if you’re reading this, that you are in our thoughts and prayers. Things’ll get better. We’re all here for you.
Whew. This has gotten too personal, huh? We need some mindless, faceless entertainment coverage!
Music: I haven’t bought a new CD in a while. I am at a weird juncture where I want new music, but I have absolutely no desire to go get any. Thus, I’ve been re-discovering some CD’s I already have. Counting Crows, especially. I can’t get enough of their melancholy, melodic ballads full of vaguely familiar images and vintage Americana. Warren Zevon is always fun to bend the ol’ ear to. And, as already said, plenty of early-mid ‘90's sad songs. Also, women folk artists. Ani DiFranco and others. I like ‘em!
Movies: My brother Sam ended my streak of lousy DVD purchases with two of my all-time favorites. One is the period comedy Without a Clue, which presents the impossible scenario that Sherlock Holmes was just a dopey actor employed by the real genius detective, Dr. John Watson. It stars two great thespians, Michael Caine (as a delightfully bone-headed, womanizing, drunken Holmes) and Sir Ben Kingsley (as the frustrated and arrogant Watson.). The other film, which is, in my opinion, one of the top five all-time greatest westerns, was Tombstone. It’s based on the true story of the shoot-out at the O.K. Corral and the subsequent war between a group of vicious outlaws and the Earp brothers and Doc Holliday. The film has impressive production values, an incredible cast, action as fast, furious, and relentless as an emptying six-shooter, and some take-your-hat-off admirable performances. Specifically that of Val Kilmer as the tubercular dandy, Holliday. I recommend you see it simply for his death scene. Were a performance like that to happen today; a sexy method actor in a historical movie playing a roguishly likeable outlaw with odd facial hair and a weird self-developed accent *cough Johnny Depp as Cap’n Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Carribean cough* it would be nominated for an Oscar.
I also recently saw the quirky Irish comedy An Everlasting Piece, about two insane asylum barbers who inherit a local wig business from a deranged patient, Billy Connoly. And Evolution, that wacky and slightly gross sci-fi with Davie Duchovny. On a kooky Worcester trip I ened up watching the worst film ever made, Plan 9 from Outer Space, by the one and only Ed Wood. It’s a cult classic, people, and it’s insanely funny, so go see it! I saw another Crime Comedy genre film. It was called Gun Shy and starred Liam Neeson as a legendary DEA agent who’s nerves of steel were ruined by a bust gone horribly wrong. He’s forced to do one more job before retirement and has to deal with unhinged mob hit man Polvio, played to looney perfection by Oliver Platt. Sandra Bullock was there to provide a much needed female character. This film has come the closest to perfect for the genre out of any I’ve seen in a while. And there was Multiplicity, with Michael Keaton and Andie MacDowell. Keaton proves he’s a natural at comedy in this enjoyable and occasionally side-splitting romp. Last night I saw the movie "O" with Caitlin. It’s a modern reworking of Shakespeare’s Othello, the story of the Moorish warrior condemned to madness, death, and tragedy by the machinations of his fiendish servant Iago. Josh Hartnett played Hugo, the evil white guy. Is that what you’re trying to say? Huh? Shakespear? That all white people are evil? It certainly was a well made movie. And Josh Hartnett, is one of the finest actors of his generation. The film is well written and acted, and perfectly captures the moods and themes of Shakespeare’s epic tragedy. Plus there was a totally unnecessary jungle love scene! Boo yeah! One last one, I think. I saw Shiner, a film noir (that’s new-wahr) thriller about a vicious boxing promoter struggling to find the men that murdered his son as his life slowly unravels. Michael Caine, of the afore mentioned Without a Clue, played William "Shiner" Simpson, the film’s aged anti-hero. While the film was darkly entertaining, it was not at all enjoyable to watch and not at all what it was made out to be. I expected to see Caine as a Sean Connery-in-The Rock-type-badass, kickin’ ass and takin’ names, as the saying goes, but it was a more slow-paced thriller with random bursts of insane confrontations. However, the film was well made, and seeing Caine back to his snarling Cockney roots was refreshing.
One of the best compliments to pay an entertainer is to say that they have a good stage or screen presence. This is in actuality saying that it is enjoyable to see them on stage or screen, no matter what they’re doing, simply because it’s them. You see, when I go to see a Tom Cruise movie, I may like it, I may hate it, but I know for a fact that if I like it, it will not be attributed to the fact that Tom Cruise is in it. There are several actors I’d pay this compliment to. Here they are, in no particular order:
Val Kilmer
Kurt Russell
Oliver Platt
Michael Keaton
and the best one of them all, the one who’s mere image and voice could make a movie fun . . .
Michael J. Fox.
And now, Rich’s Sexy Celebs of the Week:
Sandra Bullock
Julia Stiles
Charisma Carpenter
Books: Still working on Go Ask Alice, and at the same time, Right Ho, Jeeves, by P.G. Wodehouse. Nothing like 70's drug madness and prim British humor.
I found a new graphic novel as well. 100 Bullets. It’s a noir crime mystery type, with a healthy mix of cliches and originality from the genre. Plus it’s violent and slightly realistic. And one guy has a gun! Actually, every character in the friggin’ thing has a gun. But it’s worth a look.
Video Games: Mario Kart for game Cube is hard.
I love this time of year. As Summer fades gracefully into Autumn, there is a certain quality to the air, as sharpness, a scent, a feeling. The emotions stirred and memories invoked by this current mid-season are the very best. I need to go on some hikes. Who’s with me?
It seems there’s something I’ve forgotten . . . talked about Brendan, turned off the iron, paid my bookie . . . oh, wait! I know. I forgot the best part of the blog, The Update. (Moorish warriors call it "The Daily.")
Updates:
I promised in my last post, which was published on a Thursday, that I would try to post the next day, which would have been . . . carry the five . . . inverse popsicle . . . a Friday. I did not post that day. Nor the next day, nor the next, nor the next. And so continued on this downward spiral of pills, hookers, and not publishing for three weeks. What is to blame for this tragedy? Or rather who? My good friend Michael "Golden Boy" Pytka. You see, Mike had an end of summer bash that Friday eve at his house in West Springfield. It was an enjoyable party. I arrived late, but baring gifts in the form of gold, frankincense, and handsome leather-bound journals, I made the most of my preliminary time there. This preliminary time lasted all of 30 minutes, for I was not informed Mike had a pool and was forced to drive the 20 minutes back to my house to obtain the necessary swim wear. 20 minutes later I was back and ready to hit the pool. And my brother for not telling me about said pool. Pat "The-best-person-ever-so-long-as-he’s-not-angry" Dandrea, Mike Martin, Jenn Murray, Becca Gay, and Andrew ‘Jackson" LeTellier joined me in my aquatic frolicking, and before long we were trading Cartoon Network Adult Swim anecdotes (quite apropos), making world pools and shedding layers of clothing. We gave up on the whirl pool after it was discovered that there was no way conceivable to sink that damned ladder and we went inside, wet and naked. We watched the conclusion of Disney’s Aladdin and Andrew and I stole and devoured several cookies. After that things died down and we left. Oh, that reminds me! I left my bathing suit at your house, Mike! I want it back!
The next day I was in Charlemonte, MA for my Uncle Matt’s wedding. Matthew Knightly, or Whitey, as he is nicknamed due to his white-blonde hair, is the youngest and possibly the coolest of my mother’s 5, count ‘em 5, siblings. He had been an ardent bachelor for the 18 years I’d known him, and has for the past 15 years been living life one crazy night after another as a bartender/manager in some of New York’s hottest clubs. Lately he has been devoting more and more time to the country, though, spending weeks hiking, camping, and fishing. (All my uncles, on both sides, are passionate fishermen.)
He became married to my new aunt, Kate Bingley, one of the sweetest, smartest, prettiest people I’ve ever met that Saturday outside a rustic country home near the Berkshires, on a sprawling lawn, among flower gardens with the afternoon sun silhouetting them both against the Appalachian mountains in the distance. Instead of rice, we had bubbles! My little cousin played the music on her violin (lemme tell ya, she swipes a mean bow, especially for a ten year-old. It was a perfect mixture of rustic beauty and refined elegance, of fun new trends and venerable old traditions.
The ceremony was short and sweet, and soon after its conclusion we were walking down the road flanked by stately old oaks and votives in white paper bags to an even larger field upon which a pavilion had been set up. Bouquets of locally picked wild flowers adorned the tables which filled the sheltered space and surrounded the dance floor. Smooth stones from the bed of a nearby stream acted as paper weights for the soft cloth napkins. And it was the only function I had ever been to in which the kid’s table was just that. My younger cousins were delighted by the crayons available near their places. Crayons they could use on the paper table cloth. Glowsticks, bells, bubbles, and all manner of trinkets and party favors filled baskets located on either end of this kid’s table to end all kids tables. It was from these baskets that sam found the bug-eyes he uses so well to frighten the staff of Dunkin Donuts. Bub’s Barbecue did the catering (how cool is that?). And, as it was in the woods, there were several stun gun-toting park rangers on hand in case of nosey bears.
After dinner came the speeches. None as good as that of my Uncle David, the best man. I had often thought of him as a trifle boring and pretentious, but I will not begrudge him this: he is a mighty fine public speaker. As I knew he would be. His speech was filled with as much warmth and love as it was jokes and good-natured jibes.
After speeches came dancing. The revelry continued in spirit despite the fact that it began to pour and the dance floor was readily becoming comparable to a slip n’ slide. I retired to my tent (yes, many of the guests slept in tents) long before the party ended, which reports say was just past dawn, and so missed many antics. Several hours after I had left, my brother, always crazy but in this wild party setting, bat shit insane, and my Uncle John, by this time rather sozzled, convinced each other to slide across the wet dance floor on their bellies. They ran out into the field and came dashing back, then leaped unto what they believed to be a frictionless surface and slid all of three inches. My uncle thought that his clothes were going to tear off of him from the pull and his naked corpse would roll off the floor and among the tables. Luckily this did not happen. But the wedding was beautiful, the reception a blast, and the whole sitch quite velvety.
My mother’s siblings have long had trouble getting married, and the last one I thought ever would was Matty, but I am as happy about his union with the lovely Kate as I have been in a while. I am ecstatic for them both, and for the whole family.
On the weightlifting front: We have acquired a new bench upon which I have now bench pressed 260 lbs. This bench comes with the option of turning, rather like a Transformer, into a shoulder press machine. And upon this I have discovered that I can military press 160 pounds. I had never worked my shoulders in such a manner before and it was interesting and rewarding to do so, but I was most pleasantly surprised with the knowledge that I could lift and hold many of my peers over my head. So look out, world, I’m in a liftin’ mood!
Last Friday, one week after the tumultuous whirl pool at la casa de Mike, I drove to Worcester to see my long lost friends, Tones "Malarkey" Celi and Cait "Caitlin" Szewyck. I met Tony’s friend Phil, a weird amalgam of EJ, Tony, Steve, Sean Doherty, and pie. Together with Phil, we went out to Applebee’s for dinner and if any of you think an Applebee may be something other than someone’s last name, see Tony’s blog. We then walked around the seedier parts of Worcester until we came eventually to Clark University, which holds the new crime-fighting lair of everyone’s favorite super hero, Tony. At said lair we watched Waterman, the new cartoon on Newgrounds. It was hilarious, and I thank you Tony for introducing me to it. Then we journeyed, sans Phil, to Caitlin’s dorm. I won’t divulge the details of what went on there, but suffice to say it involved me, Caitlin, and Tony, along with pillows, blankets, and alien objects, and we stayed up all night! Fill in the rest of the story yourselves. Use your imagination, and if something sounds a little too raunchy or unlikely, make it even more so. Then spread rumors. Doctored photos coming soon! Anyway, at 6:00 I felt it was time to take my leave. I’d done enough damage uniting friends and buying chicken in that burg. So, on zero hours of sleep for that day, I began my journey home.
I made it home alive. I drove from 6:20 until 7:45, got home, got out of the car, and went on with a strenuous work-out, benching 255, and doing 14 sets of curls. I made my way into the house, into my bed, read a sentence in my book, and promptly fell asleep for 5 and a half hours.
Well, that’s it for now. Orange you glad I posted. Look for a weekly supplement coming your way this later week.
Current Mood: Tired, but accomplished.
Current Music: Counting Crows, Anna Begins
