Well it’s Monday and it’s cold enough that you can feel it in your bones. The wind cuts like a knife. It was nice when the sun was out, still cold, but this morning when I left the sun hadn’t completely risen and coming back from work this evening the sun had already set.
Last night I just stayed in after watching the dvd’s of Pollock and This is England. Didn’t make it to 28 Weeks Later, I can hold off watching the zombies for a while. This Is England did haunt me today, such a messed up story, but that kid in the lead was amazing, the other actors were spot on, not that I would know anything about skin head culture.
I just know not all of them are racist, but the ones that are, are very racist. I remember once years ago, after working at McSwells we wound up at Patrick Morrissey’s Hair Salon. Patrick offered to dye my hair and being very buzzed on beer and whatnot, I agreed. Next thing you know, I had a close cropped suede head dyed quite blond. I must have looked a bit intimidating as a few weeks later as I was walking through Washington Square Park I was getting weird looks from various students before they scampered away.
But I’m no racist, as anyone could tell you, despite what was written about 20 or so years ago in the Village Voice. That was when I was running the film series and my partner and I decided to show The Gods Must Be Crazy, which was a crap film but it was cheap to get and had been playing for over a year at various theaters in Manhattan. True, there was a cultural boycott of South Africa at the time but we figured that showing the movie to twenty people in Hoboken wouldn’t make any difference at all.
There was very little publicity for it until RJ Smith, professional wanker wrote a column about how McSwells was violating the boycott. Jim Fouratt, friend of Steve Fallon felt compelled to call Steve and get him to cancel the showing. Steve decided not to and the evening turned out to be a success, our largest crowds up to that date. I guess they all heard it was racist movie and wanted to see it, since Birth Of A Nation was unavailable at the time. The next day RJ Smith called me and asked if I needed his help writing a rebuttal. I said no rebuttal would be written, why should we give the Voice that power, especially since the fucking Village Voice had been advertising the fucking movie for a few years at that point throughout Manhattan.
Stupid RJ Smith didn’t know that. He only wrote for the paper, albeit badly, he never read it it seemed. Now RJ is a senior editor at Los Angeles Magazine, if you do a Google search for him you’ll be lead to a review on the lost African Renaissance in Los Angeles. And Jim Fouratt is doing whatever it is Jim Fouratt does. I last saw him at the Union Theological Seminary at a brunch for Troy Perry, head of the Metropolitan Community Church for LGBT people. Fouratt was with a transgendered woman who was outside smoking with me. She asked me if I was a believer and I told her no. Then she asked what was I going to do when the angel of death came for me. I answered, Offer him a drink. She left in a huff and I told Bill who got pissed off at her. We left soon after.
Tonight I had to go to the Manhattan Mall, to get a gift card for my niece Hillary at Aeropostale. Crazy long line, but I braved it and a half hour later I was walking out the door. Then I took the Path home and stopped by the Guitar Bar where Jim Mastro was working. I love Jim, he’s really a sweet guy, and of course he’s the father of my kid Lily, the kid I somehow had with Meghan, the funniest girl alive. Ruby is a good kid too, but she looks more Mastro than Ozed so I guess we’re even. Had two shots of Ouzo with Jim and I bought a guitar tablature book for Earl, cheap at half the price. I love those Mastros.
Work was ok today.
check out this link, regarding the Salvation Army