And so it is June, and the thermometer spends all day edging 35 degrees like a porn addict. I’d say this has been rather a sorry month for humanity, what with the overturning of Roe vs Wade, the fourth month of unabated war crimes in Ukraine, the cancellation of Pride celebrations in Norway because of some mentalist, the famine in Sudan and the lack of support from Europe, the earthquake in Afghanistan and the lack of support from Europe, and the ongoing slow death of nature. If this thing of ours truly is an experiment instigated by higher beings to determine whether compassion and righteousness win out against greed and hate, let me just say that they’re shaking their five-dimensional heads right now and wondering what the fuck we’re up to. Perhaps July will be better. Perhaps 2023 will be better. Perhaps the next decade will be better.
News? None. I don’t know if it’s the after-effects of the pandemic or what, but people in the literary world are slower than ever to respond to 1. queries and 2. short story submissions. A couple of weeks ago I received a response to a story that I submitted back in August 2020. That’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it 22 months. It was a rejection.
Book of the month: Trejo: My Life of Crime, Redemption and Hollywood by Danny Trejo. This was quite a read. I’ve liked Danny Trejo ever since I saw him at the tender age of 10 as the mute knife-throwing assassin in Desperado, and to get a few insights into the life of a certified badass was a welcome change of pace from the highfalutin crap I usually read. The man was mean, and he spent a long time in prison because of it, and somehow, despite the solitary confinements and aggression and riots, he emerged from it with (some kind of) god on his side and a desire to do good things in his heart. That’s pretty cool. Also interesting is the Latino community in LA, which I knew next to nothing about (aside from watching Training Day eight times), and the fact that Trejo was one of the OGs down at Muscle Beach. What a life that dude has had.
Album of the month: Hmm, Waterslide, Diving Board, Ladder to the Sky by Porridge Radio, I guess. More indie rock, more post-punk, more simple riffs and simpler lyrics. I’m getting predictable.
Film of the month: One film I saw this month which was truly strange was Buffalo Bill and the Indians, or Sitting Bull: A History Lesson. Directed by Robert Altman and starring Paul Newman, Harvey Keitel, Burt Lancaster and Shelley Duval, the thing plays out like someone’s half-remembered dream. I’m not sure who it was made for. It’s barely entertaining, Newman does little except brood and drink whiskey from a chalice, there’s no real narrative structure, and there are at least four scenes of women singing opera for no reason. If it was by Pasolini and featured a cast of youthful no-name actors speaking rapid-fire Italian then I would understand, but this was released by United Artists in theatres throughout the US. I love the subversive nature of M*A*S*H, The Long Goodbye, California Split, McCabe & Ms Miller and The Player, but Buffalo Bill is a step too far for me. And so in conclusion I’ll award ‘film of the month’ to the brilliant Black Belt Jones starring Jim Kelly, if only for the foam-filled finale in a car wash.
Lights, camera, music:
3 High Desert Queen - Heads Will Roll
