October 8th, 2003


Drowning by Freaking Numbers

Mmm, second visitor. That's a 100% increase overnight. It's downhill all the way now with percentages. I accept the Professor's point for the time being, at least until I come across a better client, or I change my mind. Thanks Professor, I owe you a donut.
Unplanned night of drunken crawling last night whereby I seem to have lost my mobile phone. I'm assuming this was during some similarly unplanned pogoing during The Ramones. A good evening and, in retrospect, it was probably time for an upgrade anyway. But all those lost numbers... If you're reading this and I know you (that's only the Professor to my knowledge), send me your number.
I was unfortunately reminded of Peter Greenaway's existence today. Many years ago when I mistakenly went to a triple bill of his at the Scala, I swore to myself that I would kneecap him if we ever met. The only similar oath I have ever made to myself was after visiting Auschwitz. Now, although I haven't softened in my hatred of National Socialism, I might be prepared to downgrade the level of the Greenaway threat since I don't really want to inflict a lifetime of suffering on anyone these days. Not that he still doesn't annoy the hell out of me: he was going on in the paper about the future of cinema and I found my blood boiling again. If he'd ever made any decent films I might be prepared to listen. For me, Greenaway in the 80's was final nail in the history of arthouse cinema. Mostly because he thought arthouse meant 'art' and his films were therefore like Vermeer paintings half the time. What he didn't get, or maybe never had the insight to realise, was that someone like Tarkovsky (and many others) could get away with very tightly composed and directed composition in his films because he had a soul. Greenaway always seemed without one. He was an Athena poster and, if Japanese works on this site, his films were 全く気持ち悪い, (mattaku kimochi warui if it doesn't). And don't get me started on The Pillow Book.
No, I will no longer break his kneecaps. But, so one day I can face my younger self with some sort of defence, I still promise to throw my drink in his face, probably throw the glass, try and get a punch to connect with his face and be dragged cursing and and screaming from the room. The possibilities of me ever meeting him are slim and I advise all visitors to this journal to try and prevent any such meeting ever occurring in my lifetime.