I’m feeling mental…Senti-mental

sixfeet

Last Christmas. Good times

As we await the end of the world, at least there’s still this. When I’m sitting in my dinner on Chrimblas Day, ready to stab a sibling with a wishbone and carefully keeping an eye on the volume of alco-liquid that will get me to bedtime, I will be humming ‘Fairytale of New York’ in my head. Best watched/listened to alone as adding one other person makes it feel like some kind of formal Irlanda ‘salute the flag’ event. If heard in a pub, it provokes a selfish reaction as you scowl at some pissed-up tit in a Chrimblas jumper, wanting to tell him, “I remember when this came out you little prick. You probably think the Killers are legends. Go to Arnotts for your Chrimblas music you dick.”

Anyways, It’s about the only thing worth looking forward to at Christmas. Everything else disappoints, except functional alcoholism. In this awkward time when people are worried about ‘other’ people saying Happy Holidays, taking the Christmas out of Christmas, worrying about a war on Christmas, just remember one thing: nobody is actually doing that. If someone says Happy Holidays to you, you can say Happy Christmas to them. They don’t care. Nobody cares. Muslims don’t care. Buddists don’t care. Evangelical Ewoks don’t care. Scientologists don’t care because they want your Pass Card. I don’t care.

There is no God. No evidence of its existence. No evidence that it doesn’t exist. No one knows. Nobody actually knows. So, if someone says Happy Christmas to you, you’ll probably go Happy Christmas back, despite you both dropping your religious education aged 12 and only go to a church for a wedding or a funeral. You say ‘bless you’ when someone sneezes. That embarrassed person usually mutters ‘thanks’ through soaking hands. They don’t actually think that your ‘bless you’ means that you are an ordained priest or are a dark wizard with healing powers. Fuck that and fuck you. Giving me a cold I don’t fucking want.

I once heard Ronan Keating singing this song. He won’t be doing that again.stretch-macgibbonxmas

Stretch’s Scary Halloween Songs No.14: SQURL – Funnel of Love

onlylovers

You want me to stare and remain impassive, right? (To self…be a vampire…be the best vampire ever…be pale)

Here’s the awesome opening segment from the wonderful “Only Lovers Left Alive.” A movie in which Tom Hiddleston’s inability to react to anything that’s going on actually helps his performance. A movie in which Tilda Swinton inability to be anything else but a vampire really helps. A movie in which John Hurt’s inability to be anything other than a sinister old man really helps.  Basically no one acts.

HiddleSwinton never really caught on though.

More junkie-chic vampires please. The soundtrack to this album creates an odd listening sensation, especially walking around your daily boring, ordinary human life (That’s right, I said it. Screw you humans). You actually become pale and blink less and get pissy at Taylor Swift posters. You walk, slowly trailing a bottle of Malbec behind you sneering at passersby. Eyeing up swans as a potential food source. Only the best for you. Crouching for no reason. Looking at beautiful people as possible eternity mates. A sort of non-goth goth. Add a flouncy shirt and you’re away. Basically, you become a pretentious dick.

Try it though. It’s fun. Better than what you were going to do.

Stretch’s Scary Halloween Songs No.13: The Cramps – Human Fly

“Well I’m a human fly
I-I said F-L-Y
I say “buzz buzz buzz”
A-and it’s just becuz
I-I’m a human fly
A-and I don’t know why
I got 96 tears and 96 eyes”
the-cramps-1

Halloween is coming. I lay sweaty in my bed with the dancing moist pumpkins and sweaty witches’ brooms invading my dreams, forcing me awake.

In the reeking darkness, I see a man silhouetted at the end of my bed wearing nothing but a pair of leather pants, a puff of smoke leaving the area where his head should be and escaping through the open window past fluttering ghostly drapes.

I rub my twitching eyes and notice I have the alcohol sweats. My head pounds and I see another shadowy figure behind the swaying man. A woman with red curly hair, her face lit by an angry moon, exhibiting a dark wet-lipped sneer. I pull the bed covers up to my face and wonder whether I should ask them a pertinent question. She begins to sway beautifully. They both move to an unheard ancient music.

My face is fully wet now and the sticky humidity has made me, I must say, breathless. Biting down hard on my knuckles,  I watch them. Opening my mouth to speak, no sound comes out. I feel strangely aroused. What is this feeling? She puts her ring-ed finger to her lipstick-ed mouth. He leans in. His devilish eyes focus on me. He pours red wine into my mouth until I gag. She sits sliently at the edge of the bed. My mind is full of multiple possible scenarios, some including my demise. He moves closer awkwardly but with grace, his glistening white shoulders moving like an insect. She smokes cigarettes and blows a ring at my head. I am backed up against the headboard, pushing down on the soaked sheets. My startled eyes like something from a silent movie. He opens his wine-drenched mouth, his cigarette-stained teeth smiling at me and through his hot breath comes the sound,

“Buzz…buzz…buzz.” Over and over again.

The air around us vibrates violently. The lamp crashes to the floor. She throws the bed covers to the wall. He smashes the wine bottle above my head. Bottles fall to the ground as they close in. She climbs on top of me. I know what’s about to happen. He climbs on her back to get a spectator’s view. A bottle of whiskey rolls across the floor. He has more wine now, spilling it on my bare chest, then casting it aside after guzzling half of it. She pops champagne and necks it, the foaming spillage forming around the area of our connection.

Her eroticism and reptilian rhythmic motion…the, the, the vibrating air send me into an ecstatic thrall. She screams….He buzzes. She throws her wine glass behind her and he rubs her wet hair as she performs her devilish insane exhibition on my prone body. The light fixtures explode and the walls begin to drip with what I hope is wine and my, my, my last thought before I succumb to these unnatural, unearthly pleasures is that if I wake from this surreal carnal experience, I really must bring all this glass to the recycling centre in the golden morn.

Because, THAT would be the right thing to do.

Henry McCullough

David Holmes awesome collaboration with BP Fallon from the “Late Night Tales” compilation right here. Beautiful. All I have to say. Nothing funny. That’s it.

It’s a movie: Wiener-Dog

wiener-dog-movie-1A man said to me today, “Y’now, it’s Pierce Brosnan. He’s not a woman.” I kind of understood what he meant but at the same time I backed away with the speed of a prom queen in a slasher movie. So, this is not to be confused with the excellent documentary “Weiner,” about Anthony Weiner’s penis. This story of poor Wiener-Dog or as they say in Irlanda Cú-Sausage is an anxiety-filled ride taking in all that exists in Todd Solondz’s’s’s universe including dysfunctional families, some more dysfunctional families and eventually dys family ain’t no fun. Actually, they are. Greta Gerwig fulfils her role as indie darling by playing an indie darling doing her best to hide behind that indie darling. Most actors would look affected if they played the parts Gerwig does, but she seems to perfectly inhabit any character’s awkward angst with world-weary knuckle chewing. She seems at home with the inevitability of things going wrong as if a win is something other people achieve. The Culkin who is not that Culkin looks like he has been dragged screaming from some fountain of youth. Surely those kids are in their 70s by now. wienerAlso, Ellen Burstyn appears in the final act as kind of an end-of-days version of her end-of-days character in “Requiem for a Dream.” Everything in Todd Solondz’s Universe is supposed to jar and this film seems a bit lighter than say “Happiness.” Later as I walked my own helmeted dog while handing off strangers and screaming at traffic, I thought about “Wiener-Dog.” In a Solondz movie, you miss a lot. So, what the fuck was that bit about? Why was that guy’s brother into THAT extremely violent video game? What was his wife scared of? Why did they do what they did at the end so many fucking times? Why is Tracy Letts in everything, yet I can’t remember what? Finally, in my 40s I have now learned that I have always thought Julie Delpy was Julie Delphy. Not as easy to put into a dishwasher. How dumb am I? The film is owned by Danny DeVito who really has gone past all that 80s and 90s stuff and become a brilliant actor. Wonder what Rhea Perlman is up to? I miss her. As for Arnold, well.

VERDICT: Great date movie if the relationship is going nowhere fast

NOTE: Do not confuse this movie with “Wiener Dog Nationals” and vice-versa!

Roads to nowhere

“How can it feel, this wrong?”

Two versions of the same song. Portishead and Gone is Gone doing “Roads.” Mastodon’s Troy Sanders may not have Beth Gibbon’s beauteous voice, but when a song is this strong, it’s hard to do a bad job of it. Makes you want to curl into a ball and chew on Xanax, which is never a bad thing. I have stomach cramps today, so I think this is a song about that, because how can it feel, how can it feel, this wrong?