Because people who have no hopes are easy to control

Gmork: Foolish boy. Don’t you know anything about Fantasia? It’s the world of human fantasy. Every part, every creature of it, is a piece of the dreams and hopes of mankind. Therefore, it has no boundaries.
Atreyu: But why is Fantasia dying, then?
Gmork: Because people have begun to lose their hopes and forget their dreams. So the Nothing grows stronger.
Atreyu: What is the Nothing?
Gmork: It’s the emptiness that’s left. It’s like a despair, destroying this world. And I have been trying to help it.
Atreyu: But why?
Gmork: Because people who have no hopes are easy to control; and whoever has the control… has the power

via Tiffany Imogen

David Bowie – Keep Inventing Kid

David Bowie as Ziggy Stardust

RIP to David Bowie. A man more powerful than a cultural tornado. I searched google for David Bowie quotes and this is what shows up without clicking a link. #awesome

I don’t know where I’m going from here, but I promise it won’t be boring.

I always had a repulsive need to be something more than human. I felt very puny as a human. I thought, “Fuck that. I want to be a superhuman.

I’m an instant star. Just add water and stir.

Indeed. First his last poignant gift if moribund

He is up there as an innovator in my my mind with the likes of Grace Jones

Or Nina

I know Madonna and Lady Gaga will live well beyond their time with us with such constant renewal and reinvention.

And it makes me also think of Elvis Presley of course. But I really don’t remember.

David Byrne describing creativity and the difficulty of diversity

How did I get here?

David and so many of these other artists were such a huge influence on me and I’m not even a musician. Mr. David Bowie – your talent will be remembered and your creativity will continue to inspire. I hope they play this one at your funeral because this is how I prefer to imagine your life-after my friend.

Applause Applause Indeed to you Mr. Bowie. And as you did so many times, I give credit to the people you influenced. The people who carry your legacy on.

There is nothing wrong with those that want the “normal” life. Or is there? I can’t say I “miss it” as I’m not sure what a “normal life” looks like.

Here is what I do know. I may be crazy, and you may have been crazy, but I’d rather live life to it’s fullest with or without applause, but definitely a life without regrets. I’ve failed brilliantly and publicly many times. So you reinvented, and I learned that from the few, the rare, the audacious artists who were told “you can’t fly silly little man” and you said “fuck you, fly to keep up with me or we aren’t in the same flock.”

I don’t think I’m in your league in any way with my humble accomplishments, but I give you credit and I give you applause from another talent inspired by creative giants like yourself.

Featured image: http://www.ybca.org/ziggy-stardust

#peace #fuckit #schadenfreude #goforit #gravityIsYourChoiceSoDefyIt

“You’re asking if he is a Sicilian.“

The Don had not seemed surprised when Hagen returned from California late tuesday evening and told him the results of the negotiations with Woltz. He had made Hagen go over every detail and grimaced with distaste when Hagen told about the beautiful little girl and her mother. Had had murmured “infamita,“ his strongest disapproval. He had asked Hagen one final question, “does this man have real balls?“

Hagen considered exactly when the Don meant by this question. Over the years he had learned that the Don’s values were so different from those of most people that his words also could have a different meaning. Did Woltz have character? Did he have a strong will? He most certainly didn’t, but that was not what the Don was asking. Did the movie producer have the courage not to be bluffed? Did he have the willingness to suffer heavy financial loss delay on his movies would mean, the scandal of his big star exposed as a user of heroin? Again the answer was yes. But again this was not what the Don meant. Finally Hagen translated the question properly in his mind. Did Jack woltz have the balls to risk everything, to run the chance of losing all on a matter of principle, on a matter of honor; for revenge?

Hagen smiled. He did it rarely but now but he could not resist jesting with the Don. “You’re asking if he is a Sicilian.“ The Don nodded his head pleasantly, acknowledging the flattering witticism and its truth. “No,“ Hagen said.

That had been all. The Don had pondered the question until the next day. on Wednesday afternoon he had called Hagen to his home and given him his instructions. The instructions had consumed the rest of Hagen’s working day and left him dazed with admiration. There was no question in his mind that the Don had solved the problem, that Woltz would call him this morning with the news that Johnny Fontane had the starring part in his new war movie.

At that moment the phone did ring but it was Amerigo Bonasera. The undertaker’s voice was trembling with gratitude. He wanted Hagen to convey to the Don his undying friendship. the Don had only to call on him. He, amerigo Bonasera, would lay down his life for the blessed Godfather. Hagen assured him that the Don would be told.

The Daily News had carried a middle-page spread of Jerry Wagner and Kevin Moonan lying in the street. The photos were expertly gruesome, they seemed to be pulps of human beings. Miraculously, said the News, they were both still alive though they would both be in the hospital for months and would require plastic surgery. Hagen made a note to tell Clemenza that something should be done for Paulie Gatto. He seemed to know his job.

Hagen worked quickly and efficiently for the next three hours consolidating earning reports from the Don’s real estate company, his olive oil importing business and his construction firm. None of them were doing well but with the war over they should all become rich producers. He had almost forgotten the Johnny Fontaine problem when his secretary told him California was calling. He felt a little thrill of anticipation as he picked up the phone and said, “Hagen here.“

The voice that came over the phone was unrecognizable with hate and passion. “You fucking bastard,“ Woltz screamed. “I’ll have you all in jail for a hundred years. I’ll spend every penny I have to get you. I’ll get that Johnny Fontane’s balls cut off, do you hear me, you guinea fuck?“

Hagan said kindly, “I’m German-Irish.“ There was a long pause and then a click of the phone being hung up. Hagen smiled. Not once had Woltz uttered a threat against Don Corleone himself. Genius had its rewards.

Jack Woltz always slept alone. He had a bed big enough for ten people and a bedroom large enough for a movie ballroom scene, but he had slept alone since the death of his first wife ten years before. This did not mean he no longer used women. He was physically a vigorous man despite his age, but he could be aroused not by only very young girls and had learned that a few hours in the evening were all the youth his body and his patience could tolerate.

On this Thursday morning, for some reason, he awoke early. The light of dawn made his huge bedroom as misty as a foggy meadowland. Far down at the foot of his bed was a familiar shape and Woltz struggled up on his elbows to get a clearer look. It had the shape of a horse’s head. Still groggy. Woltz reached and flicked on the night table lamp.

The shock of what he saw made him physically ill. It seemed as if a great sledgehammer had struck him on the chest, his heartbeat jumped erratically and he became nauseous. His vomit splattered on the thick bear rug.

Severed from its body, the black silky head of the great horse Khartoum was stuck fast in a thick cake of blood. White, reedy tendons showed. Froth covered the muzzle and those apple-sized eyes that had glinted like gold, were mottled the color of rotting fruit with dead, hemorrhaged blood. Woltz was struck by a purely animal terror and out of the terror he screamed for his servants and out of the terror he called Hagen to make his uncontrolled threats. His maniacal raving alarmed the butler, who called Woltz’s personal physician and his second in command at the studio. But Woltz regained his senses before they arrived.

He had been profoundly shocked. What kind of man could destroy an animal worth six hundred thousand dollars? Without a word of warning. Without any negotiation to have the act, its order, countermanded. The ruthlessness, the sheer disregard for any values, implied a man who considered himself completely his own law, even his own God. And a man who backed up this kind of will with the power and cunning that held his own stable security force of no account. For by this time Woltz had learned that the horse’s body had obviously been heavily drugged before someone leisurely hacked the huge triangular head off with an ax. The men on night duty claimed that they had heard nothing. To Woltz this seemed impossible. The could be made to talk. They had been bought off and they could be made to tell who had done the buying.

Woltz was not a stupid man, he was merely a supremely egotistical one. He had mistaken the power he wielded in his world to be more potent than the power of Don Corleone. He had merely needed some proof that this was not true. He understood this message. That despite all his wealth, despite all his contacts with the President of the United States, despite all his claims of friendship with director of the FBI, an obscure importer of Italian olive oil would have him killed. would actually have him killed! Because he wouldn’t give Johnny Fontane a movie part he wanted. It was incredible. People didn’t have any right to act that way. There couldn’t be any kind of world if people acted that way. It was insane. It meant you couldn’t do what you wanted with your own money, with the companies you owned , the power you had to give orders. It was ten times worse than communism. It had to be smashed. It must never be allowed.

Woltz let the doctor give him a very mild sedation. It helped him calm down again and to think sensibly. What really shocked him was the casualness with which this man Corleone had ordered the destruction of a world-famous horse worth six hundred thousand dollars. Six hundred thousand dollars! And that was just for openers. Woltz shuddered. He thought of this life he had built up. He was rich. He could have the most beautiful women in the world by crooking his finger and promising a contract. He was received by kings and queens. He lived a life as perfect as money and power could make it. It was crazy to risk all this because of a whim. Maybe he could get to Corleone. What was the legal penalty for killing a racehorse? He laughed wildly and his doctor and servants watched him with nervous anxiety. Another thought occurred to him. He would be the laughingstock of California merely because someone had contemptuously defied his power in such arrogant fashion. That decided him. That and the thought that maybe, maybe they wouldn’t kill him. That they had something much more clever and painful in reserve.

Woltz gave the necessary orders. His personal confidential staff swung into action. The servants and the doctor were sworn to secrecy on pain of incurring the studio’s and Woltz’ undying enmity. Word was given to the press that the racehorse Khartoum had died of an illness contracted during his shipment from England. Orders were given to bury the remains in a secret place on the estate.

Six hours later Johnny Fontane received a phone call from the executive producer of the film telling him to report for work the following Monday.

– from “The Godfather“
Mario Puzo

Brats – all 15 million of you – you have a movie

Bratsmoviefiretruck_1
I was contacted by a gentleman with the The American Overseas Schools Historical Society through our site with a link to BRATS: Our Journey Home. I suspect he found my info in the official bio. Why did I chose to include "an Army brat" as a phrase in there – not sure. So, if you are a military brat (in the military this is a compliment, not a bad thing) please do check out the BRATS site.

From the site:

BRATS: Our Journey Home is the first feature-length documentary, narrated by singer/songwriter
Kris Kristofferson,
about a hidden American subculture – a lost tribe of at least fifteen million people from
  widely diverse backgrounds, raised on military bases around the world,
   whose shared experiences have shaped their lives so powerfully,
    they are forever different from their fellow Americans. (more)

So you mean others don’t go to camp outs with a deuce and a half carrying their camping gear? Sheeesh.

The picture on the top right is from the brats site and was provided (to them) courtesy of The Musil Family.

Kids who did NOT want to go to the movies

I came home yesterday to a house full of kids.  Kids who did NOT want to go to the movies.  They actually chose going to Target over going to the movies.  When exactly did going to the movies become such a downer to the youth?  Are they just tired of parents saying "no, actually you can’t have an $10 bucket of popcorn"?

The LA times, as picked up by every blogger and slashdot, is running an article entitled "This Just in: Flops Caused Box Office Slump" which points out that crappy movies keep people away from the theatres.  But the boys, ages 8, 12 and 11 (the last one not being mine) didn’t even know what was showing.  You can’t say that they didn’t like any of the movies; the conversation never got that far.  They classified going to the movies with bowling, which they also turned down.  Skateboarding – that still rocks.  Target, yes the store, was a second choice.  Times are a changing.

I concluded with the thought that as an adult I decide if I want to go to the movies, and then check what is playing (typically at least).  Kids appear to choose the movie first and consider the location secondary.  The theatrical presence of the theater has no value, only the entertainment and they probably want it to be a few nanometers north of crappy for the amount of parental grief they put up with during the process.  The process of going to the movies.