Category Archives: Uncategorized

My Father’s Two Year Trial Separation From Physical Form on this Nutty Rock

June 30th, 2015 my father died.  Or passed on or left his body for a more suitable environment to fit his spiritual well being.   We see people through our own tunnel vision so I can say I saw him in a way no-one else did. Or felt him or an essence or two that may have stayed dormant into the grave. I’m not sure.  What I do know is that he named me after Liberace.  I didn’t ask him until I was 34 and were in St. Patrick’s Cathedral in NYC.  I think I asked him there so I knew I’d get the truth. Not that he would lie. My dad wasn’t eloquent but he laid out how he felt.

‘He was a hell of a piano player.’  Given my yearning to play, and I have been starting to practice again, and the fact that he rarely listened to music, or encouraged it, or talked about it, I have to believe it was part of an essence of his that he took to the grave or he was divinely inspired and named me to kick me in the direction of where to go in life, as an artist. Liberace was a hell of a piano player.

When I first moved to LA in 2013, I had a numerology reading done on my name/birthday.  The reader did a Chaldean reading, a more ancient and mystic type of numerology.  My first name (full name Lee) is 13.  This is, for the waking world, a bad luck number and he didn’t dig it either. He thought I should change my name and gave me a list to ‘improve my vibes.’ One was Lukas. With a k. So I could go around and date seven women like Dr. Detroit and lose count of my mansions and walk around and say ‘Hi, my name is Lukas with a K Barton. My vibes are tasty now, baby.’

I like my name. I like my father named me Lee and not Walter III.  I like 13 because it means death, killing off those parts of your soul that hold you back. No way, no way, Lukas with a K.

So, on Father’s Day, I thank my dad for my name.

Peggy Guggenheim

Come to me,
Peggy Guggenheim
Sponsor me,
Peggy Guggenheim;
span your wealthy, knowing wings
over the brushes and voices that cannot sing
without you.

Maybe you’ve reincarnated as a dolphin,
Peggy Guggenheim
And Jackson Pollock is a sparrow

Well I once was a spider
and now I have eight hungry limbs
right now the the scene’s too dim
without your pulse and push.

So use your higher dolphin intelligence,
Peggy Guggenheim
and send me a human suitor with real humming eyes
Peggy Guggenheim
I’m gasping for art
and I got a symphony of sorts about to start
and before I waltz through that green heart shaped door
with that electric amoeba inside
I wonder if that’s you on the other side.

If you send me this sponsor,
Peggy Guggenheim
I’ll fight to have every Sea World closed down,
Peggy Guggenheim
and every dolphin will be free
and I can fan out like a tree
on acid.

 

Storm Before the Calm

I believe you can always peel away a layer of a cliche and find another truth lumbering beneath it.  Right now it’s a quiet chaos before seeing clearly which I need very very soon.  As I’ve mentioned before I’ve been in this challenging cycle over the last few years, with the weird tragic center-peice of my birth father and his wife/partner.  Other smaller little little asteroids made of barstool gum loaded with morning coffee and other undesirable types of breath have revolved around this one issue and now for the first time in a long time I feel a sense of final emergence, killing a cycle of familiar habits and old hurts that are too much to bear on a budget at times.  It’s articulating all of this as it’s happening that’s my task in life, and a foot’s been taken off one of my creative veins while tussling with whether to move to LA or stay here and fight the fight.  I’m tired of fighting though.  Healing winds of West seem to call and then disappear.  Swirl around the signal is getting stronger but I’m getting closer to the signal when the winds are strongest.   What’s best for the old rustic soul and what serves the world are where I should live next.  One thing for sure, no Friday night bullets.  No garbage swirling on the streets.  I’ve been closed for renovations but grand reopening is coming soon.  New menu and no more pictures of the food,my soul is going upscale.

I watched Behind the Candelabra, the biopic of Liberace starring Michael Douglas and Matt Damon as his young (20 something???) lover.  It got raves at Cannes and made me wonder if the French have started to eat too many Freedom Fries or  Triple Bypass burgers dipped in Honey BooBoo sauce. The film I saw was disappointing. Michael Douglas did an admirable job as Liberace and kudos to him for coming back from throat cancer.  What was disappointing was casting of Matt Damon, a 42 year old muscle laden kind of macho man type as what was supposed to be a 20 something gay man with what I imagine as a great capacity for softness and deep intimacy with Liberace.  I did not see that. It’s no knock on Matt Damon; he’s not the type. It’s like casting me as Vin Diesel’s muscly nemesis in one of those Vin Diesel type films. I’m totally wrong.  There were lines in the film where Matt Damon’s character said something like ‘Oh, you’re not after that queen (implying another gay man)’ and maybe it’s me but it sure came across as awkward. He didn’t look totally comfortable saying some of the lines. I could feel it. It was a weird vibe overall and to me, what could have been a deeply intimate complex portrayal between two people trying to love each other instead was something of a made for TV movie.  Compare it with Brokeback Mountain, which is a poignant and beautiful film in my opinion.

And one reviewer stated how bold and daring it was to show them having sex, meaning Matt Damon pounding on top of Michael Douglas. I disagree. I think if the emotional connection between the two were more dynamic, you wouldn’t need to show it. It’s a compensation instead of enhancement.

The whole point to me is how important casting becomes. This was an OK film to me but could have been something more. And also how some films seem to generate raves when they’re not much more than the top of the bell curve.  Maybe our standards are dipping.  We’re too ‘bot’, something. The state of American cinema is….loud. Very loud.

The other trend I notice is watching Star Trek: The Dark Night Rises which I enjoyed.  In the film, four characters: Spock, Kirk, Khan and Admiral Pike, all cried one single tear in various touching scenes. It’s on the rise in film. One tear only with no change in facial expression that glides down the cheek. I don;t know how they do it.  When I cry, my face is twisted and ugly and tears come out of all sorts of orifii and in bunches. I wonder if the actors really have mastered muscle control or Visine is making a million dollars off Star Trek.  If it’s the former, my acting career has hit a snag .

Good night and “bullocks to Don Revie!”

 

Using Dick Cavett’s Brainwaves as Modern Mental Floss

I’m  a nostalgic; I love to watch old TV shows, old commercials, old movies, old Communist scare public service announcements, etc.  one show I enjoy is Dick Cavett’s old interview show. The guests would be there would be there for at least half hour, possibly to plug a project but mostly just engaging in good thick conversation with Mr. Cavett who had a way, in my view, of making people feel grounded, engaged and free to be themselves.  Compared to today when stars are rolled out for five minute interviews, show clips of whatever they’re doing and then shushed off for the next guest, it’s shag orange carpet magic for me.  Everyone’s grounded.  Mature, adult, developed.   Now we’re a little ADD and caffeinated in twenty directions.   Football was even calmer in the 70’s.   I don’t believe in going back to the way things were but there are times when I feel like we’ve lost a bit of something graceful and can bring that back with all of the extra-higher order DNA activating juicy fruit in the air now.  Sometimes it feels technology is outpacing us by a few lengths.

For me, I’m not a Facebook fab. I update my status about once every two months and have an account to stay in touch with friends who use it. I just have trouble with sharing certain parts of my day to day with people who may or may not be my friends. What also happens is that when i’m in one of my several hundred moods, I notice how happy everyone is.  It’s a marvel and when I feel lower than a blues scale I see someone posting ‘on the moon right now auditioning for MacBeth with aliens and winning the Oscar while giving birth to my beautiful twins’ I get more upset at my own life.  It’s been my experience that life is pretty inconsistent and challenging. Path to greatness is littered with invisible jagged boulders ready to tumble;if you catch one, you can turn into something beautiful. It’s hard.  But in a certain mood Facebook makes me feel like shit because it seems that everyone is happy all the time except me. It’s wild.   Then I begin to think that I must be responsible for all major global conflicts and school shootings and I need to apologize to all the heads of state who are probably checking out Michelle Obama’s Twitter account and don’t time for me.

But then I think if they had Facebook for dogs, who are the happiest creatures on Earth, their status updates would read “Happy poop.” “Food eat love belly rub!” “Make  sleep poop ball!!!!! (Smiley face)”.  But even on Facebook for dogs there would be the occasional “My owner poops and I don’t” general upsettedness.  When I read Facebook happy statuses, I get the sense the human species is a happier one than dogs and yet when I look at world conditions, Plus, I know one or two people via friends who I know are miserable people and when I look at their Facebook accounts,  it seems like Buddha’s calling them for advice on joy jumping.  So I’ve come to a conclusion that most people are full of shit.   It’s not a bad thing.   It’s liberating.  I’d say a good 80% of what I see is bullshit. It’s fantastic.  What’s Real anyway is usually invisible and something you scrape your ass or head on for a few moments the way the world’s constructed at the moment.   I have a rule. When I feel tender in the heart region, a little down, or violently artistically pre-explosive, I don’t view social media.  Too full of French Fry expressives and I feel like I’m another species; I thought I was human, as I feel rage,love, hate, despair, envy, a touch of paradise, ecstatic joy, the need to hold a baby, thoughts of killing myself and then flying to Russia afterwards, performing Hamlet, sitting quietly listening to extinct birds, fighting to stay awake, keep the dreams of a 1977 Pontiac Bonneville hubcap alive. I know I’m a little more extremist than most but you know, not really.

I’ve said this before but I prefer Myspace where I could invent mood words (I feel Floisty, that’s my favorite) and invent personae from moment to moment.   I’m going to invent a new social platform called rantwave.com or something;  be yourself and no baby pictures allowed or quotes by Gandhi.  Rant, squeeze, express.

When you reach the end of your wits, the wits will try anything to save themselves.

 

B side Resurrection Sleeper

I was talking with a friend tonight and she asked me about all the screenplays I had written and it got me digging into my old writing and when that happens you find parts of your past still sticking on the page and when that happens, it’s like archeology and my digs usually have a soundtrack.  One of my early scripts involved a song I wanted to use by Edwyn Collins, the ex Orange Juice member who wrote a tune called ‘Keep on Burning.’  And then it made me think of 1995 when he released Gorgeous George and I was living in Iowa sort of peeling through the wreckage of what I call my ‘Screamers’ slick where my soul got turned inside out like the way old vacuum bags used to get cleaned because I had just finished grad school and was on core meltdown a lifetime in the making.

I would listen to his album over and over because when life has been a bit raw there’ s always an album to keep me afloat or tie the wreckage together to float and paddle to safety so I can recharge and rebuild. If you haven’t died a few times in life I think you’re missing out on some great potential tunes.  Listening to the songs again now it still pokes at something a little sore, a little cool and it makes me want to write a better script just to honor this song, I like it, I like his sound and make this latest comb for remaining wreckage on the sea bed floor something I can rock to or dance to or make love to with someone amphibious.

Edwyn Collins “Keep on Burning”

peace and diligence,

Rev 66 Peachnuts

Enter Pete’s Dragon

Finally, after much effort, a promotional trailer for Frenemies has been completed.  I love to mix pleasure with pleasure and so I’ll get it posted.  I’m pleased and look forward to the hundreds of thousands of dollars it will attract like a hungry magnet so I can film this ditty.  I look forward to the orgasmic powers of delegation as I was an artistic  Doctor Octopus and wrote, directed, starred, did the basic editing, scored and played the instruments and designed the dress Kate is wearing.  It’s been a great experience and probably saved me $100,000 in film school loans. Look forward to sharing soon and today, after a weekend of tying it together, is a comedown day where my brain feels like it’s drinking airline mini wines in a hotel near an unscheduled layover near Dallas Forth Worth International; exactly like that.

Now, a Kickstarter campaign will be posted to raise funds to hire someone to raise funds;  I once had this idea of having a fundraiser for a fundraiser in regards to my play Whorapy; how prophetic.  I just wish manifesting didn’t drive in the damn slow lane all the time;  if it’s got 8 under the hood, use it once in a while and squeeze the lemons out of the speed limit and let’s see how fast we can put dreams into the thirdest of dimensions.

 

Somewhere Bruce Lee swirls around inside me like a animated leviathan, full of muscular justice and righteous passion and when it surges to the surface, I try to funnel it into rhythm and words and slick movement through moments and sometimes, it gets away from me and I feel so large I can hear Jupiter squeaks when it turns.  Such are the reflections of a rainy Monday, where the body and mind feel contracted, to rest. 

The Power of the word Penis

When I looked at my blog stats, my blog for one particular day was about 6000% percent higher than every other post around it and I realized it was the one where I discussed the educational background and general behavior patterns of my penis. Now, either my Han Solo is that magnetic or putting the word penis in my blog is  traffic magnet and so I think somehow I’m going to find a way to relate every future blog to my penis; then, once I have all of Ashton Kuchter’s followers, I’ll spring upon them my doctrine to take the Lord Jesus Christ as their savior and copilot and endocrinologist.   Or wax on about my passion for filmmaking and arts in general, which is a drag compared to my penis and it’s own life path and dedication to ending world hunger by designing a little ribbon-pin celebrities can wear during the Oscars;   designs are forthcoming. or that it is learning to sail.  Or that it can tie a cherry stem into a knot with its tongue urethra. It’s too bad I don’t have a vagina; maybe I do; I’ll take a rummage around down there next time.

I, or the collective we, are close to casting actor number four for Whorapy and possibly Meghan for Frenemies. Right now, I am healing from a lower back muscle pull and a slight cold; and also being pushed towards a gambit of faith, something that’s a lot harder to do than Morpheus led on in The Matrix.  Quickly on a tangent built of trees, there are particular films that I do watch over again even though they’re pretty soggy because I really really believe the film will be different when I watch it;  the two sequels to The Matrix are examples of that. When it’s on cable I have to watch.  Romantic hearts have a thousand eyes and a million blind spots.

I am a wit’s end or three or five.  There’s massive tsunamis inside me and they keep battering a very hard skull and closer and close I get to this giant Life Yawn, little bit by little bit, grappling quietly while my body gets tossed around while scraping until the absolute LAST MOMENT to plunge ahead into the unknown largesse of it all, to drop off the dead leaden parts and end the loitering around the gates of a higher life.  I’ve never been one for compromise; if even a whiff of a puff of it is inside an action I don’t do it; sometimes I think it’s perfectionism gone wild.  Magnetically grand stretches like this one, where I know the end of the month is going to look a lot different than the start, can make it hard to tell.  I don’t know why I have to be dragged kicking and screaming into the strange light but drama is drama.

Burning in limbo

One of the hardest things in life is waiting while still maintaining some artistic swagger.  Trying to squeeze out a play while it’s still in its second trimester.   To fill those holding patterns while burning fuel over the skies of Manhattan, is Netflix and the occasional in-flight drama, like what happened with my birth father and his wife. Or didn’t happen; or may have happened in alternate universe where I’m a lot dumber than I am in this one.   As it’s late and I don’t want to bullrush a punchline, I’ll embellish more when I don’t need to be in bed so I can dream about Christina Hendricks, which I did last night and thank you subconscious;

I’m on OKCupid;  I’ve never been a match.com/dating site connoisseur; the trend now is questions; a whole list of questions about things and stuff and what you would do when encountered with certain things and what you think about stuff;  one asks to describe the first thing people notice about me; to be honest, I don’t want to know;  how can I know? every person that sees me on the street probably noticed my hair before it was shorn to 11th grade; how the hell am I supposed to know the very first thing people notice about me?  It’s a peculiar question and at the end of life when I’m in front of my cosmic steering committee going through life notes, the answer might be ‘you remind people of a semicolon.” That could be it;  I fucking knew it! I knew it.  That explains why so much of my life felt complete yet still with little wicked clips of longing, like a sentence that ends in a semi-colon;

This weekend I am in a show where I get to wear a wig; a giant afro that makes me look like a counter counter love-a-lutionary from 1977;  the wig has magic powers and hopefully this weekend the wig will split open the time space continuum and I’ll see myself winning the Oscar where I will thank the wig; and I’ll also thank Satan. And Jesus. And all their contractors; maybe they’re all hanging out playing Intellivision in a shack in the Ozarks.

In the meantime, wait and pace and wait and pace and wonder why limbo was invented since it seems hotter than hell at times;  you have to sit and wait until whatever needs to come boiling out comes boiling out and every cell is ready.

My penis says ‘hey’ and ‘waiting for you, Sheila-loo; make a right turn at thirty and you’ll know what to do.’

‘There is a magic in life where, once evry cell is committed to a path that is purely from the heart, you begin to meet the people and have the experiences that will catapult you, hurdle you joyfully down that new path. A fragrant serendipity that saturates every area of your life. That is what I fill my imagination with now’.

 

 

 

 

The twelve hour Joyday of madness

I just finished wrapping a one day shoot for a promotional trailer for Frenemies;  we started at 9am and last until about 8pm;  I forgot how how much crazy fun it is even getting something set up to film, let alone film it;  today I wanted to film our brief intro at a park in Williamsburg; it was cloudy i the mid forties; nobody was in the tony park and it offered a perfect view of Manhattan; however, there was a man driving around in one of those Popemobiles with dusters in front and he kept driving in circles and then finally, after hauling all of our equipment and I had laid down the track, drove up and told us we couldn’t film there without a permit because it was a state park and set me off for a bit;  a vacant park being told by a man whose job it was to drive a glorified Swiffer in circles with the swiffing portion one foot off the ground while his partner was mowing a February lawn with no live grass was a bit much for me not to consider I was dealing with a man who wanted no one to enjoy themselves; if the state of NY is that anally sewn up about it I will think twice about filming here. That man pissed off my anger; sometimes I get angry but my anger doesn’t get angry but today was a farce;  I look forward to mocking the state in the future in one of my pieces.

It set us back a couple of hours and we had to film in a soccer field next door;  I created  a physics challenge for filming as the angles were created in my mind for the Pope Swiffer I-Mobile Fascist Park; with my great cast/crew we managed and delivered enough good footage to give us something to use that will be rugged enough to be far enough away from too polished and give a peek of what this film is going to be; I want something filmed like it came out of 1975, windswept, messy sloppy and perfect;  I can’t wait until we get this filmed;

The day was a great great time;  I am exhausted and going to watch zombies now.

 

Cinema and the beating 35mm human heart

As the Oscar’s get moving, I’ll be writing or practicing piano; I haven’t seen all of the best picture nominees or films with best actor/director nominees so watching them seems pointless. What does excite me every year are the Razzie nominees, which they announce the same day as the Oscars;

This year Adam Sandler with 12 nods including worst actor, actress, writer and producer, crushed the previous record for number of nominations (5, by Eddie Murphy) for a dingle year.  When Jack and Jill came out, living in New York and forced to be inundated with oversize posters where the human heads on them are sometimes five times the size of the real life version and airbrushed to the Alien Pudding Limit,  I could feel the Shame Radiation emanating from the tree corpse turned into the paper forced to be used for this poster. Usually I try to actually see something horrid before getting angry for having two hours sucked from my life like the machine from Princess Bride minus the charm and wit of that film.  For some reason, seeing this film even being released felt like a tipping point;  I’m not certain a film like this would even get suggested, let alone made, thirty years ago.

I don’t believe in good old days; I don’t believe in looking back unless the future has a rear view mirror. Glorifying the past is an epidemic of the human mind.  So I usually avoid saying film isn’t what it used to be or paved roads aren’t what they used to be or anal sex just wasn’t what it once was when Eisenhower was President, “There used to be good old fashioned quiet guilt and inner persecution.”

I will say, in film and maybe in other arts that the pendulum, the poor pendulum that used to swing back and forth in different directions but at the same general longitude of quality, is stuck on a piece of gum on a wall and hasn’t swung back towards the slower moving, calmer, soul-digging risky ventures of the 50’s-80’s;  I realize there’s a lot of forgettable film made in those times also but I can’t help but notice, when watching a film like Some Came Running  or Laura, the film noir classic,  my inner heart-art muscle gets that good ache, as it reminds me of what it means to grapple from moment to moment with the sensibilities of being a mature, sophisticated adult in a world that wants to dehumanize that at times. The actor in Laura whose name eludes me was so present and the director so trusting of that presence not much cutting back and forth and Law and Order camera bouncy bouncy was needed, making the seemingly sparse camera movements all the more meaningful and noticeable without being awkward. Am I making sense here?  When casually looking for a DP to film Frenemies a few months ago, most of the reels I saw were one, two or three second shots that bounced from one to the other like a frog on Snickers. I don’t know how to glean anything from two second shots spliced together; the other thing I noticed was eager over maneuvering for dramatic effect.  As one who is familiar with forcing, trying too hard in art over the years, I know the look.

The same with music;   sometimes I get the sense that music gets used to compensate for something not happening on the screen with/between/among the actors that should be;  it happens more often than I’d like.

For me it all comes down to the acting and trust; a few months ago when I was with this modeling/acting agency briefly one of their modeling agents, a very successful and candid fellow, said that thirty years ago actors were hired on talent and today it’s looks; I imagine he was riffing off the CW; I’m not so fatalistic but that’s not what you want to hear from someone supposed to be getting you auditions, especially when I don’t have Taylor Lautner Abduction abs.

The question becomes was there a Jack and Jill equivalent released by a major studio during the 1950’s, the same year they released On the Waterfront?  The pendulum that swings through the breadth of the human experience combined with the inner knowledge we now possess as we move through the 21st Century hopefully will create soul mad, exciting, Undertow Embracing, character and relationship saturated  grappling of our human experience; I love good films and what’s more important I love films that touch that Inner Gnaw and leave me like my muscles feel when I leave the gym, alive in the most profound way.

Here’s to the Good New Days.