Everywhere You Go: Black Cats II






Click here
for part one





As I finally got caught up with Kaneto Shindo's Kuroneko
yesterday (at SIFF Cinema through Thurs., 1/27), this seem-
ed like a good time to recognize more black cats. Instead of
videos, here are the photos and panels that caught my eye.











Black cats are a stylist's best friend (white will do in a
pinch). Socks doesn't wake up for less than $10,000 a day.











Felix is a foot fetishist.


















Mark Twain was a feline fancier and the web offers several pictures
of the author with tabby kittens (one of whom looks a little irritated).
His daughter, Jean, used her Brownie to capture this fine fellow.


















Everyone knows about Catwoman (soon to be played by Anne Hathaway), but fewer are likely to know about Felicia Hardy, AKA The Black Cat, who appears to share a little DNA with Socks above.
















Even Wonder Woman finds them intimidating (actually, this superheroine is her similarly-garbed lookalike, Phantom Lady).


















One of the best things ever. Better even than this Béla Tarr t-shirt.



Endnote: Click here for "The Quintessential Black Cat."
Images from The Cat Network, VisualizeUs, We Shall March,
Spiderfan.org, postmodernbarney ("The Mystery of the Black
Cat"), and Boing Boing ("Cat Flag" created by Art Yucko).

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Auto-
graphs:
Celebs
and Pens

Once up-
on a time,
I liked to
ask celeb-
rities for
their au-
tographs.
That time ended long ago, coinciding with an increase in the
number of interviews I've conducted with various entertainment
figures over the years (it seems more appropriate to ask a celeb
for their signature if you purchased a ticket to their film and/or
performance than during the course of a publicist-arranged con-
versation). Here are a few of my favorites, with more to come.

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Former label guy Glenn Boothe secured Arthur Lee's autograph
for me when the musician played NYC (sometime in the late-'80s,
early-'90s). There's a reason I named my blog AndMoreAgain...


















Remember when Wire changed the line-up and dropped the "e"? I do.

















While he was in town with James Ellroy, who signed my copy of
My Dark Places, Curtis Hanson signed my copy of this CD sound-
track—in silver pen, no less. Then he told me I paid too much for it.



Endnote: Cross-posted at Facebook.

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When the Shillelagh Meets the Banlieu, the Shtetl, and the Heart of Darkness

The following comes from a piece in Salon about controversial Nobel laureates. I've always thought Samuel Beckett was The Man as far as playwrights are concerned. I have a great deal of admiration for those who can say so much with so few words, and Beckett was a masterful minimalist.

Of course, I'm also a great admirer of his more verbose Irish-American "cousin," Eugene O'Neill. In both cases, they exploited the English language for all it was worth. This piece proves Beckett was The Man in numerous other ways--plus, he had the best damned hair next to Seymour Cassell. Happy 100th, Samuel!

*****

"Terrific. He'll have them on their feet. I can hear it from here."
-- "Director," Catastrophe (1982)

*****

[T]here is a writer who embodies all the ideals the Nobel stands for: Samuel Beckett (Ireland 1969), whose centenary year this is. Unbeknown even to many of his closest friends until after his death, Beckett had been a member of the French resistance during the war and received the Croix de Guerre. This is all the more admirable in that Beckett was from a neutral, if not impartial, country. (Sinn Fein was not entirely unsympathetic to the Axis powers on the dubious principle that the enemy of my enemy is my friend.) Beckett was deeply committed to human rights; he firmly and totally opposed apartheid, and from a very early age was hostile to all forms of racism and anti-Semitism; he supported human rights movements throughout the world, including Amnesty International and Oxfam. He lent his prestige to freedom movements behind the iron curtain, worked on behalf of the campaign to free Vaclav Havel and was a vigorous opponent of censorship. Though hardly a saint, he also apparently gave away most of his Nobel Prize money to those who needed it. True to character, Beckett did all of this out of the public eye, with no finger wagging, no pious speeches; for he exemplified, to his roots, in his writing, in his life, the adage "Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re"--discreet in form, strong in content. A noble laureate indeed.
-- George Rafael, "The Ignoble Prize" (2006)


"Act Without Words II" (10-minute film sans dialogue)

*****

The farther he goes the more good it does me. I don’t want philosophies, tracts, dogmas, creeds, ways out, truths, answers, nothing from the bargain basement. He is the most courageous, remorseless writer going and the more he grinds my nose in the shit the more I am grateful to him. He’s not fucking me about,
he’s not leading me up any garden path, he’s not slipping me a wink, he’s not flogging me a remedy or a path or a revelation
or a basinful of breadcrumbs, he’s not selling me anything I
don’t want to buy—he doesn’t give a bollock whether I buy
or not—he hasn’t got his hand over his heart. Well, I’ll buy
his goods, hook, line and sinker, because he leaves no stone
unturned and no maggot lonely. He brings forth a body
of beauty. His work is beautiful.
-- 2005 Nobel laureate Harold Pinter



Endnote: I've read a few Beckett stories in my time, but for my money, they don't have the same kick. My favorite Beckett play: Krapp's Last Tape. Runner-up: Rough for Theatre II.
Pinter quote from Samuel Beckett Resources and Links. While I'm at it, I love Pinter, too. He gives a fine performance in David Mamet's "Beckett on Film" adaptation of Catastrophe, although the true star of that show is Sir John Gielgud in his final performance--and he doesn't even say a word. Talk about a masterful minimalist! Image from Beckett Centenary Festival, video from YouTube.

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It's All Too Much

Too much information
running through my brain
Too much information
driving me insane.
--The Police, "Too
Much Information"

*****

It's all too much for me to take.
-- The Beatles, "It's All Too Much"

*****

I have too many CDs, DVDs, books, and magazines (mostly back issues of Vanity Fair and Sight & Sound). I don't have too many records, tapes, videos, and seven-inch singles. That's mostly because I don't buy the latter so much anymore.

As for the former, I purchase several forms of these media every month (and subscribe to several magazines). I also review a lot of stuff. If I'm writing about a title, I don't have to pay for it, which is great. Finding space for all the new arrivals is not so great.

Once upon a time, the space under my bookshelves was empty--a cat could easily hang out there (and did!). My kitchen counters, desk, and hallway also used to be free of clutter. No more. I've taken to piling books on one of the counters (and the bar that divides the kitchen from the rest of the apartment), new CDs next to my computer, and old magazines near the front door.

I'm a neatnik, so it's not as bad as it sounds, but sometimes I wish most of it was gone. My square footage is modest. (To say the least.) The more stuff I aquire, the more "modest" it becomes. A few years ago, I sold all the stuff I thought I could possibly part with, mostly singles and CDs I never listened to. It felt good. But once I was finished, I was finished. There was nothing else I could imagine selling.

So, I'm left with a lot of stuff, a lot of great stuff I'm always willing to loan to friends. But there aren't many titles I actually re-visit myself. I mean, I have so much new material to explore each month that I don't have time to re-watch favorite movies or re-read favorite books. Yet I can't part with any of them, because I know they're good, and I like knowing they're there.

In theory, though, it's pretty weird. I can understand having a sentimental attachment to a few items, like a childhood toy or photograph or piece of jewelry, but hundreds of compact discs? Hundreds of digital video discs? It seems ridiculous, and yet I know there's nothing unique about my predicament: I have too much stuff, I don't have enough space. It's the American Way.

It could be worse. I could have nothing, I could have no space at all. No space for me, the cats, the clothes, and all the other detritus that surrounds me. And defines me. And comforts me. And crowds me. I'm thankful for everything I have. I really am. But whenever I can't find a space in which to store some new acquisition...I wish I weren't so damned sentimental.

*****

It's too much.....It's too much.
-- The Beatles (driving the point home)



Endnote: Lyrics from Sing365, Andy Warhol images from Easy Art. Lola, as in the Kinks song, looks a little like 1956's "Untitled (Green Cat)," except she is not, well, green. Naturally, I own a copy of Cats, Cats, Cats. I purchased it from The WarholStore.

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