We often define ourselves through negation. We talk about the things that we don't like to build our created projected image to others. "Oh, I don't like that kind of music. I don't like that movie. I don't like that type of person," we say, stamping our opinions on the objects and ideas of the world. We declare things we don't like and push them away from our orbit. That's very easy. We also celebrate the things and ideas that we love. "I love that song! I love that movie! I love that person," we say, checking off our cherished list. Another easy thing since we do it all the time. But what about the things we love that we are embarrassed about? How do we declare our love when we are left vulnerable to ridicule, disdain and exile? The following three things are dear to me but I've kept my love for them hidden for so many years. I will declare my love for them but please, please, don't tell anybody. It can be detrimental to my already very fragile ego.
The Doors Movie (1991)
Directed by Oliver Stone, "The Doors" movie is completely ridiculous. Val Kilmer plays Morrison, Meg Ryan as Pamela, Kyle MacLacghlin as Manzarek and a whole bunch of other stars recreate the Doors legend. The cornball desert trip sequence is so cringe-inducing, it inspired me to tape "Riders on the Storm" and walk around the cacti of Morongo Valley with the lads on the L. I suppose the acting is pretty good but it's just so goofy to make the leap, which I do every time I watch the movie. I'm not even a really dedicated Doors fan, but I like the music when I'm watching the movie. I think Val kilmer is a better Jim Morrison than Jim Morrison! Just kidding. That electric poet bit is so pretentious my ears are getting red just thinking about it. I remember seeing the movie in college and afterwards talking with everybody about Stone's directing, Kilmer's acting, and the overall texture of the movie. Shit, was I pretentious or what? I don't know nuthin' about movies. I wouldn't even admit that I liked the movie as I kept quoting scenes from it. How about that Native American shaman that only appears to Jim? Oh dear. How about the Warhol factory scene with Crispin Glover? Oh God. Please don't tell anybody I like this movie; the back of my neck is getting hot just thinking about how goofy this movie is and how much I want to see again and again.
I love British Food. Great Britain gets a bad rap for its cuisine which includes steak and kidney pie, eel pie, fish and chippies, haggis, Branston pickles, Yorkshire pudding, and other delicious culinary delights. Maybe because I lived there and was such an anglophile, that I really enjoy British Food. How about Marmite yeast extract on plain white toast? How about greasy fish and chips covered with a mountain of salt and malt vinegar after a night on the piss? How about eel pie or Wigan pie drenched with bland catsup? Hey, I know about international cuisine and gourmet food, but really love baked beans and toast, too. Boiled meat, boiled spuds, tinned peas, tomatoes and sardines, beef broth instant drink, or just organic non-hormone laboratory-created food. Now I'm not talking about all the wonderful Indian curries you can get in Blighty. I'm referring to the Queen's chow, dig? Did you ever try pizza in Liverpool? Some geezer put a fried egg on it and it was actually good. Soggy but good? Try to give a slice of English pizza to any New Yorker and you'll have them scream bloody murder or wash their mouth out with a cup of the East River. When asked why British food sucks, John Cleese said, "We have an empire to run." Give us a wee bit of mushy peas with our chippies and I'm a cheery bloke. But please don't tell anybody about this. Just the other day I had some steak, kidney and ale pie swimming in HP sauce after three pints of lager by meself in my secret British Pub. My macrobiotic nutritionist will kill me, if she finds out.
Maybe it's my East Coast New England education that makes me fond of preppy girls. I live in Los Angeles which is home to some of the most beautiful women in the world. Beautiful women in fashion-forward hipness that blinds you. But preppy girls of all nationalities kill me. Is it their pearls or argyle sweaters? Is it their clean normalcy that I find so irresistible? Is it their slightly uncool old fashion attitude that generates desire? Is it because I'm such a freak that I yearn for a normal gal instead of the all the sweet sexy psychotique damaged walking wounded that stalk me? What defines a preppy girl? I don't know and I am embarrassed that my immature illusory imagery is so rooted in class and surface. Hey rock scenster hep girl snorting mountains of coke, God bless ya! Hey suburban now industry wannabe with your lame shop talk, Jesus loves you! Hey Preppy Girl in the big city trying to make it on your own as the fast world of confusion whips by, we love you! Your higher education and tennis skills are foreign to your new so-called mates. Your prissy ways are lost among the los libertines. Ugh, how embarrassing that I like preppy girls. Please don't tell my current sweetheart, who is above all this petty shallowness, that I have a fondness for preppy girls. What's she like? Transcends all space and time. She's simply awesome but it's none of your damn business!