Review by darth
"I don’t listen to what art critics say. I don’t know anybody who needs a critic to find out what art is." - Jean-Michel Basquiat
Hi! It's Darth. My gender change has been going well, I went to see Ghostbusters, to celebrate. Those three women were smart, yet they treated their handsome secretary like Hollywood treated Marilyn Monroe. I, personally, have had a relationship of long standing with ghosts. Once the living depart their cloaks, they join a realm of ghosts who give you instructions at pivotal times--thems the happs. It was nice to see Bill Murray amble into Ghostbusters again, for old time's sake, wearing a hat which he'd gotten from his mother. My mother was a slave, and gauze-wrapped toilet-paper-roll-headed howlers tied her up and killed her. That's the story everybody tells me. Bill Murray used to hold Gilda Radner up, while she burped in people's faces in her role as a drugged New York underground singer. He probably learned so much of his craft, just holding Gilda Radner up while she burped. Life is funny, like that. We do absurd shit, and it holds a deeper lesson. Marilyn Monroe hit a ball against a paddle while people racked up her points, in the movie "The Misfits," while her own life resembled the thread of elastic which hinged the rubber ball to the paddle, people shouting ecstatically around her at the improbability that she could continue. When I complete my transition to the female gender, I will have to reconcile myself to being absurd. I will take my helmet off, bathe my fried scalp in a mountain brook, and wade around looking for watercress. Like the Wella Balsam hair shampoo commercials, in the 1970s. I will become the mother I didn't have as a young adult. They tell me my dad was made of neutrinos, or something. I suspect he was really a welder from Bolinas, California, who performed ballets out of the flat-bed of his truck.... If I meet him in the future, when I'm a woman, I'll ask the ghost of Jean-Michel Basquiat to paint a portrait of the two of us. Dad The Neutrino, and Fried Wella Balsam. There's a crown floating above Jean-Michel Basquiat's head, even in heaven. The angels keep trying to get him to wear the crown, but he still won't put it on. Being in the middle of a coronation is just how some artists roll, forever. We all have our dignity to uphold.
All reviews by Greg Bem unless marked otherwise.
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