around and around and around

I've decided to post again for today. Otherwise, I wind up with epic-length posts.

Last night, I went to see I'm Not There, the fractured new Dylan biopic. The movie was another of those Todd Haynes surrealistic journeys where I feel like I'm inside a dream; I find his movies unfold with a very dream-like sort of logic, not as extreme as a David Lynch movie, but I feel like he's creating his art from a similar place.

I expected I would like the Cate Blanchett portrayal of the mid-'60s electric Dylan, but I found the Christian Bayle portrayal of the early folk Dylan and the Born-Again Dylan convincing beyond my expectation. In the Born-Again guise, Bayle perfectly recreated that peculiar worry line Dylan developed between his eyebrows during that period.

The "Jude Quinn"/Cate Blanchett renditions of "Maggie's Farm" and "Ballad of the Thin Man" were clumsy and disappointed me; then I saw in the credits that Stephen Malkmus of Pavement was the vocalist for those tracks, and it made sense. Malkmus has sometimes had a slight Dylanish thing in his vocal performance on his own material, so it baffles me that he apparently has no idea how to interpret actual Dylan material. He's also not a particularly skilled vocalist in terms of tone or pitch, but I'm baffled they didn't do at least a little bit of pitch correction on his voice in these tracks; beside being a clumsy interpretation, Mallkmus' vocal track was also a lot more out of tune than I'm used to hearing from him.

Whatever.

Following up on a reference to "Beatwear" in the closing credits, I today find myself surfing through pages of Beatle boots and Shea Stadium Nehru jackets.

Yeah!

I love that stuff. Maybe when I get some money, I'll play dress-up.

In the early '90s (pre-Internet), I went in search of Beatle boots and never could find what I was looking for. One shoe salesman at the mall in Bloomington, Indiana, was actually rude to me for inquiring and appeared to resent me personally; I have no idea why.

This morning, the paramedics came to check on S, who is dying from a brain tumor; he wouldn't open his door and sent them away. Soon after, a Seattle cop showed up and got the door open. Then the paramedics came back and took S to the hospital for severe dehydration.

I also heard the paramedics and the cop make note of the powerful stink emanating from the Birdman's room; the paramedics seemed at first to believe it was a dead body odor. I'm pretty sure it comes from the Birdman's numerous bird cages and fish tanks.

In any case, I later found out that JX, the landlord, is now compelled by law to warn the Birdman in official writing to clean things up in his room. It turns out the police and paramedics are compelled to document these things when they come across them.

Good!

The stink has been seeping into my room, and I'm getting really sick of it.

Last night, I also finally had enough of the squealing-pig sex sounds produced by the Birdman and his boyfriend.

If I am in fact hearing what I think I'm hearing--the alternative theory, given how often I hear these noises, is that the Birdman has multiple personalities and extremely strange personal habits. Otherwise, it means the Birdman and his boyfriend are having sex five to six times per day.

The first time I overheard this stuff, I thought some guy was beating up his girlfriend in the next room. I really thought I was overhearing domestic violence, and I almost called the cops. It sounded like bloody murder.

Also, one of the two talks a lot during sex. It doesn't sound like the ongoing rhythmic grunts and moans you might expect; instead, I usually hear a series of high-pitched squeals, followed by a bunch of demented mumbling muffled by the wall between our rooms: "...you little bitch...you thought you were the big man...ha ha hah...now look at you... bitch..." [Compiled and extrapolated from a hearing a lot of this shit--dude, why don't you shut up and get on with it already? We don't have all goddamn day...]

I have never heard anyone talk that much during sex. I never talk that much during sex. No heterosexual couple I ever overheard in entire life talks that much, if at all, during sex; instead, you mostly get a lot of moaning, usually rhythmic and slowly speeding up until the "Big O" is finally achieved. In one apartment building, the couple upstairs made the closet doors shake. None of this blah blah blah I keep hearing from the Birdman's room.

In fact, now that I think about it, I have never heard anything that sounds like they've reached a climax...so maybe it's just some bizarre, multiple-personality weirdness. Who really knows?

In any case, last night I decided it was time to crank up the stereo and pull out the most irritating, arrhythmic, and unsexy music I could find in my collection.

First up was Edgar Varese's "Arcana," followed by "Ionisation."

Then I burned an iTunes compilation featuring as much troutmaskreplica Captain Beefheart music as I could fit onto the CD. I defy any man, gay or straight, to keep his erection in the face of Beefheart's "Frownland."

Sure enough, the Birdman had enough and left for the entire night, maybe to his boyfriend's place.

Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, dude...