Broke

When you're broke
Every paycheck's a joke
And you're trying hard not to choke
On your frustrations

When you're bored
Simply because you can't afford
To go out to a show anymore
Because of your situation

Then it might be time to make a new plan
Might be time to become a brand new man

When you're afraid
You sell everything that you've made
You don't get enough when you're paid
And you know your boss doesn't like you

You've got chills
Everything goes to your bills
Don't have enough for the pills
You need to get you through

So you beg, borrow, and steal
It's such an ugly way to feel

Maybe next week
Maybe next year
You tell yourself
As you pour another beer

Starting tomorrow
Everything will be all right
You tell yourself
As you turn in for the night

When you're broke
Regretting the words that you spoke
Filling your lungs up with smoke
As another drink pounds your liver

When you're alone
Knowing she won't pick up the phone
Knowing you're out on your own
And you can't bring yourself to forgive her

Guess you just can't read the clues
Can't see that you're yesterday's news

You wait in vain
For her to pick up
You curse her name
As you pour another cup

You stew in rage
As you watch TV
Get angry when you think about
The way it ought to be

Clouds will disappear
Everything will be sunny
You'll get a better job
And make a lot more money

She'll come crawling back
You'll have a brand new friend
You tell yourself these things
As you give up once again

When you're broke
Wondering why you woke up today
You don't know
You just don't know

Winter In Cleveland

"Everybody complains about the weather, but nobody does a damn thing about it."-Attributed to Mark Twain, but probably said by somebody else.

Last week, I visited my parents in Sandusky when I was on vacation from work. At one point, my mom noticed that something seemed to be bothering me and asked what was wrong.

"It's just my depression," I said. "It tends to come and go."

"Oh," she said. "What are you depressed about?"

I didn't know how to respond. Because most of the time, there is no reason. Depression is something that doesn't have a particular cause or a motivation. It just exists, like the weather. Asking someone why they're depressed is like asking why it's raining outside. And like the weather in Cleveland, it changes every day. Some days are filled with sunshine and beauty. Others are like a torrential downpour with no shelter anywhere to be found. You can't really stop it. Sure, I take antidepressants and try to maintain a good sense of humor and positive outlook, but it's not something that can ever really go away. It will always be a part of me. Maybe it's because I was bullied as a child. Maybe it's because my love life has seen more wreckage than the Daytona 500. Maybe it's because I tend to fall in love with all the wrong people and take it too hard when my heart gets broken. Maybe it's the fact that I've been in the same retail job for over a decade and feel like I'm not not really going anywhere in life. I don't know. Speculating as to why I'm this way or trying to pinpoint the cause of it is fairly useless. It's just something I carry with me, like an invisible weight hanging on me that I can't take off. The election of President Fascist Cheeto certainly doesn't help matters any. It's hard to keep a sunny outlook when your civil liberties are slowly being eroded every single day. It's easy to feel powerless and pessimistic, especially in such dark times. You just have to keep moving on, like a snowplow digging through the blizzard.

You can't stop the rain or the snow from falling. All you can do is navigate through it the best you can and hope it passes soon. Just be careful and drive slow.

I'm sorry that this post is so melancholy. I promise some more happy ones will be coming. I'll end this with a quote from the great singer-songwriter Townes Van Zandt, in response to a concertgoer who kept asking why he wasn't playing more happy songs.

"Lady, these are the happy songs. You don't wanna hear the sad ones."

Buried Treasure: Sorcerer

Note: this entry is the first of a new experiment that I'm trying out: a semi-regular series of blog posts in which I try to shed light on certain aspects of popular culture (movies, albums, TV shows, etc.) that I feel have been unfairly overlooked or underappreciated by the general public. My first entry takes a look at a forgotten thriller from the 1970s that had the misfortune of being overshadowed by a more popular summer release.

Sometimes, timing is everything.

In 1977, William Friedkin was one of the hottest directors in Hollywood. His landmark action thriller The French Connection cleaned up at the 1972 Academy Awards ceremony, taking home five Oscars, including Best Picture and Best Director. Two years later, Friedkin followed that up with an even bigger success, the horror classic The Exorcist, which broke box office records and became a cultural touchstone that is widely considered to be one of the scariest movies ever made. The future was wide open and the popular director had the leverage to make any film he wanted. He set his sights on a remake of The Wages of Fear, a 1953 thriller from French director Henri-Georges Clouzot, about a group of four men faced with the difficult task of driving trucks filled with nitroglycerin through the dangerous mountain roads of South America. One false move on unsteady terrain could lead to instant death. The result is a film that is deeply cynical and horrifying, a brutal indictment of a corporate system that exploits the desperate and the poor, complete with a darkly ironic gut punch of an ending. It would seem to be the perfect film to be remade for the 1970s, an era when directors such as Friedkin, Sidney Lumet, Roman Polanski, and Martin Scorsese were making films that reflected the malaise of the post-Watergate years. Friedkin's remake, entitled Sorcerer, was set to open in the summer of 1977 and would undoubtedly be another hit that would be embraced by critics and audiences alike.

Or so it seemed. Unfortunately for Friedkin, a new kind of movie had been released in the spring of that year that had captured the hearts and minds of moviegoers: a little film called Star Wars. The tastes of the general public had shifted from gritty realism to escapist fantasy, and offered a different type of viewing experience. While Star Wars had clearly defined heroes and villains, Sorcerer offered a quartet of morally ambiguous anti-heroes with criminal backgrounds. While Luke Skywalker and his friends were guided through life with a mystical Force, the protagonists of Friedkin's film face one hardship after another and make it through only with dogged perseverance. While Star Wars has a happy ending in which evil is defeated and the heroes triumph, Sorcerer ends on a downbeat note, in which the efforts of the main characters appear to have been all for nothing. It's not hard to see why the American public might have rejected a dark, unnerving thriller in favor a comforting fantasy. Critics were also hard on the film and the director for having the nerve to remake a foreign classic. (Compare that criticism to today's film industry, where nearly every hit film from another country is remade for American audiences.) Another source of confusion was the movie's title (the name of the truck driven by Roy Scheider's character), and audiences who assumed that the director of The Exorcist had another supernatural chiller prepared for them were in for a big surprise.
All of these helped contribute to the movie's poor box office and lukewarm critical reception, which is a shame, because Sorcerer is a masterful work that is definitely worth a second look.

Like its predecessor, this movie is centered around a group of broke, desperate men who are hired by an oil company in a small South American town to drive the aforementioned nitroglycerin-stocked trucks. But while the backgrounds of the characters in the original film remain unknown, Friedkin and screenwriter Walon Green spend the first 45 minutes setting up the origins of our anti-heroes. Nilo (Francisco Rabal) is a contract killer from Vera Cruz. Kassem (Amidou) is a Palestinian terrorist on the run after a bombing in Jerusalem. Victor (Bruno Cremer) is a French banking official facing indictment for embezzlement and haunted by his partner's suicide. Jackie (Roy Scheider) is a New Jersey gangster in hiding after killing a priest who turned out to be the brother of a rival mob boss. All of them have fled to a small South American village to escape their pasts and have taken on this deadly, nearly suicidal task out of desperation. Much like The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, this is the story of corrupt, untrustworthy men whose desire for wealth eventually brings about their undoing.

Like his idol Alfred Hitchcock, Friedkin is a master of generating suspense. One particularly brilliant set piece features Jackie and Nilo attempting to drive their truck over a rickety suspension bridge during a rainstorm, with Kassem and Victor following behind in their own vehicle. The frustration and terror felt by each men is made palpably real by each actor's performance and by Friedkin's skillful direction. Another beautifully-shot sequence features Jackie driving his truck through a desert landscape as surreal and alien as any of the outer space worlds from George Lucas's sci-fi epic. It is during this scene that Jackie struggles to maintain his sanity as guilt and fear begin to overwhelm him, and Scheider's performance may be one of the high points of his career. The movie ends on a brutally ironic note where, without giving too much away, Jackie learns that while he may be finished with his past, his past isn't necessarily finished with him.

Like many films that have initially crashed and burned at the box office, Sorcerer has had a critical re-evaluation over the past few decades, and is now considered a forgotten classic of the 1970s. The movie's fans include filmmaker Quentin Tarantino, who named it one of his twelve favorite movies of all time, and author Stephen King, who called it one of his go-to video rentals. Friedkin himself calls it the best movie he has ever made. After having only been available in heavily butchered versions, an official cut of the film approved by Friedkin was released on Blu-ray in 2014 by Warner Home Video and is well worth seeking out. Disappointingly, it features no commentary or any other special features, but it does feature a booklet containing an excerpt from the director's autobiography, The Friedkin Connection, which sheds a lot of insight on the making of the film and is definitely worth a read. Fans of this uncompromisingly bleak work of '70s cinema can rejoice that this lost film has been found again.

This Blog Kills Fascists

Today, I went out the Capitol Theatre to see the movie Silence and afterwards, I headed to one of my favorite coffee shops where I bought a copy of the Plain Dealer. After a few minutes of flipping through the paper on this historically tragic day, I decided to turn my attention to the copy of Stephen King's Firestarter that I had also brought along. It was the less horrifying option. To quote Network's Howard Beale: "I don't have to tell you things are bad. Everyone knows things are bad."

Many of you probably saw the horror movie footage that was the inauguration of Donald Trump as America's 45th President. I couldn't bring myself to do so. I cannot bear to even fathom the notion of that man as the leader of the most powerful nation on Earth. I refuse to accept or acknowledge the Presidency of a bigoted, thin-skinned, hot-tempered, fascistic, misogynistic bully who has the maturity and temperament of a spoiled child (which is essentially what he is). Trump isn't the leader of the free world. He's a loudmouthed frat boy who's had too much to drink and tries to pick a fight with the toughest guy at the bar. In most cases, however, the toughest guy at the bar doesn't have access to nuclear weapons that will blow the rest of us to smithereens. Nor will I respect the Vice Presidency of the rabidly homophobic Mike Pence, whose assaults on the LGBT community (including his support for cruel and ineffective "conversion therapy" and the passing of Indiana's discriminatory Religious Freedoms Restorations Act) should have every citizen concerned. Nor do I respect the appointment of a white supremacist like Steve Bannon as his presidental advisor or the viciously racist Jeff Sessions as his pick for Attorney General. Or any of the other embarrassing criminals, reprobates, and all-around sleazeballs that Trump has invited to slither their way into positions of powers that they don't deserve and will abuse in order to fit their twisted, hateful agendas. There really was no reason to release a sequel to Independence Day last year. Those aliens couldn't destroy the White House any worse than Trump and his cabinet are already doing.

Today, I read that the Trump Administration is already planning to cut funding for the National Endowment of the Arts, which scares me, but doesn't surprise me in the least. After all, the first step to fascism is to take away the voices of dissent. The weapons that Trump fears the most aren't the semi-automatics being stockpiled by angry white men preparing for their imaginary showdown with the government that they irrationally hate and fear. It's the words of those who would dare speak out against him and expose him as the fraud that he is. It's the voices of the oppressed, the angry, the bullied, the ones who have had enough of his bullshit and aren't going to go down without a fight. The most dangerous weapons in the world aren't the ones covered by the Second Amendment. They're the ones covered by the First Amendment.

On behalf of artists everywhere, I urge everyone to fight back the best way they know how: with their art. Write a poem. Sing a song. Write a story or a play. Paint a picture. Sculpt a bust. Draw a cartoon. Write a blog post like this one. Make a film. Every piece of art you make is a raised middle finger to Trump and his odious administration. Every creative gesture is a "fuck you" to a dumb and uncultured society that would allow someone so hateful to occupy the most powerful political office in the country. They can cut our funding, but they won't cut off our words. They won't tell us to shut up. They can mock us by calling us "crybabies" and "special snowflakes", but you know what you get when a have a million snowflakes?

An avalanche. And we're coming to pull a landslide on those motherfuckers.

The Post-Holiday Blues

They're taking down the lights and cardboard snowflakes
They're boxing up the angels and the stars
They're stripping the trees naked and dumping them on curbs
Like drunks falling asleep outside of bars

You say this year things are gonna be different
You know they're probably gonna be the same
You think of somebody you love but cannot have
And once again your heart is filled with shame

You remember those cold nights of years gone by
Braving through the fury and the storm
On your way to make love to someone special
Your body heat the only thing keeping you warm

It's been three years ago this winter
You haven't been with anyone since then
One fine day she called you up and broke your heart
But you'd do anything to have her back again

Outside your window snow is piling up
You look outside and see it falling fast
You tell yourself you won't waste another year
You tell yourself this one will be the last

You tell yourself tomorrow will be different
As you walk to the fridge and get another beer
Someday everything is gonna be just perfect
Maybe next week
Maybe next year