The grey suit in NXNW [1959/2017)

Maybe.

After many long years.

I finally got a decent suit.

But the pinnacle is still Cary Grant in North by Northwest.

Perhaps more important than Dorothy’s slippers.

The grey suit.

Gray?  Grey.

Because Archibald Leach (Grant’s real name) was from Bristol.

Now.

The debate rages on.

Was it Norton & Sons (Savile Row) or Quintino (Beverly Hills)?

And this is a very important matter.

Basis in fact.

Innocent lives are at stake here.

Vanity Fair (at least they employed Tosches for a time) contends it was a British suit.

http://www.vanityfair.com/news/2008/03/behindthescenes200803

But The Independent counters that it was an American (Beverly Hills) tailor.

My first thought is always The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit (novel 1955, film 1956).

1959.

Something in the air.

Advertising.

Madison.

Shopping.

5th.

Whatever you do, don’t buy a property at 666 5th Avenue.

Mr. Kushner made that mistake.

Can you change an address?

Can we inch the building over a bit?

666 1/2?

But finally, that eternal quote of Mike Ruppert:

“The CIA is Wall Street.  Wall Street is the CIA.”

What could all this mean?

What could ANY of this mean?

It’s well-known.

But the real danger is Finnegans Wake.

Is it unpredictability?

The real danger is changing stripes.

Spots.

Markings.

Camouflage.

A mask.

My daily trousers are sweatpants.

And then we must bring in Erik Satie.

As dangerous (harmless) a man as ever lived.

The “Velvet Gentleman”.

Seven gray velvet suits.  All identical.  One for each day of the week.

A revolution in simplicity.

But there are many, many hours of piano music to wade through.

Through which.

It’s not just the Gymnopédies.

Or even the Gnossiennes.

SS.

It’s a veritable Voynich manuscript of eccentricity.

Quixotic.

Mercurial.

Bizarre!

But with Magritte we got the grey bowler.

And Max Ernst:  “The hat makes the man.”

But did he say it in English?

Not bloody likely!

And so rail-thin Cary Grant, almost certainly homosexual, looks stunning…dapper…a paragon of class in North by Northwest.

And it is a rare time where I (and many other men) say:  “Wow…I want that business suit!”

Because I didn’t grow up rich.

And it took me till age 40 to get a passable sack.

Brooks Brothers was expensive.

Still is.

I’m low-rent.

High-brow.

A conundrum.

I don’t want to sell oil.

I’m a city boy.

They won’t take me on the farm.

So what am I?

Do I ride around on a horse?

Do I spit tobacco into a cuspidor?

[not anymore]

We must go away.  To come back.  And see for the first time.

What was Jia Zhangke talking about?

Or from?

The I Ching?

Or some Zen text?

Advertising.

Memetics.

Messaging.

COMMUNICATIONS

We are drawn to the suit.

The breezy ease with which Cary Grant negotiates New York sidewalk traffic.

Every remark quick.

Never at a loss for words.

And the characters all pay attention.

From Martin Landau to Eva Marie Saint:  menswear.

Three buttons.

[a detail I missed…too late]

Buttons on cuffs.

Cufflinks.

Two-piece.

The most remarkable aspect, though, might be the “grey suit with grey tie” effect.

I mean, “what the fuck”?!?

It is slightly “off”.

Not the color-matching.

That’s fine.

But the concept.

Or this hypothetical exchange:

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Gray.”

“Gray?”

“Yeah, I don’t know…I just like gray.”

“What about it do you like?”

“I don’t know…it’s sorta mysterious?”

“Ok…but, I mean, it seems sorta drab, don’t you think?”

“Well, I’m not in the market for a gray bikini…”

Ah!

There’s the gender.

Men.

Do men fancy grey?

Is it one of the colors they’ve been “given”?

And women.

Do they really fancy pink?

I suppose some diabolical seamstress has plotted the complementary colors of all the world’s hetero couples.

Grey and pink.

Pink and green.

Orange and blue.

Red and green.

Purple and yellow.

Ad absurdum.

All I can say is this.

I feel spectacular in my new gray suit.

I’m a little closer to Daniel Craig, though mostly in the Cary Grant body type.

Or, put differently, I’m an extremely-poor-man’s Daniel Craig 🙂

I, too, would look scrawny next to James Bond.

Which segues nicely into the 007 franchise.

Suits…again.

Whether in Jamaica or parts unknown.

The sartorial fastidiousness would play a major role in framing Bond as “not just another guy”.

Taste.

An eye for detail.

Quality.

And personality, though understated.

The grey suit.

It the biggest weapon in my fashion arsenal (as of today).

And thus we turn towards commerce.

Another run, perhaps, of job searching.

Selling myself.

But at a certain point you just gotta say, “Fuck it!”

I’m a cool person.

I ain’t out to hurt nobody.

I read books.

Big fucking books.

About math and shit like that.

I’m a nerd to the nth power.

I know that.

And I’m fine with that.

Because I see the value in that.

So now I may have to bludgeon the HR receptors with a whole new level of qualifications.

Can I do it?

Can I be a lawyer?

Can I be a PhD?

[notably, perhaps, in advertising]

And beyond.

Because life has led me to this impasse.

We worry about bread on the table.

And some milk to stay healthy.

Heat in the winter.

Cooling in the summer.

Most of all…in all this mess of writing…I am thankful.

Thankful for a chance.  A chance to do the right things.

And thankful for family.  Thankful for time.

Thankful for intuition.

And thankful for failure.

Have your cake.  Or eat it.

Thank you, my friends…for your support.

I am happy today.  Hard day, as always.

And I pray the good happenings for each of you…in your lives…

-PD

President Trump’s Speech to Congress, February 28 [2017)

Dear friends…

it has been a little while.

And I have been immersed in a strange dual-study regimen focused on the LSAT and the GRE.

For my international readers, the LSAT is the Law School Admission Test and the GRE is the Graduate Record Examination.

The second test would be required should I choose (or be so lucky as) to go on to PhD studies.

Quite frankly, my MBA has not been sufficient to wow the employers out to which I have reached.

And so life presents us with little conundrums.

I have a bachelor’s degree in music theory/composition and a master’s degree in business.

Long ago, my bachelor’s degree wasn’t enough to gain me employment at places like 7-Eleven and Wendy’s.  That’s right.  Five years of higher education and a diploma above and beyond the high school level was not enough to overcome the nepotistic morass which dominates the distribution of unskilled labor jobs in the U.S.

I’m guessing this situation might (for obvious reasons) be particularly mark-ed in the American Southwest (where I am located).

So I thought a master’s degree in business would really distinguish me.

I worked myself sick.

Almost to death.

Maintained a 4.00 GPA.

Not only have I had zero unsolicited interest in my skills, but I have received nothing save rejections.

Which is to say, I have not even been graced with an interview.

And so it was some days ago (about two weeks) that I decided I should have a contingency plan in place in case such conditions persist.

So perhaps I will find myself in law school in a few years.

Perhaps in a PhD program.

But I have been trying to better myself every day.

My focus, academically, has been on two areas:  logic and mathematics.

I have never been very keen on (or good at) math.

And logic is something in which I have had zero formal training.

The logic emphasis is, of course, pursuant to the law school possibility.

The math studies (currently algebra, but geometry and statistics to come) are in support of the PhD path.

In addition, I am happy to report that I am exercising (walking) every day.

And I have also added weight training in the most recent nights.

But today I took a day (and night) off from the rigors of autodidactic asceticism.

Yes, today only involved my ongoing survey of Ezra Pound’s Cantos.

Indeed, I suppose I really don’t know how to relax anymore 🙂

But I was very interested to hear Donald Trump’s “Address to Congress”.

This is, mind you, a once-a-year phenomenon in the U.S.

In his next three years (assuming no untimely cessation of his Presidency), these speeches will each be called (respectively) a “State of the Union” address.

Well, I won’t keep you in too much suspense.

If you have read me at all in the past year, you will know that I have become an ardent Trump supporter.

And I continue to be such.

So it is not without immense bias that I posit his speech tonight to have been rather excellent.

But Mr. Trump’s speech comes at a very important time.

And I have purposely raised my visibility as a Trump supporter because of this crucial time.

To wit, many forces have sought and are seeking to undermine the President (at the very least).

The proliferation of protests would truly be remarkable (if we didn’t know the general source and support network for these faux-demonstrations).

And so I haven’t written about a movie in some days, but there is no better viewing than our current President.

The Left tunes in to vomit, and the Right tunes in to cheer.

I am, and have been for only a short time, on the Right.

Conservative.

I will make no apologies about this.

In this past week I have had multiple people who call themselves my friends attack me as a “bigot” and worse.

That’s fine.

My response is no response.

It is beneath me to respond to such.

I have had people question my artfulness.

I, who gave my blood-sweat-and-tears for 15 years as an artist.

It is beneath me to qualify such attacks on my character with a response.

And finally, I have been the subject of surreptitious attacks which attempt to equate me with “misguided” artists of the past.

If Trump can be “packaged” (in marketing terms) by hacks like Mika Brzezinski as “Mussolini, Hitler, Lenin”, then I suppose the lesser Leftists are taking this cue to equate me with Nietzsche, Wagner, and certain American artists which shall remain nameless.

But again, my response is no response.

And it’s not because I can’t respond.

But I tire of these games…

I can destroy my enemies.

In some cases, quite easily.

In other cases, with immense effort.

But my friends have proven (over years…the ingrates…abandonment) to now be my enemies in deed.

And yet I consider them friends.

And I will consider them friends.

Until such time as this becomes impossible for my physical safety.

But all of this because I support Trump.

Shame on you, friends.

[N.B.  I doubt any of them are reading this.  These are “real world” friends.  And real pains in the ass(es).]

Indeed, I need more than one ass to put up with the crappy “friends” I have.

To a one, they are all liberal…every one of them.

And if they are conservative, they have not come to my aid in any significant way.

Except for one dear pen-pal.

And it was she who delineated the brilliance in Donald Trump’s message to me in the first place.

She knows who she is 🙂

MAGA!

But that one beautiful soul notwithstanding, “the world” has failed me.

And yet, the President of the United States has made me very proud indeed.

Verily, never before have I felt such immense pride in my country.

Pride in the men and women of our armed forces.

Pride in the men and women of law enforcement.

And so I could dissect what Donald Trump said tonight, but it is more important to analyze the gist.

I could fixate on the pathetic Democrats who applauded nothing…in their Kim Jong-Hillary white pantsuits.

Slobs like Al Franken.

His posture has its own closet…

Witches like Nancy Pelosi.

“Should I clap here?  Will it look good or bad if I clap?  Why does every mirror I look into shatter upon gaze?”

It’s really too easy.

But it does very little good.

Bernie…what could have been.

Except for that whole socialism thing…which is a crock of shit.

And so it didn’t matter that the Democrats were puerile, impotent faux-testers tonight.

Because Donald Trump has guts.

Yeah, his wife is hot as shit!

And so is his daughter.

That’s because they were MODELS.

But, even more so, because they have SCRUPLES.

They are good human beings.

They stand for something.

THAT’S why they’re really attractive.

To me.

But I know when I’ve met my better.

Ted Cruz?  Fuck you.

Paul Ryan?  I don’t fucking think so.

Mike Pence?  Meh.

But Donald Trump?  Yeah.  Big league!

I may have more formal education than the President of the United States (‘deed I do), but the current POTUS is the real deal.

He knows who is better than him.

Our soldiers.

He knows.

And he says it.

And he never presumes that his job is any harder than those who carry out their orders in godforsaken deserts and jungles.

Yes, Virginia, many of those orders have been COMPLETE BOLLOCKS.

But that’s not their job.

In general.

It’s the job of policymakers to get the policies right.

For a long, long (LONG) time, the policies have sucked.

And so maybe, MAYBE (maybe) we now have a President who is competent.

I know when I’ve met my better.

There are many skills in this world.

And Donald Trump has a priceless skill set.

He’s not a saint.

He’s not a god.

But compared to those who have preceded him over the past few decades in the job of POTUS, he sure seems like one or the other.

So thank you, Mr. Trump!

Your understanding of the USA is really remarkable.

We have been taught to hate our own country for so long.

Enough of that.

Fuck that!

We will love what is good about our past.

And not wallow in our transgressions.

And to the detractors around the globe, you can fuck right the fuck off.

Most of all, to the domestic detractors…especially my “friends”…

Thanks a fucking lot…for proving exactly why Donald Trump is right.

You’re all a bunch of liberal frauds…spewing platitudes while being horrible people.

So the biggest “fuck you” is for these “friends”.

Thanks for nothing, assholes!

-PD

Tokyo Fiancée [2014)

I have been absent.

Because work.

Not working, but looking.

Labor.

Jobs.

Money.

Healthcare.

I have been absent because anxiety.

Always.

But better.

Walking.

Stretching.

Exercise.

Rest.

Time.

And now the cosmos brings me a perfect film.

Because Pauline Étienne.

Actress full of joy.

But the grand auteur is Stefan Liberski.

Every color.

Every gesture.

You must pinstripe, tuck up your hair you haven’t.

You must primary color.

Yellow and red.  Made in U.S.A.

“You must fall in love with me,” says Pauline Étienne.

“I command you.”

[she continues]

And of all the girls in the world, the Belgians and Finnish are the most diabolically beautiful on film.

Godard said the Swiss.

Clear bias.

And so we have a Belgian film set in Japan.

If we try hard, we can hear Debussy.  Estampes…

Pagodes…

Sado Island… […]

To dream in the rain.

Cross the bridge.

And the river steams.

You seek a nectarine.

A noisy kiss.

Pauline Étienne.

Buttermilk legs joy rollerskate skinny.

Was taken from Salinger.

Joyce said spittoon.

As cuspidor.

The most beautiful word.

Girl.

Some films, books so good…too much to handle.

My wish.

To marry.

To have that happiness.

A mere handful of fives away from Valentine’s.

When Colombia and Ecuador will be pumping out roses for Starbuckers.

All along.

They said that sex was uncouth.

Or resorted to farm metaphors of propagating species.

But.

They couldn’t talk about love.

Excitement.

When your breath is stolen by a cold kiss.

In the autumn.

Winter.

And yet warmth from optimism.

But we must get on to the little back alleys of Tokyo.

And for a moment stop this dream.

To be born.

In Japan.

Of Belgian parents.

Does not a Japanese make.

I can suck the life out of Auden.

Elliptical.

Though I thought I was aping Céline.

But director Stefan Liberski is aping no one.

personne

We must mention the author and not the auteur, though in French there is no difference (save for the milieu of cinema).

And she gives us a fantastic story.

Amélie Nothomb.

No thumb.

Better than “all thumbs”.

Rhombus.

Can you suck on a diamond lozenge from a ring?

Lots of sucking.

But that’s the aw-kward + loneliness which makes a great film.

This one just happens to pull in Belgique and Nippon to boot.

It depends.

On her yellow socks.

On her haircut.

Pauline Étienne.

On sweater with blue stripes.

Like Edward Hopper did the cinematography.

But the Francophones have it figured out.

Every trick.

Which is to say.

No tricks.

Just emotion.

Realism.

No bullshit.

Embrace the history of film.

Compare and contrast.

What works?  What doesn’t?

What speaks to you?  How does a culture (French, par exemple) see a film?

Answer:  it doesn’t fucking matter.

What matters is the overflowing love and romance which infuses Tokyo Fiancée.

Only thing Lars von Trier ever did well was film Kirsten Dunst in the nude.

Stefan Liberski surpasses von Trier’s entire oeuvre with this one film.

Yes, I’m polemic as fuck!

I’ll take François Truffaut (the film critic) and a bottle of white wine for my friend.

I like red.

And Guy Debord.

I’ll take chances.

Damn.

I have taken so many fucking chances.

But we get scared.

Worn out.

Frightened by inexperience.

All of that is in the film.

Taichi Inoue is really sweet as Rinri.

But I keep coming back to Pauline Étienne.

She has cast a spell over me.

And I must ask:  who does she signify?

Forget the character name.

For each sad soul who dreams their way to the end.

She represents someone.

Fondue.

Teeth which nave never left the village.

New born yellow as unripe baby corn.

On the farm.

Maybe.

A different register (accent?) of French in Belgium.

Immediately recognizable to a Parisian.

And with little modesty lambasted as yokel French.

But perhaps the Belgians and Quebecois have this in common.

A cause for solidarity.

And add in the Swiss…with their weird counting and smoky lisp.

Is it?

Tokyo Fiancée hits harder than La Religieuse (2013) because it is not stilted nor steeped in period costumes.

Just tell a fucking story, we say.

Pauline Étienne.  Born in Ixelles.

How could anyone from such a place be any less than ravishing?

When we think in microcosm.

If we only know one Indian person.

They become India.

For us.

And complicate this with a multicultural relationship.

That is the gasoline of Tokyo Fiancée.

It is clean.  And genius.  Like Magritte.

A bowler hat.  An apple.  And MoMA depth.

We want to be in this Japan.

Because the eyes have captured the essence of magic.

Ingenuity.

Frivolity.

Fun.

Tokyo Fiancée succeeds at every point where Lost in Translation failed (which was at every point).

This is the real deal.

Real acting.

Real art.

Not a dilettante piece.

Sofia Coppola should send her usage permissions for My Bloody Valentine and Kevin Shields tracks to Stefan Liberski posthaste.

Such music is the only thing which could make Tokyo Fiancée any better.

And yet, it is a perfect film.

Don’t fuck with perfection.

Maybe again MBV and Liberski can have a meeting of minds.

But make sure to include the Anna Karina of our age.

Pauline Étienne.

An actress for which Francophonie has been searching for 60 years.

Well, here she is.

And this is the model:  Tokyo Fiancée.

Let the joy in her heart hit the screen (splat!).

Jump on the bed.  Ahhh!!!

In the mountains.  Wooh!  The rush.

An actress with all 21 petals on her Fibonacci daisy.

Which is to say, fully capable of cinema immortality.

I believe it was Mallarmé who wrote of “bursting pomegranates” (!)

Very few films have ever had this effect on me.

And I needed this one very bad.

To confirm that there are quirky, special people in the world.

That there are eyes who see beauty in the details I notice.

And that genius in the cinema is not dead.

Thank you Mr. Liberski.

And thank you Pauline Étienne for your performance which has brought hope to a very sad person in Texas.

Je veux exprimer ma plus profonde gratitude.

C’est infini.

-PD