Hits and Misses of the 80s Part 2: Movies.

It’s hard for anyone of that or neighboring generations not to appreciate the plethora of wonderful 80s cinema.
What makes it so great? For one the emphasis on story, it’s all to common a phenomenon that the cinematic method of story telling is doomed to crazy films who at their heart is some kind of bizarre message about the torment of life and the importance of embracing death. Film is, after all, escapism. The reason people show up in drones at the cinema box-office is to forget these unfortunate realities and see what kind of sticky situation Indiana Jones might get into.
Art films were out and fantastical stories of whimsy and adventure were in. There was a clear sense of experimentation and risk, children could swear and talk about girls and the CCM’s (Crazy Christian Mothers) of the world hadn’t sunken their teeth into pure entertainment.
The kind of things todays society would be in uproar over were done with utter relaxedness in those days. Barely a passing thought was given to the so called ‘vulgarities’ and people had a willingness to go for it.
Still, as with just about any form of expression, people can’t wait to stamp unjust censorship all over it and before you know it the party is over, with only a brief capsule in time to remember it by.
Now, onto the films:

1.The Goonies.
What could be better, to any child of the 80s, than a gang of friends chasing down lucrative treasure? As these four fearless explorers face danger and demise at every turn, they think nothing of it. I guarantee you that kids only wish they could be so brave.
The Goonies got us out of the same old boring routine and into real exploration and adventure, if only for an hour or two.



2.Heathers.
Where has the black comedy gone? You can imagine the stir a film like this would cause today.
A pair of high school students killing several of their fellow students, before the age of the school shooting this was an acceptable subject to tackle, but now people would lose it over how it inspires violence and each and every crazy person who goes too far with a gun is not to blame, it’s the film, its always the film.
We are lucky, as students of pop culture, that the brave souls who made this were able to do it before too many stupid, anguished high school students went on killing sprees.





3.The Lost Boys.
This one doesn’t quite fit into the same risky niche as the previous two, but it deserves a spot on the list simply because it couldn’t exist anywhere but the 80s. A family relocates to a town infested by teen vampires, wherein the oldest brother himself becomes a vampire and the younger brother teams with two crazed comic shop owners and novice vampire hunters to kill the head vampire and free the clans souls.
Of course there are twists and turns and a whole host of booming high fashion moments; such as Timmy Capello gyrating in skin tight pants with a greased up, muscular torso and a saxophone (an image, a friend and I decided was amongst the out and out coolest of the 20th century).
The other crowning achievement of this film is its success in the comedy-horror genre, a style that could only truly shine bright in the 80s.


A far cry from the wank-fest that would be Twilight in later years.


This man is much cooler than you.

4 Back to the Future.
A friend once told me the time-travel theme hadn’t been done enough, and if it had it hadn’t been done well enough.
This is true, but this future truly grasped the realities of it all. It is logical and you don’t find yourself struggling with the choices they make.
Above all though, it is fun. Marty and Doc against it all, seemingly opposite they’re the only ones who can properly understand it all.
With generations of enemies to the McFly clan, Marty has a chance to meet most of them and is understandably horrified when one of them is married to his mother.
This fun franchise also gave us real hope for the future, who amongst you isn’t wanting their hover-board or self-fitting, self-drying jacket right now?



5. The Karate Kid.
What wannabe red blooded male child didn’t want to be Daniel-Son? To be trained by the wise and reliable Mr. Myagi in the ways of kicking ass, but with a strict sense of morals and proper judgment.
It’s almost like a buddy cop film. To seemingly polar opposite individuals (in race, economic status and age) can gain a mutual respect and understanding when pitted against a common enemy.
The lessons to be gained from this film are both timeless and priceless. It filled Karate classes over the western world, each student with a sense that to become a good man, one must have the skills while also having the restraint and wisdom to know the apt situations in which to use them.



Of course there are many more, it would be too long a blog to list all of them. These are the starting points, in a wide variety of genres.
The themes are diverse and always have some big meaning to them, but they are enjoyed best as fun stories. Where anything can happen and usually does.
So consider that next time you go to rent a film about deep-seeded civil unrest or a story of love and loss and walking around isolated lands thinking about the meaning of life. Have some fun with it, after all that’s where the real joy is.

Misguided.

I am, whether I am proud to proclaim it or not, a university student. When you tell someone this, the inevitable question always comes up;"What are you studying?", and always I say the same thing,English. Of course, 'studying' is a fairlyloose word in my case. It may be that, while on paper I am studying, I am more sporadically showing up in between bouts at the bar and drunken rampages through Newtown's finest book shops.

When I decided I wanted to be studying it seemed simple enough: I didn't
have a career in mind yet didn't want to be doing nothing. I thought,"This will be easy enough", WRONG.
Uni life is tough, and over the course of 4 or so months I have more than once seriously thought I was losing my mind. It is at this point natural instincts have a way of taking the reigns; when its easier to do it later I shall do it later. Though from moment to moment later is later and later and before you know it your on the edge of a cliff you've been pushing toward and don't have the safety net of reliable studious habits.
I suppose in one very real way I am a lazy being. But more so it seems to be I only like doing what I like doing, despite the obvious future benefits a bit of old fashioned hard work would allow me. How else could you explain my reckless spending habits?
Disoriented.
NP.

Things that make me cry...

I cry too often. Not at the drop of a hat exactly, but more than any red-blooded male is supposed to. I couldn't explain why in any definite way; maybe I am just an overly sad or weepy person. Though sometimes it comes as a completely random occurrence, there are certainly things that trigger it. Whenever I feel I need to expel tears, I go to one of the following things:
1. Remember the Titans.

For some reason, I am completely obsessed with movies about American Football. More than I care for the actual sport, funnily enough. I guess its the themes of universal peace and friendship they seem to convey a lot of the time.
This movie, about an interracial football team at a time of racial tension, is a classic example. Despite my distaste for most things Denzel Washington, this one is brilliant.
I have probably seen the movie a dozen or so times, and each time I cry at the end scene where you know they didn't care for what society said about them, the whites and blacks learned to treat each other as people. The funeral scene at the end is so wonderful, their differences dealt with and each of them with an appreciation of the others.

2. Old Couples.



There is something so beautiful about an old married couple. In this day of the quickie divorce you've got to give it up to those couples that can get together and stay together, til death do them part. Even if it means nursing the other through sickness or trying times and having to do everything for them. When someone takes up the reigns out of nothing but pure love it always brings a tear to my eye.

3. The Songs of John Lennon.



I am not talking about the Beatles tunes here so much, though 'A Day in the Life' is a weeper. When I hear the emotion and passion in Johns voice, and think of the way he died, and what potential he had for this world I can't help but cry. The man was a beautiful soul.
Other Lennon songs have a more specific meaning. For instance, when I hear 'Mother' I think of my mother and all she has done for me. Obviously everyone knows what 'Imagine' means and can't help but feel sad at it. 'Woman' makes me think of the women I have loved and who either didn't love me back or things just didn't work out. It also makes me appreciate women and their great role in the world. 'Give Peace a Chance' is arguably the best protest song ever written. Why should we be killing each other? It makes no more sense now than it did then.

I don't particularly enjoy crying, I am ashamed to the bone that I do it so often, but its about the most expressive and real moments I have anymore and for that I am grateful.
NP.

Central Station, 6 A:M.

Central Station at 6 in the morning is a strange place. A real cross-section of the world, a bleak mini-habitat. Organisms come and go with the closest thing to human interaction a coffee order or a pathetic plea for money. Each creature starring blankly, each of them just as pissed off about being up so early in the morning.
A rare kind of thing where homeless youths can rattle on escalators with upper-class snobs, the angry kids can mix with the bitter jet-setters, clearly embarrassed and ashamed to be riding the same train as the peasants.
You can get a true sense of strong character in this setting; whether positive or negative. If someone approaches you or offers you the slightest kind gesture, you can be reasonably sure they are a somewhat decent human being in the better of times.
An attractive older woman with knee-high boots, skin-tight jeans and large, loopy bangles hanging from each wrist made a move toward me as I was smoking a cigarette. Since she was already smoking herself, I figured she must be chasing money. I shot my usual reluctant looks;l.
As she got near, however, she held out a partly emptied packet of cigarettes.
"There's a few smokes left in there" she said " I am quitting after this one".
Her look said it all:
"If you think I am kind at 6, you should see me at 9".
There is something grimly peaceful about standing on the upper level outside area just off Eddy Ave. and looking out over this city, my city. As sleeping trains begin to stir and rail staff smoke frantically before the days rush. The dull early morning greys begin to fade as the blue and yellow takes over. You can see the bright beams of sunshine penetrating the untouched gaps in the horizon.
But the thing all Centrals animals have in common, not surprisingly; they are all traveling. Everyone is on the move.

John.

I often wonder what John Lennon meant when he wrote ‘Oh Yoko’, I mean, its obvious isn’t it?
He did some bad things, the way he treated Cynthia and Julian was certainly nothing to aspire to, but it was all in pursuit of true love and that must count for something. The fact is, this eccentric woman grabbed him by the heart and wouldn’t let go, he loved her more deeply than most could hope to love anyone, it didn’t follow traditional means or seem very logical to throngs of Beatles fans; but it was pure.
The songs stand testament to this relationship. She was a mother, a friend, a lover, a heart connected to his. It seemed that she couldn’t have been closer to his mind, that she was always there. That it didn’t seem much to matter what happened, how awful things got or how weird they got, so long as John and Yoko were together. Theres something comforting in all that.
I guess they stand for love beyond all. I realise I am retelling the stories, adding my own retrospective cliché-laden spin on them, but to me it doesn’t matter so much. As much as I myself have loathed Yoko over the years, she was the nutrient he needed to grow.



Here is my second favorite picture of the man.

I am not in the business of caring so much about entertainers’ wellbeing, but John seemed the most human. He was so utterly personal that it mattered what was going on offstage, I cared, well, I cared when I was born; 9 years post Johns sad death.
I still hold firm to the thought that Lennon could’ve saved the world, he had the power, the people and the right thoughts in his head. The songs were one thing, but the messages could right a few wrongs now, 30 years later.
And as much of a crazy bitch Yoko has been over the years before and since John died, you’ve got to respect the side she could bring out in John.
Spare a thought for him...

A Den of Desperation.

The Following is not strictly true, I wouldn't dare talk about myself in such vile terms. None the less, enjoy.

I had been busting for a shit.
The cause of this shit, regrettably, was around fifteen cold Heinekens I had stacked on top of my small intestine the night before.
As usual it was Sunday morning, the sky was grey and the tourists where the only fresh-faced assholes out and about. I hated them, there was nothing to see in this place anyway, why not go to the South of France where something might be worth looking at?
I could see the state of myself in the eyes of these people. They looked at me with a mix of distaste and disgust. Then they looked away, they had seen enough. What did they expect? I drank fifteen beers and slept only two hours, I was still drunk.
There was no use in trying to find a semi-reasonable toilet, so I went for the nearest one. St. James station it was to be, in the corner of a sleepy Hyde park. It was the only place a shit as vile as the one I was about to part with deserved to be laid.
I shuffled, urgently enough, into the stall and shut the door. I laid as much of the thin, cheap toilet paper on the seat as I could, sat down and let it work itself out. Then the shit faded from my mind, I was at ease and there was only one place for it. I was too far off home to dwell on that so I began reading the graffiti that was scrawled on the walls, no doubt by winos and crack-heads.
‘For a good fuck call...’.
‘I fucked your mum’.
‘Hope you enjoyed your shit’.
I did. These fine inner-city gentlemen clearly understood the value of a word, and had a keen sense of audience.
The shit was gone and a pair of scuffed leather shoes hobbled into the neighboring stall. With them, a set of pant-cuffs and a sleek brown briefcase.
I wondered about my new neighbor, what brought him into this den of desperation? Would he enjoy his shit? The pant-cuffs weren’t joined by a belt, or a zipper, a pair of underwear or hip pockets. He wasn’t shitting.
The brief case was hoisted up and I heard the crisp snaps of it opening...

Hits and Misses in the 80s. Pt 1. Music

The 80s was a strange decade. Talking about it with some friends recently we came to the uniform conclusion that while not all great, it was certainly the most different, the one that stood out from the lump of decades that blended pretty seamlessly into one another.
For one thing there was the music, in my mind a miss. While it had its moments, and a good few musical milestones, what was popular is really the most thorough way to judge it.
It seemed to be an era of musical meaninglessness. Disco was in, and music as a personal expression was out. It was a time for fun, and that has its merits, and every cheesy bubblegum disco tune has its moment in time and memory to the people who were there, but to me what came out feels soulless.



This woman has no soul.

Hair metal was the quintessential superficial music. Each song meant exactly nothing, well not nothing all the time but a good majority of the time. Songs about shooting coke and crashing cars were the standards, and the image was for sale- having said that, I am a self-confessed hair metal maniac.


also, these guys...

Granted there was some exceptions, notably ‘London Calling’ and a lot of the Cures stuff, but for the most part, the things people recall when they recall the 80s is the bullshit.
Not to say it can’t be fun, but it just seemed plastic.


Genius.
Next up: 80s Movies.

Naming The Life.

In recent and semi-recent conversations, I have adopted the habit of isolating moments of ridiculous conversation and heralding them the title of the sayers autobiography.

Odds are, if you spend enough time conversing with anyone eventually they will say something funny and non-descript enough to be plastered on the front of a book on their life.

Take for instance a female friend of mine, who came up with this:

‘It would be weird to have sex around so many shoes’

Taken out of the proper context it seems to be saying nothing, yet could be saying everything, about her life. The exact kind of thing you might expect to see on a best-sellers list or in the ‘celebrity bios’ section of a popular book store.

It makes you wonder about things; about when someone might have said such a thing, why and what kind of person would say that. And, as most people could guess, titles that ask questions are pure gold.

Another friend recited this piece of genius:

‘You can’t take acid with a spray tan’.

This combines too insane situations, to most normal folk, yet seems to make some kind of weird sense. Acid in itself is a terrifyingly beautiful experience, but a spray tan could skew the space time continuum and take things another direction.

It’s interesting to think what this might say about a persons life. What an insane journey it might be that, at some point, a person would combine the polar-opposite adventurous worlds of acid and artificial tanage, or the likewise opposite worlds of sex and footwear.

Then of course, there are the perfectly apt titles; the titles that don’t play on the absurdity of a celebrity or socialites lives and cut to the heart of it, for better or worse.

An example of this is another friend, who is not that well off, infact he has very little. Who, in the course of perfectly regular conversation, said this:

‘Making just enough, to have nothing’.

Indeed.

A Day in the Pub, a Night in the Squat.

It was around 2pm when I met him.
I hadn't seen this friend of mine in a while, but we both wanted to drink, and drink we did. Again and again. We ran over the usual pub talk, through the usual catching up and drunken philosophical talk that happens more often than not with relative youth.
But more had to happen, there had to be something else to occupy the evening. Without the usual funds required to make binge drinking an option and with Tuesday commonly accepted as a day for business (at least among our friends), chemicals seemed the most viable option.
But two hours and forty phone calls later, there was only one slight lead; in Stanmore.
So, drunk enough to consider it a real option, and enough funds to travel and buy the goods, we set out. On the great trail to madness, or infinite happiness, it would all have to be discovered.
After the train ride, and a long hike to the arranged meeting place, we met the charecter who apparently was to supply us. Of course, he had nothing, I nor my friend had any way of vouching for his claims. But, in a relative middle of nowhere, there was nothing for it but the make do.
So we got a case of cheap, shit German beer and walked to this strange mans 'house'. Again a hike, and when we finally arrived, it was a squat. An abandoned house, with no power, dusty couches and an assortment of random belongings. It was then that the nightmarish thoughts appeared in my mind 'how the fuck am I going to get out of this nightmare?', for instance.
We drank eerily by the candle-light, and talked about the only thing men seem to want to talk about when drinking; women. It was an in-depth and disjointed game of 'marry, fuck, kill' and there was no consensus to be made, people just seem to have different ideas on whom they would designate to each of those roles.
Soon enough, the game dried up and the cigarettes were out. Under the pretense of getting more, we made our escape. Through the streets and back to Stanmore station. The character had bought the beers so we were at least leaving with more or less what we had come with.
When I got back to the station, left my friend and made the walk back to the house, all was well, I knew I was safe.
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