Well, I went out and bought the digital single-lens-reflex camera (see my previous post). It took three more trips to the store to make up my mind, and two contemplative lunches of sausage-and-egg sandwiches at the coffee shop across the street, but when I finally got the thing in my mitts I felt pretty good. The camera is damn complicated, though, or at least the way the manual is composed makes it seem that way, but I figure if it took me more than a year to master using a digital point-and-shoot, I have to give myself at least that much time to feel at home with a bigger, more complicated device.

It felt good to look through a viewfinder again, instead of the little screen on the point-and-shoot, and to feel the new camera’s bulk and, well, the damn manliness of holding the big thing up and snapping off some shots with the fast motordrive! As if shooting pictures of the stacks of books in my apartment were the equivalent of being in the jungle getting closeups of a rampaging rhinoceros.

Ah, Cranky...

I had talked with a couple of my buddies about this possible purchase, and they seemed to think it was reasonable and not extravagant. My actor friend Sid in Cleveland, who from the right angle looks almost like the shaved-head Boris Karloff in 1939’s Tower of London, said that in comparison to buying a new guitar, the camera was inexpensive, and my writer/artist friend ZP, who looks like a tall Kafka, said to me, “Cranky, what’s the point of deferring the pleasure?” Indeed, when you’re 56 as I am, that’s a compelling argument for seizing the day. And I must be going senile at 56, too, because I’ve been sitting here for the last five minutes trying to recall the Latin phrase for “seize the day,” and I can’t bring it to mind. I keep getting “caveat emptor” but that’s “let the buyer beware.” I wish I could remember where I put my little book of handy Latin phrases...an essential for the shelf of any self-respecting pseudo-intellectual and autodidact.

Meanwhile, I have an unusual pleasure to anticipate this weekend. My nephew from Chicago is going to have a layover in the New York area on a flight to Israel, a trip he’s taking with a classmate; and so I’ll get to take him and his friend around Manhattan on Sunday afternoon and evening. My nephew is twenty and he’s never been here before; I’m looking forward to showing him the sights. The weather is supposed to be fairly nice on Sunday, so when I’m not busy pointing out the architecture and other bits of Sir Cranky-style Gotham trivia as we take a long and rambling walk, there should be a nice crop of females to dazzle the eye. And that’s definitely a part of the sightseeing program in this burg, as far as I’m concerned.

Ah, I remember taking pictures of him and his mom, my kid sister Jenny, right after he was born, with my first 35mm Pentax. And that’s another Latin cue: yeah, tempis fugit, laddie! Tempis fuckin' fugit.

Witness the trivial dilemmas of an inveterate daydreamer.

A little while ago I looked at the “erotic services” classifieds on craigslist...

There are so many ads, it’s hard to make head or tail of them. It would be nice to get a sensual massage from a pretty Asian chick, but money is tight and I would never use a credit card for something like that...I don’t like to give out personal information in quasi-legal situations like “unlicensed massage,” if you get my drift...and so many of the ads also say you can’t block your phone number when calling for an appointment. Why would I want to give out my number to total and possibly sleazy strangers? It’s fucking ridiculous.

This is one reason I’ve stuck with stripclubs...it’s completely legal, you can spend more time there for less money, and at least the managers of tittie bars understand the concept of discretion. True, it may not be as satisfying as getting a massage somewhere, but it’s also not so damn complicated...

My mind wanders badly at this time of year...I feel very anxious and stressed...I start to worry about paying next year’s taxes as a freelancer, when I’m still paying off the credit debit I assumed to pay last year’s taxes...I worry that I don’t have enough deductions, too, because out of necessity I had to live more frugally this year...I’ve actually become loathe to spend money even on sandwiches for lunch...

Nonetheless, I went to the huge camera superstore B&H Photo a couple of times to look at a digital SLR camera. I can’t afford that either, but it might be worth putting on a credit card and paying off over the year...I used to do a good bit of photography but the digital photography “revolution” sidetracked me...I have a point and shoot digicam and it’s taken me more than a year to get comfortable with it...still, it’s like a toy compared to a DSLR, which feels like a real tool for making interesting pictures...yet I know that I could take equally interesting pictures on my little 5 megapixel Canon point-and-shoot, pix that would be perfectly fine...but I start to think that if I had a DSLR, I might be able to use it in my freelance work and possibly make some extra money...I made some decent photos in the past, nothing earthshaking, but serviceable...

Sometimes it seems as if this the level of all my talents: they’re serviceable. I can write and do the managerial tasks necessary for my freelance career, and I can take usable photos too...but in this world, you need brilliance to stand out...real fucking brilliance, or you’re just another mug in the crowd...

I don’t know if I’m going to buy the camera. Or rather, if I’m going to use my credit card to buy it, because it won’t be Sir Cranky purchasing it, but the credit card company. I don’t even really have a place to put a new camera outfit in my apartment, it’s so cluttered with stuff...

It was nice, though, to go to the camera store and handle the camera. It felt solid, and I felt like a real photographer again, looking through a viewfinder and adjusting the settings, instead of looking at the little LCD screen on the back of my Canon point-and-shoot...

I just feel mixed up. My desire to get the camera is colored by fantasies of making money with it...when the reality is, I should just purchase it because I want a better camera that would give me the same creative latitude I had with my 35mm Pentax SLR...because I have a feeling my daydreams of making real money with digital photography are just that, daydreams...

I have a bad propensity for daydreaming...

I’m feeling very down this week about the revision of my novel. That’s what I should be focusing on, and not on buying a camera...but I didn’t like my book very much when I re-read it a week or two ago, and I’m starting to think that I either need more distance from the manuscript to determine if it’s worth rewriting, or I should just write another book...all these decisions are colored by my endless anxiety about MONEY!! Damn it all to hell...

Merry Christmas to all...

Last night I had a well-rounded evening of Chinese food, film noir, and a walk over to the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree...as I ate my chicken chow mein takeout I watched Slightly Scarlet, a 1956 noir melodrama in feverish color that spotlights two of Hollywood's most spectacular redheads, Rhonda Fleming and Arlene Dahl, as John Payne gets in over his head in municipal corruption and gangster shenanigans...

The movie has a kind of crazy story line but I've seen it three times (at least) because of its surreal color, the sexy actresses, and the entertaining villainy of Ted De Corsia as "Solly Caspar," mob boss of "Bay City"...

Fortunately, the great website DVD Beaver has an entire page of posters, video captures, and info about the DVD edition of this cool flick. For some reason, I can't seem to link to the page, so just cut and paste this into your browser to check out their review and eyeball the goodies:

http://www.dvdbeaver.com/film/DVDReviews22/slightly_scarlet_dvd_review.htm

The scene where Rhonda Fleming is questioned by a detective while wearing short shorts is truly a classic! You can see the tail end of that scene in the DVD Beaver page, where she's talking to John Payne in her living room while still wearing her shorts...

What a figure of a woman! WOW.

Arlene Dahl isn't exactly mashed potatoes, either, especially when she does a little toe-arching and turning with her nylon-clad feet on a stack of greenbacks...

I would definitely describe this movie as an essential 50s item, almost as good as a time machine!!

After watching Slightly Scarlet with its lurid color scheme, even the magnificence of the Rockefeller Center tree was a little dim in comparison, although it was still pretty nice...

I take my glasses off when I look at the tree. It's infinitely more beautiful with the slightly impressionistic blur I get from being nearsighted...the blues and greens and reds (that seemed to be the color scheme this year) are just fuzzy glowing dots, splotches glittering against the tree, and much more interesting than when they look like light bulbs...

Of course it was packed around the skating rink where the tree stands, with families and couples taking pix, and a Santa or two among the throngs...

But it was pretty chilly out last night, and I didn't put on my warmest scarf, so soon I headed home for a little nip of Jameson...

Although I've done relaxing activities, I don't feel particularly relaxed...I have to actually work at it. My mind still feels stressed from work, and worrying about rewriting my novel...

Time for an Asian massage, Sir Cranky?

I had a busy week finishing up my freelance work so I could take off until the New Year and relax. And as soon as I finished the last bit of stuff yesterday afternoon, I figured it was okay to treat myself to a little fun. I grabbed my little cache of "fun money" and headed to the stripclub for the 2-for-1 early bird beer special and free admission.

I actually hadn't been to the club for quite awhile, but other than a few adjustments to the decor for Christmas, little had changed. But as I drank my beer, I felt bored. The dancers weren't scintillating, the music was loud and aimless, and I started to think to myself, "Why can't they play something retro, something melodious and sexy, something to inspire the dancers to be sensual, instead of all this rock and rap crap?" Even my 2 for 1 Bud Lites didn't taste very good. And I started to feel my age, and began to think that except for the occasional cute girl to talk to and get a dance from, these clubs don't offer me much anymore. Maybe I'm too old for the raucous but tedious music, too.

As I sat there, bored out of my mind, I began to envision running a club myself, with top quality music from the past like the great singers and big bands, real sexy stuff for girls to dance to...and getting the girls to really dress up, so they feel special when they come out onstage...

Yeah, the music was a particular sore point, but then a girl I recognized came onstage in a Santa outfit that showcased her amazing body really well, and I didn't notice the music anymore. It was as if it was just a wall of sound that might as well have been white noise, and its only purpose would be to denote the beginning and end of a lapdance. I think the girl—let's call her Amy—was a little intoxicated, because the more I tipped her onstage (and I only tipped her four dollars) the more affectionate she became, until she finally gave me a big French kiss.

Now, I'd seen Amy before, but I don't remember if I ever got a dance from her. Maybe once. But I always tipped her onstage. Now, when she got offstage, she came up to me and we established an instant friendship. I didn't need to know anything about her; I liked her just fine. I accepted her offer of a lapdance and she gave me one of the more certifiably wild ones I've gotten. Yeah, she had to be a little tipsy...she told me how "delicious" I was, and asked me if I realized how "delicious" I was? I said I wasn't sure but it was always good to get confirmation of it. She kissed my neck and pulled up my shirt so that she could, um, lick my belly button. Hey, if this was my time to be someone's sex symbol, I wasn't going to flinch. I accepted the responsibility like a man. I sat there with my flannel shirt unbuttoned, my t-shirt pulled up over my somewhat paunchy and definitely hairy belly, as she writhed all over me for three dances. I rubbed her legs but she said, "It's Christmas!" and took my hands and put them squarely on her breasts. They were very firm, because she'd had implants, but they certainly looked good and although I've never been a big fan of augmentation, they were still mostly her and felt pretty nice. She even directed my hand further down so that I could feel just how warm she was between her legs, and I touched her over the thin strip of her g-string.

It was good, as Hemingway would have said. Maybe it wasn't worth sixty dollars (3 dances @ $20 per) but maybe I needed it. Hell, I did need it...she had an amazing shape, an extremely narrow waist and generous hips, and when she hugged me tight I hugged her back and it felt very good to have her, however fleetingly, in my arms. It was a nice fit.

After she danced for me, she moved onto another older dude, and because I wasn't eager or ready to see her give him the same treatment (especially the French kissing; I couldn't contemplate the navel-licking), I finished my beer and returned to the real world outside. In less than an hour, I'd gone through a good chunk of my long-hoarded "fun fund" of cash, about ninety bucks I've kept on hand for months just for such a mission of self-mercy. Well, as the girl said, it's Christmas.

What I would really like for Christmas is for the beautiful cashier at the take-out Chinese restaurant to smile at me for once, instead of giving me her usual frown (which, in all fairness, she gives to most of the customers). Maybe if I walk in wearing a Santa hat and order some steamed dumplings for my reindeer, she'll crack a grin? Somehow I doubt it.

After my 2-for-1 beers (and no lunch), I was a little tipsy myself, and I wandered over to the Virgin Megastore in Times Square to do a little more gift-shopping, but I couldn't seem to make up my mind about anything and was getting the urge to splurge on things I'd been coveting for myself for awhile...so I decided to put off the shopping until today, when I'm sober. Not that I was so intoxicated, but it's just that the combination of Amy's dancing, the beer, and no food since breakfast, had made me a little unsteady.

Feeling the urge to pee, I left the Virgin store and went next door for a truly surreal "New York" experience, at the public restrooms set up by Charmin bathroom tissue as a Christmas treat to the tourists and populace wandering through Times Square. I went up the escalators and then waited in line to go into a very clean little bathroom, one of about twenty or so, while cheerleaders waved pom-poms in the lobby and an announcer made corny suggestive cracks over a megaphone to the pretty girls who'd just voided their bladders (or more). Is this really life in the 21st century?

I wandered around for awhile more after that, and then picked up a chicken burrito for dinner. As I ate my food and drank some cheap red wine, I watched Horror Express with Christopher Lee, Peter Cushing, Telly Savalas and Helga Line (another Euro temptress from the 60s and 70s whom I've been fascinated with), then went out to Times Square again to walk off the food. I was almost tempted to go to another stripclub, but decided to come home instead. I just didn't want to spend the money.

Money, money, money. When you don't have much of it, it can rule your life in its absence. That's it...my fortune is in "exile"--from myself.

I'll try to post again before the holiday, but if I don't--I hope everybody has a happy and healthy Christmas.

I saw a few good movies this week...

I Shot Jesse James (1949) told a story about Bob Ford, played by the late John Ireland, and his last months of life after killing his best friend Jesse for a reward and amnesty from prosecution as an outlaw...I don't know if the film's story was true, but the plotline has Ford killing Jesse so that he can get enough money to go straight and marry his actress girlfriend (the tasty Barbara Britton)...Ireland was quite good in the role, especially in one scene where he's sweating that he's about to be ambushed on a dark street.

Forbidden was a 1953 Tony Curtis vehicle, and the late Joanne Dru was the leading lady. The story was standard romantic suspense claptrap, set in Macao, and Tony was still getting his feet wet as an actor, so it was mostly worth seeing for the more polished Dru...she was gorgeous in the real 50s way...I mean, I can imagine guys going home back in the 50s and whacking off after seeing her image fifty feet high on a screen in all those sexy clothes and lustrous lipstick...I only found out after seeing the movie that she was married to John Ireland in the 40s and 50s, whose own film I'd seen just the day before! Strange coincidence that I happened to see Mr. and Mrs. Ireland's films back to back. According to stuff I read on the Web, Ireland was reputed to have a large penis, and was allegedly quite a womanizer. Now I can't get the image of out of my mind of the luscious Dru getting plowed by the mighty Ireland schlong!!

In a film buff magazine, I read an excerpt from an unpublished autobiography Ireland was working on...he was quite a good writer. Too bad the book has not been published, to my knowledge. I think he had five kids, between two wives...maybe they could get their dad's manuscript into print someday? I'd like to read it and I'm sure others would too. Ireland is a real cult favorite.

The third movie, Even Hitler Had a Girlfriend from 1991, is a story about a lonely security guard in Nebraska who spends all his money on call girls, and then starts videotaping the sessions--a bad move on his part. It was a mostly funny but sometimes sad movie, and one of the actresses, Monica McFarland, was extremely sexy as one of the trashy hookers. I wonder if she went on to do more movies. Excellent at dialogue, and a nice pair of tits jiggling in her bra.

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I've been slogging through the holiday season, mirthlessly. Haven't visited any stripclubs, and I can't say I feel very motivated to do so. A friend was teasing me that I'd finally "kicked" the stripclub habit. I doubt it...instead, maybe I'll go get a massage at one of these Asian spas in New York. Maybe that'll pick up my spirits...and maybe I'll feel I'm getting more for my "entertainment dollar."

Ah, I probably won't do that, either...

I've sent out the novel I wrote this summer to a couple of people in publishing, an editor I know and an agent he referred me to, and although they liked the writing, the book didn't come together for them as a piece of noirish fiction. Two of my knowledgeable friends read it, however, and liked it except for the ending...still, I reread the book myself again after two months and I wasn't too pleased with it anymore...I think I'll be doing some rewriting. Last night in a bookstore I literally stumbled on a 40s novel with the same classic, time-honored theme as my book (unbalanced femme fatale snares mild-mannered guy) but a totally different plot, era, and setting, a book I'd never heard of before; but I bought it and started to read it and studied very carefully how the book built up its psychological tension...and I think I may have figured out the mistake I made in my own manuscript, which made the editor and agent feel it didn't work like a story of suspense but rather as a mainstream "relationship" novel. Yes, now I see why they felt that...I waited too long to make the menace of my female character come to the fore.

Both the agent and editor recommended I should write a mainstream novel, and forgo crime or noir elements...they may be right, but I think I'm going to see if I can bring the suspense element in this manuscript into proper focus before going the "mainstream" route.

The reason I hesitate to write a "mainstream" book is that I hardly read that kind of fiction anymore...I used to read it a lot, but now I mostly read psychological suspense fiction, which gives me the characterizations I crave with the suspense elements I also enjoy. And from the purely pragmatic point of view, genre fiction is more marketable, and I want to make money writing fiction.

I was excited last night, having felt that I'd identified my novel's defect after thinking about it for weeks...I stayed up until 3:30 a.m. eating eating chocolate, drinking Coke, and reading this 40s novel. In seeing how another author tackled and tamed a similar structural problem, I felt my own way was being cleared for revision. It was a weird coincidence, too, to stumble on this book...I saw it just as I was about to leave the bookstore.

Yet, there is the seed of doubt in my mind, that maybe I'm not cut out to write suspense fiction after all, and the whole revision might be an exercise in futility...

Sometimes my life feels so drab. I mean, drab can be okay too, because drama can be bad...it's the "no news is good news" approach to life, which my late maternal grandmother espoused. Now, as a young beleaguered Jewish woman who had to leave Russia and its pogroms in the early twentieth century, she had a solid reason to hold that philosophy...but do I?

Anyway, I read, I write, I do my freelance work, I make feeble stabs at cleaning my cluttered apartment...but if I can finish this book properly and sell it, or at least some damn book in the near future, I think it could mean better money and a better life down the line.

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Meanwhile, getting back to pulchritude, here's a link to the Joanne Dru page at the excellent Brian's Drive-In Theater site, where you can see how alluring she looked in Forbidden.

BriansDriveInTheater