A DISTURBING VIEWING EXPERIENCE

On July 15, 2010, Amazon delivered my dvd of Godzilla Vs. Gigan. And I was excited. Not only is Godzilla Vs. Gigan the only available Godzilla movie I do not own, it is, to the best of my knowledge, the only Godzilla movie I have never seen.

On the evening of July 16, I had a light supper and sat down to watch the film.

About twenty minutes into the movie I thought, "This is really silly."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

In a couple of weeks I am going to be 59 years old. Which of the following statements is the more pathetic?

1) As I enter my later-middle age, I have possibly lost a source of entertainment that has never before failed me.

2) It took me 49 years to notice that Godzilla movies are silly.

I do have one thing to say in my defense. Godzilla Vs. Gigan was made in 1972, a period considered to be the nadir of the Godzilla oeuvre. But the whole experience has spooked me. What if this weekend I decide to relax with Godzilla Vs. Mothra, generally considered to be one of his best performances, and I have the same reaction?

Will I be reduced to nothing but a steady diet of Eric Rohmer, Rainer Fassbinder, Yasujiro Ozu, and all those other directors who have never made a film that features a giant lizard kicking the shit out of Tokyo?

(For the full spectrum of "Disturbing" posts, click on the "disturbing" label below.)

A DISTURBING INCIDENT

The scene is the men's room of a large, Houston, Texas, hotel during a week-long gathering of international photographers, dealers, publishers, and critics.

I enter the men's room and see Jack, an employee of the sponsoring organization, a man a decade older than myself, standing at one of the urinals. We nod and I take my position a polite two urinals down the line.

Pause.

Enter a thirty-year-old Israeli photojournalist. We all three nod. He takes the middle urinal, pees, and exits.

Pause.

My pitiful victory: I still leave before Jack.

A DISTURBING REALIZATION

(Please refer to other "disturbing" posts of 4/19, 3/25, and 2/9.)

By most people's standards I get up really early. Maybe for a couple of weeks during the height of summer, I open my eyes and see sunlight. For the other fifty or so weeks of the year, it is dark.

I like getting up early. I make coffee and when the weather permits, I put the coffee in a thermos and retire to the screened-in porch on the second story of my house. And I read. I drink coffee, and I read.

I also, several mornings a week, hear my elderly neighbor, Mr. Ball, standing at his back door and hacking up what might be his lungs. I hear a long rasp, like knuckles on a washboard, followed by a good forceful spit that I am sometimes a little jealous of. Since elementary school I have been a pitiful spitter. I used to think that possibly Mrs. Ball had issued a "no spitting in the house" edict, but one day this ritual took place shortly after dawn and I could see that Mr. Ball stood at the back door as their ancient, runty dog did her morning business in the back yard.

I always thought it was funny that the entire neighborhood, or any portion of it that happened to be up, possibly jogging or walking their own dogs, could hear this performance from at least a block away.

But one morning it hit me. Any of my other early-rising neighbors get not one but two shows. They have the pleasure of celebrating the sunrise scored to my own chorus of coughs, farts, and belches. The acoustics from my second-story perch are probably even better than those Mr. Ball enjoys from his back door.

AN AMUSING YET SOMEWHAT DISTURBING ENCOUNTER

(Please refer to previous disturbing posts of March 25 and Feb 9.)

I am standing in the music book section of Half Price Books, looking for a copy of But Beautiful by Geoff Dyer.

A teenager holds out a book opened to a picture of John Lennon and says, "Is this one George? Oh, sorry, I thought you were my dad."

A DISTURBING CONVERSATION

(Please refer to A Disturbing Phone Call, posted 2/9/10)

--I've done something to my thumb.

--What do you mean?

--I don't know, I've jammed it or twisted it or something. It just hurts.

--When?

--When I pick something up or open a jar. Put any weight on it...Now.

--It's arthritis.

--No.

--Does it hurt when you rub it?

--Yeah.

--It's arthritis.

(Pause)

--It could be carpal tunnel.

--Arthritis.

A DISTURBING PHONE CALL

The other morning the phone rang, and it was my friend Doug. He lives in Corsicana and we talk once or twice a week. I picked up the phone and said, "Hi, Doug," the way we do now that we are usually looking at a picture of the person by the time we've answered.

Doug said hi and asked me what I was up to. I said not anything, really, and right off there was something a little odd. Doug asked if it was cold in Dallas and I said it was. He said it was freezing in Corsicana, which was no real surprise since Corsicana is only about fifty miles south of Dallas. We talked for only a minute or so longer and Doug said, well, so long.

Has it come to this? I wondered. Are we now men who call one another to talk about the weather? Is this the latest insult of middle age?

There had been other recent signs. My shoes still come untied with the frequency they did when I was in third grade. When I notice an untied shoe, I no longer kneel where I am and take care of it. I look for a step or a bench to bring the shoe closer to my hands rather than my going to it.

And there's a sound I've heard my father make for years. It's as much a gurgle as a burp, and certainly no proper belch. I am sorry to say that I have heard the sound come from myself. Thank God it is not as liquid as the sound my father makes, and it continues to be related directly to eating rather than putting in random, uncalled-for appearances, but I can see what direction this is heading.

I was mentally thanking Doug for this current onslaught of shades of the prison house, when the phone rang. Doug's picture was again on the display.

I answered, "Hi Doug."

Doug said, "Hi. Hey, I just remembered why I called the first time."