Thursday, April 9, 2009
"The Spiritual Journey of Alejandro Jodorowsky"
by Alejandro Jodorowsky
I bought this paperback in a little bookstore in Brooklyn buried inside of some bizarro strip mall that also housed an electronics boutique specializing in weird turntables and Asian-exclusive technology that only the Transformers can decipher, and a standard coffeeshop that only employs Lesbians. The bookshop was tight, although completely unorganized. They did have some pretty great used shit and one of those bookshop kitty-cats that is always asleep in a tiny rocking chair, though. Both the librarian-looking girl who rang me up and the well-dressed dude on the computer behind her were grilling me pretty hard the whole time I was in there. If I had been in Richmond and feeling real scummy I would have assumed it was because they thought I was going to steal shit. But I had just gotten into NYC the night before and was rolling with some dimes and wearing cool shoes, so I think they were both just checking me out and ::swooning::. All in all it was a great New York weekend, and some other things I got up there include:
- hot bubble tea
- crucial chill-time with my buds Sumitra, Duncan, Kristen, Allison and Matthew
- bangin' breakfast food
- free dessert from my buddy Brent the Butcher
- a big, blood-soaked hug from the aforementioned Brent
- fourteen RedBull & vodkas (I think)
- two blowjobs
As far as the book itself, I'm only on page 6. I love Jodorowsky so I'm sure it'll at least be a pleasant ride. But homeboy is already straight-up wilding out over some seriously hard to swallow psychomedicinal bullshit. I'm sitting there reading about how he was somewhere in South America assisting this lady who used her bare hands to open up some fully conscious dude's chest to replace his beating heart with another, completely dead heart. Then she seals up dude's chest with the same bare hands and is like "All done." And Jodorowsky just recounts this entire episode like it aint' no thang. It reminds me of this videoclip I watched a few years ago where Grant Morrison is at some weirdo convention accepting an award for something that I assume was comic-related. Morrison is tanked out of his mind and delivers about a 25 minute acceptance speech, slurring his words and going off on excited tangents in his already confusing Scottish vernacular, talking about how cool it is that magic is real and how equally cool it is that he and everyone else at that convention have figured out how to master it. Just another drunk artist rambling, right? But then the camera pans around the room and everyone is just nodding their heads and tipping their glasses like "fuck yeah, Grant. You know the score" and I'm watching it all and starting to wonder if magic actually is real and if these dudes have really mastered it and if there is any way that I could possibly get into some of that shit myself. Then I remember that all of that requires a whole lot of personal discipline and emotional fortitude and intellectual adventurousness, and I am sitting here right now typing a blog to no one, listening to an Akon record I spent my last ten bucks on and working on a nice little day-off buzz (it's almost noon). Magic probably isn't for me. But Grant Morrison writes good comics and Alejandro Jodorowsky has fucked a ton of women.
That's what's poppin'.