Six String Spinach

I had a pretty strong hunch that there would be some cultural cross-pollination happening as a result of my increased exposure to persons of independent thought and free minds at the Silver Snail. I just figured most of it would be comics related. Some of it is, for sure: JVL has been whining at me – pardon, ‘instructing’ me, in the endlessly repeating but relentlessly jovial manner of Teddy Ruxpin – to read ‘Yukiko’s Spinach’, and Joe has me boning up on my Frank Miller. But earlier this week I was given an order to see a very peculiar film.

I have the hot pants for Jeffrey Falcon.

Six String Samurai came highly recommended. Despite my reservations at hearing that it was about Buddy Holly traveling to Vegas to become the new King after Elvis’s death, while being pursued by Death, who resembled Slash, I dutifully went to Suspect Video and rented it.

***WARNING: spoilers ahead***
It may never make my all-time top ten list, but it sure was interesting. And pretty! Bright, gorgeous cinematography and costuming, with the small exception of the very visible duct tape under Buddy’s tuxedo during his Saint Sebastian-style death scene.

To someone who’s never seen it, I would apply my patented Definition-by-Triangulation theory, and say it was ‘Tank Girl’ meets ‘Phantom Menace’ meets ‘Fubar’.

If you are into Kurosawa; enjoy stubble-jawed, laconic, emotionally-distant Caucasian men performing acrobatics and decent kung fu; or are an aficionado of ugly Russians showing off their extremely poor tiger-claw form – good news! This movie could be for you.

If you’re uncomfortable with the idea of ‘Spinach Monsters’; abhor the sight of persons in gas masks or space helmets; detest hearing the word ‘polka’ spoken aloud by ultra-fake futuristic Nazis; hate rusty metal and dirty tuxedos; or dislike sand because it gets under your toenails and in your bathing suit – I have three words for you. Avoid, avoid, avoid.

It just occured to me that I wrote “spinach” twice in this entry, in two totally unrelated media mentions, neither time referring to the vegetable itself. Weird. And yesterday it was oregano. Maybe my body’s trying to tell me it’s not getting enough greens.

Oregano Grumpypants

I was wearing my grumpy pants all day yesterday due to exhaustion and general physical malaise, so I decided this morning I would take these wacky herbal supplements my Mom gave me on Monday.

Note: I stand opposed to the rampant overuse of non-prescription drugs in our society; I’m more of the “what doesn’t kill you ony makes you stronger” philosophy of fighting through sickness, unless you *must* be functioning for work. But naturopathic medicine or massage therapy? Bring it on.

Anyway, these capsules are called ‘Oregacyn’, and are chock full of wild oregano. Supposedly, they help fight or suppress viruses or something.

I don’t know how or if they really achieve anything, but by medieval standards of health care it should scare the demons out of my system through its smell alone. You open that bottle and KABOOM! a genie of green mist floats out and socks you in the olfactory senses. Some serious aroma is happening in there.

Even after you’ve popped one down your gullet, the smell resurfaces in the form of small, oregano-scented burps: sounds nasty, I know, but they’re quite refreshing. I imagine it’s a lot like the smell of running through a field in rural Italy in the middle of high summer. Except that instead of wafting upwards from tiny green leaves crushed under my feet, it’s exploding outwards from my mouth. Wait, that really *is* nasty.

Anyway, more reports later on how the herbal help is going. My optimistic self is staying hopeful that the oregano will banish the evil juju. My more practical side wants me to keep in mind the fact that these pills were given to me by the same woman who fervently believes in the healing power of bee pollen. And that oregano, no matter what sort of fancy ‘proprietary P73 blend’ you make with it, is still just a seasoning for pasta sauce.

Continuing in the spirit of Alastair and I exchanging emails this morning with ‘famous last words’ conclusions (on the occasion of his rotten, miserable, feverish bout of influenza):

“I should never have switched from Scotch to Martinis.”

~~ Humphrey Bogart, actor, d. January 14, 1957