Winter Watch!

One pair of eyes on the sky and another pair of eyes on the squirrels. As it ought to be. Happy holidays, y’all.

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#DudesWithCats #CaliforniaChristmas #AuthorJonathanKieran #JonathanKieran #WriterJonathanKieran #CaliforniaLife #OnTheEdge #Wistwood #JonathanKieranTheAuthor #JonathanKieranMusic #JonathanKieranNewAlbum #JonathanKieranArtist #Jericho #JonathanKieranJericho #JerichoAlbum #WritersOfInstagram #ArtistsOfInstagram #AuthorsOfInstagram

When Animal (prints) Attack

I don’t ever have much to say about female fashion choices and haute-couture, whether ladies of great fame or pleasant obscurity are rocking their frocks on red carpets amid the furious onslaught of the paparazzi or browsing for burger meat at the grocery store. I believe the old adage may be true: Women do not dress for men, they dress for other women.

That being said, I couldn’t help but take a second look at pop singer Shania Twain’s get-up as she toddled into some awards show the other night. Twain’s ditties ring a pleasant-if-innocuous bell, reminding me of a carefree stretch of time after first moving to California in the late 1990s, but I hadn’t realized the songstress appears to have branched out into the taming and training of African wildlife.

I wondered why not a single one of her fellow celebrities or security personnel rushed to Ms. Twain’s aid during that pap-stroll because the woman does not appear to be merely wearing a leopard-print number … it looks as if she is being EATEN ALIVE by a ravenous leopard—taken down head-first like a gazelle on the veld! Those ferocious cats are known, after all, for sinking their fangs directly into the heads of their prey and wrapping their sinewy claws around the throat in order to strangle a potential meal.

That kitty has Shania’s pink little noggin’ half-swallowed and is about to snap her clavicle with a fearsome claw before, presumably, dragging her up a nearby tree to feast in peace away from irksome jackals and hyenas. Poor little Shania. Does anyone know if she made it inside the building? I presume her designer was consumed beforehand, bones and all.

Hey, even for superstars, it’s getting to be a regular jungle out there.

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#ShaniaTwain #Fashion #RedCarpet #AfricanWildlife #CircleOfLife #AuthorJonathanKieran #JonathanKieran #WriterJonathanKieran #CaliforniaLife #OnTheEdge #Wistwood #JonathanKieranTheAuthor #JonathanKieranMusic #JonathanKieranNewAlbum #JonathanKieranArtist #Jericho #JonathanKieranJericho #JerichoAlbum #WritersOfInstagram #ArtistsOfInstagram #AuthorsOfInstagram 

More Random Prequel Madness: Willy Wonka Backstory?

As if anyone in idea-bereft Hollywood needs to pull another incoherent “backstory” project out of his/her ass, randomly, drawing upon source material already beaten to the point of excruciating equine death. As if there needs to be yet another iteration of one of notorious fuddy-duddy Roald Dahl’s brilliant stories, only this time focusing upon a plot he himself never wrote or considered. As if we need another reason to put the irksome sprite, Timothee Chalamet, on a big screen. As if Earth needs yet one more opportunity to behold the glowering mug of overexposed, overpraised Olivia Colman.

As if my complaining will make one bit of difference in an industry better fit for a dumpster fire than klieg lights.

Why don’t they just make a twelve-hour miniseries based upon the life and times of Maryann, the bland fictional farm girl, before she arrived on Gilligan’s Island with the rest of her banal castaways, and get it over with. This culture has reached levels of weird obsession that ought to boggle the average mind. The entire entertainment industry needs to be placed in a straightjacket or, at the very least, forced to spend years upon a psychiatrist’s couch.

Don’t look at me: I create my own characters and worlds.

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#RoaldDahl #Chalamet #OliviaColman #WillyWonka #Prequels #DearthOfIdeas #BanalityAsEpidemic #AuthorJonathanKieran #JonathanKieran #WriterJonathanKieran #CaliforniaLife #OnTheEdge #Wistwood #JonathanKieranTheAuthor #JonathanKieranMusic #JonathanKieranNewAlbum #JonathanKieranArtist #Jericho #JonathanKieranJericho #JerichoAlbum #WritersOfInstagram #ArtistsOfInstagram #AuthorsOfInstagram

Creative End of Nowhere?

Have a gander at a new site that probes the creative obstacles suffered by some big hitters in the world (and industry) of the Arts … including my longtime friend and fellow wordsmithy, Cintra Wilson, who is featured in fabulous caricature at the top of the heap. Links to End of Nowhere are in the body of the article.

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#EndOfNowhere #CreativeChallenges #IndustryandArts #CintraWilson #AuthorJonathanKieran #JonathanKieran #WriterJonathanKieran #CaliforniaLife #OnTheEdge #Wistwood #JonathanKieranTheAuthor #JonathanKieranMusic #JonathanKieranNewAlbum #JonathanKieranArtist #Jericho #JonathanKieranJericho #JerichoAlbum #WritersOfInstagram #ArtistsOfInstagram #AuthorsOfInstagram

Neglected Visual Effects Artists? Hollywood Needs to Change their Billing Traditions

I stumbled onto THIS ARTICLE in Far Out Magazine about the need to uplift “neglected” visual effects artists in cinema through celebration of stellar films like Ang Lee’s Life of Pi, and I agree, but the basic issue of rendering praise where it’s genuinely due may be more related (at least these days) to a continued overemphasis upon the idolatry paid to shitty “actors” instead of the superb artists behind the scenes.

It’s hardly news that outstanding writers, cinematographers, effects artists, set designers, animators, and other makers of movie magic have long been crammed into the back of the bus compared to the parade of barely gifted underwear models and pretenders delivering pre-written speeches and demanding obscene salaries for their efforts. Directors, of course, are often included in those first-class accommodations, worthily and unworthily. Since the beginning of Hollywood’s Golden Age, a few extraordinary “in front of the camera” talents have reached regular levels of charisma and performance genius that transcend film itself, with or without the application of any extra cinematic bells and whistles: Fred Astaire; Bette Davis; (early) Marlon Brando; Judy Garland; Charlie Chaplin … the list of those “stars” who almost always brought a wave of automatic Magic flowing over audiences upon first sight is actually pretty slim. And it hasn’t gotten that much bigger over the years, with the advent of neorealism, realism, postmodern cinema and sundry.

There are still many superb talents among the “stars” but few true immortals. Some sneak into the select pantheon by the sheer enormity and breadth of their popular output, rather than by overwhelming and wondrous talent: John Wayne; Tom Cruise; Clint Eastwood; Elizabeth Taylor; Meryl Streep; these and a few other greats come to mind as far as the present day is concerned. All of them are legends, but none are jaw-dropping geniuses, despite the bounty of awards continually lavished upon such famous red-carpet strollers. The emphasis upon an idolatrous fascination with movie stars is nothing new—“matinée idol” was not a termed coined last year—but the subtle shifts over the years from big studios cultivating rosters of multi-talented contract players, writers, technicians, etc. and the subsequent rise of the free-agent “superstar” has occasioned a far too easy overemphasis upon the cults of lesser personalities.

Since most of the biggest money-making films in our present (and in my opinion, mostly worthless) era of cinema are driven by mind-boggling visual effects and not by any acting prowess emanating from today’s interchangeable “acting” automatons, perhaps it’s time for the industry itself to rectify the “neglect” of artists behind the scenes by putting VFX artist names first in the onscreen opening credits and paying them salaries big enough to buy multiple vineyards in France.

Or everyone can just call-off the whole damned farce and start reading books on weekend evenings. It’s reached the point wherein you’d almost have to pay me to watch a streamed contemporary movie in the comfort of my own home.

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#Cinema #BehindTheScenes #Hollywood #GoldenAge #VFX #Artistry #AuthorJonathanKieran #JonathanKieran #WriterJonathanKieran #CaliforniaLife #OnTheEdge #Wistwood #JonathanKieranTheAuthor #JonathanKieranMusic #JonathanKieranNewAlbum #JonathanKieranArtist #Jericho #JonathanKieranJericho #JerichoAlbum #WritersOfInstagram #ArtistsOfInstagram #AuthorsOfInstagram 

Let’s Go Feed the Velociraptor Ducks at the Pond, Dear!

Being a dinosaur maniac since age three, when the neon-colored plastic toys could be purchased fifty-to-a-bag and ready for immediate sandbox adventures, I still get excited to learn about new discoveries. Mongolia seems to be one of the hubs of hitherto undocumented dino-species excavation and the paleontologists working in that corner of the world have come up with a tantalizing new addition to the prehistoric pantheon. The Wall Street Journal reports the finding of duck-sized terrors described as “velociraptors of the sea.” Who can forget the cultural imprint left by velociraptors due to the approximately seventy-four iterations of the Jurassic Park films over the years? These small but ravenous dinosaurs became the stuff of nightmares in the same way that Steven Spielberg’s great white shark, “Bruce”, became in the wake of Jaws.

Now we are faced with the former existence of velociraptors that could enter your backyard pools and strip the flesh from your kiddies the very moment Mommy’s back is turned to relight her cigarette or refill that glass of Pinot Grigio. Surely, this would make for an outstanding tableau in the next Jurassic Park installment. I have little doubt that wheels and sprockets are turning even as I write in order to rush an abominably shitty script into existence, detailing the escape of flying/swimming velociraptors upon lazy lake-fishermen and floating fat kids enjoying summer idylls. Whatever the case, discoveries of this kind remind us all the more that life on this whizzing space-ball did not originate at the seven-day behest of a nap-loving deity in a garden full of tempting fruit and two immortal human nudists. Hell, Jehovah probably yanked the rib required to create Eve right out of a velociraptor’s mouth.

Can’t wait for that Hollywood blockbuster.

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#dinosaurs #dinosaurdiscoveries #velociraptors #swimmingvelociraptors #JurassicPark #AuthorJonathanKieran #JonathanKieran #WriterJonathanKieran #CaliforniaLife #OnTheEdge #Wistwood #JonathanKieranTheAuthor #JonathanKieranMusic #JonathanKieranNewAlbum #JonathanKieranArtist #Jericho #JonathanKieranJericho #JerichoAlbum #WritersOfInstagram #ArtistsOfInstagram #AuthorsOfInstagram 

Ailments Abound in California

These figures published by the San Francisco Chronicle about the steady upswing in COVID hospitalizations as well as ‘flu afflictions and respiratory ailments are not surprising in the least. Count me in as one of those under the weather with some odd amalgamation of agues and weird complaints. Is this going to become the new normal for the wider population every Winter? I’m getting too old for this.

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#AuthorJonathanKieran #JonathanKieran #WriterJonathanKieran #CaliforniaLife #OnTheEdge #Wistwood #JonathanKieranTheAuthor #JonathanKieranMusic #JonathanKieranNewAlbum #JonathanKieranArtist #Jericho #JonathanKieranJericho #JerichoAlbum #WritersOfInstagram #ArtistsOfInstagram #AuthorsOfInstagram

Good Heavens, It’s Only Miss Couric …

OUT FOR AN EVENING STROLL.

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Ah, to Aspire to Greatness and Nobility. My Faith in Humanity Waxes

Some winner in a crowd of thousands at a football game decided to flash her mammaries just as a camera was panning in her direction. Jumbo screens caught her in the act of Booby Liberation. This unique, artistic, creatively potent, and philosophically shattering instant went “viral” on social media. Thus, the woman decided to start her own OnlyFans site wherein she could charge masturbating pervs a fee for seeing those very same fun-bags from any number of hitherto unusual and unexplored angles.

This, people of Earth, is the stuff of which dreams are made and of which world-changing achievements are accomplished.

Tits. Let us ponder them.

I think their appeal rests in the fact that they are so rarely seen and showcased in Western society. Think about it: one hardly ever catches even the most meager glimpse of these mercurial and enigmatic body parts, particularly in America. Tits are shrouded in secrecy and veiled with ineffable mystery. Trapdoor spiders and genuine extraterrestrials are seen much more often than the female tit. Tits are guarded with ferocity from all hint of common, public view, just like the crown jewels of the late Queen Elizabeth II.

Women simply do not expose Ta-Ta Flesh. Never. This almost universally sacrosanct and demure impulse is the catalyst that makes Bazoom-Brandishing such a staggering Epiphany on those unlikely occasions when actual hooters are glimpsed by the common folk, even peripherally.

Tits.

A rare and perpetually elusive phenomenon. Long may this maverick-of-a-woman trundle her sacred wares for the education and edification of the teeming online masses. Madame Marie Curie, move the hell over. You and your sad little test-tubes have been replaced by tubes far more consequential.

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#CulturalCommentary #WhatMakesUsProud #ExcellenceInAction #Tits #AuthorJonathanKieran #JonathanKieran #WriterJonathanKieran #OnTheEdge #Wistwood #JonathanKieranTheAuthor #JonathanKieranMusic #JonathanKieranNewAlbum #JonathanKieranArtist #Jericho #JonathanKieranJericho #JerichoAlbum #WritersOfInstagram #ArtistsOfInstagram #AuthorsOfInstagram #MarieCurie #ShowUsYourTits

Moby Dick “Translated” into Gen Z-speak?

Oh, this is a satirical idea whose time has come! BEHOLD.

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Let the Punishment Fit the Climb?

Tourists—whether from the more provincial ratholes of American life or not—are always showing their contempt or ignorance for famous monuments around the world. Posing naked, scratching graffiti into stone, or otherwise desecrating places stalwart and sacred is often a favorite pass-time of the more shiftless global gadabout.

I encountered some real dimwits in my own travels. One in particular comes to mind: at the ancient Egyptian site of the Philae temples (dedicated to Isis and her dysfunctional family of deities) I was fortunate to have the entire glorious archaeological site entirely to myself during one visit. I prowled about for hours exploring nooks and crannies of the fabled temple complex, reading hieroglyphics and gazing in wonder at the reliefs to my heart’s content—an experience I shall never forget, without question.

There were only one or two discreet Arab custodians in the island along with me; I had arranged to enjoy the site in near-complete privacy for the day. The custodians were retiring types guarding the dignity of that mysterious and resplendent collection of great temples at Egypt’s frothy southern frontier near what had once been the First Cataract of the Nile. Tourist-markings on the stone walls dating from the end of the ancient Roman Empire (“Romulus was here!”) could be spotted on the majestic temples along with prayerful supplications known as dipinti.

Tooling around that glorious island was an exercise in pure, unadulterated wonder, especially with the knowledge that I was on my own in the heaviness of the mystical silence, dwarfed by towering pylons and stately columns dedicated to the great goddess of magic and her entourage. As mentioned, the custodians respected my presence and kept a careful distance. I had free run of the turf.

Except … I was not alone on Philae.

After about two hours of climbing chapel foundations and slipping into once-secret corridors devoted to arcane rituals, I heard a ululating noise coming from one of the main temple’s exterior chapels, known as the mammisi—a special “mini-temple” devoted to the island’s resident child-god, Horus, and his coterie of protective deities and genii.

It was a woman’s voice, braying as loud and as piercingly as a donkey’s, echoing off the eerie sandstone walls inside the shrine. She was chanting something stupid and off-key in French. Mortified, I approached the entrance of the little sanctuary and found one of the local custodians; he was about to have a conniption at the scene he was beholding within. The poor Arab’s eyes and sensibilities were essentially beside themselves. Here’s why:

Some dumb bunny—a neo-pagan lass with a head of hair as red and bramble-wild as a used, rusted Brillo pad—was on her knees inside the chapel’s inner sanctum. She had lit a few candles and placed them around herself and, with flabby arms outstretched, was bowing her head repeatedly to the weathered stone floor as she howled her hymn/prayer to one of the carved reliefs of a deity on the interior wall.

More astoundingly, this eager acolyte was completely naked, with the ends of her tits brushing against the dusty floor with every bow and shiver of her spiritually transfixed body. The Muslim temple custodian and I looked at each other in horror, speechless, as she genuflected and murmured, shook her boobies and cried out in something approaching a strangled yodel. The custodian looked as if he was about to cry or else run for the nearby Nile and throw himself in.

The woman herself paid no heed to our obvious, aghast presence. She was putting-on one hell of a performance and didn’t care who saw or heard her clumsy ministrations.

The custodian looked at me helplessly, his mouth contorting in a mixture of disbelief and accusation, as if I were somehow responsible for this fanatical—and frankly nutty—interloper. I could only shrug in obvious protest, given that my Arabic was pretty basic and I was rendered speechless by the gyrations of Ms. Titty Titty Bang Bang, anyhow.

The scene became even more surreal. The woman soon began grabbing her nipples and lifting her breasts up and down as if to offer them to the deity portrayed on the wall. The custodian nearly fainted and I grew redder than the oncoming Egyptian sunset with embarrassment.

Turning my eyes away and one ear closer to the spectacle in front of me, I could easily make out the words of her French caterwauling. She was offering a hackneyed, impromptu hymn to Isis, the chief goddess of the entire site, which made sense (if anything about that tableau could approach the merest outskirts of “sense” in the first place.) Unluckily for me, my French was and remains fluent. This precious petal of pagan praise was saying:

“Oh, Isis, I offer you my breasts in sisterhood! Bless the fullness of my swollen flesh and send your spirit through the eternal cavern between my legs. I have come to your holy of holies to offer you my wholeness.”

All of this was just quaint, of course … except for the fact that the large relief of the deity to whom Barbara Bazooms was offering her very finest was not Isis at all, but rather Hapi—a male god of the Nile itself who owned a pair of ta-tas as drooping and malleable as those of his devotee. She kept calling this lesser deity “Isis.”

“My gosh!” I said, turning to the gobsmacked custodian. “This poor woman doesn’t even know who she’s praying to!”

As if this revelation would elicit some spark of awareness in the shocked custodian and he would suddenly respond by saying, “Ah! Well that explains everything. Hitherto I had been without a clue. Let us leave her to her curious gyrations, shall we?”

Except he didn’t say that. He just kept looking on the verge of a nervous breakdown: his job as custodian was being thwarted, challenged, and subjected to obscenity. He was worried about repercussions. A man could lose his position over something of this brazen nature. His family might starve.

“She’s not American, I can tell you that much,” I offered, as if my assurance would diminish the astonishing offense. “We can do some pretty wild things when abroad, but I’ve never seen one of us do that. She’s French. Just listen to her!”

The poor man couldn’t distinguish French from Yupik Eskimo.

Meanwhile, I scrutinized the rest of the women’s galling (Gauling?) escapade.

She had mentioned being in the “holy of holies” during her yurt-squawk. But this was not the holy of holies in the temple. This was a subsidiary chamber, far from the true ritual sanctum of the temple’s divine owner. Performing a trumped-up ritual in this adjunct birth-grotto made about as much sense as ordering Thanksgiving Dinner at the counter in a McDonald’s, ritually speaking.

The sad sack couldn’t even get her “life is a cabaret” paganism right. Good God, the French.

By this time, the other custodian arrived from a distant part of the island, no doubt drawn by fumes of sacrilege in the air. This guy was not as diffident as the first custodian. His eyes nearly popped out of his head and he gave me one brief accusatory glance. I held up my hands and shook my head in horror. “She’s not with me! Not with ME!”

This seemed effective. The newly arrived custodian began clapping his hands wildly at the groveling paganess, shouting words of warning at her in Arabic. He had every right: the stupid woman was breaking all sorts of laws with her flagrant display. In case anyone isn’t aware, Muslims don’t exactly go in for public female nudity (or public nudity of any sort) and the defacement of any ancient Egyptian site is a serious crime. He entered the chamber and started clapping his hands at her as if trying to chase a cawing bird from the premises.

Perhaps sensing her imminent stint in a dusty Egyptian jail far from any French consulate, Madame Mammary quickly roused herself from whatever whacked impulse had overcome her being, gathered her candles, clothing, and marched out of the chamber without a shred of dignity, though her head was held high, as if she had just enlightened me and the custodians with some exclusive glimpse of a genuine ancient Isis-ritual, instead of some half-baked notion she’d cooked-up in the failing noodle-cooker atop her shoulders.

I was going to say something condemnatory to her in French as she exited, but thought better of it. She was insane, after all.

I think she went to one of the boats stationed at the island’s little harbor. I saw no accomplice. The custodians chased her naked self all the way, harping and hooting. She just lumbered along. Arrogant and stupid. Like most tourists.

For my part, I made tracks and sequestered myself in another part of the temple, my own composure ruffled considerably. Later that night, at the hotel is Aswan, I told some fellow visitors about the experience. They were duly shocked. The tour guide I informed, however, was not.

“You wouldn’t believe how often that sort of thing happens,” he said. “We’ve had to throw people in jail. Sad. Very sad. Usually, it’s Americans.”

“She was definitely French,” I added meekly.

I never learned the fate of Mademoiselle Goddess-Glory, but rest assured that tourists are still up to the same old tricks. A woman at one of the step pyramids in Mexico recently scandalized guides and tourists by doing a dangerous and apparently drunken jig atop the perilous steps. She had to be escorted down by authorities while fellow travelers chanted that she deserved to be sacrificed for her impudence. That seemed a bit much, if you ask me, but at least the reaction was in keeping with the historical accuracy of the step pyramid itself, where savages regularly ripped the still-beating hearts from their victims and kicked their decapitated heads down the pyramid steps like soccer balls.

There’s something to be said for awareness of historical accuracy. Perhaps there’s hope for certain tourists, after all.

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#AncientEgypt #Tourists #Desecration #Boobies #Philae #TravelTales #AuthorJonathanKieran #JonathanKieran #WriterJonathanKieran #CaliforniaLife #OnTheEdge #Wistwood #JonathanKieranTheAuthor #JonathanKieranMusic #JonathanKieranNewAlbum #JonathanKieranArtist #Jericho #JonathanKieranJericho #JerichoAlbum #WritersOfInstagram #ArtistsOfInstagram #AuthorsOfInstagram 

Great White Sharks are NOT Camera-Shy These Days

Australian fishermen got a harrowingly close look at this Big Mama in the waters off Port Lincoln.

She’s a good 15-16 feet, easily, and probably a ton and a half. Jump on those surfboards, kids!

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