Hated: GG Allin and the Murder Junkies (1994)/ Moulin Rouge! (2001).

[Note: Frank Trautman was last seen in his ’73 Impala, hurtling down Rte 66 in the vicinity of Joplin, MO., some time last whenever, a quarter past forever, on a day ending in a Y. This blog entry is reproduced, as is, from his journals. In the coming months, we will continue to publish his notes where possible. Should the worst have happened, he is known to be survived by a pair of size 13 Frye’s left under the bed of his former love, Sugarloaf Jones. For now, Thanks for all the good wishes from his fans. Now that he’s on the road constantly, Graveyard Frank is sincerely missed. Thanks. D. Franz, Editor, Rocks and Bones Productions.]

Frank has had to learn to drive with two arms and two lips free. He misses co-pilot Sugarloaf Jones, kissing her on the straight-aways and squeezing her on the curves. (That’s not as dirty as it sounds!) More than once Frank has unconsciously caught himself about to grope the unsuspecting traveler in the passenger’s seat. Angry Jamie is an amiable enough chap, but it isn’t the same.

To make matters worse, he had caught a stomach virus on their recent side trip to see the world’s largest ball of twine in Cawker City, Kansas, and had spent several days in a motel shivering, feverish and intensely in pain. A bemused Sugar would joke that he had caught the bug kissing Jamie, her errant, temporary replacement. But his lovely brown beauty would also send him out a care package on the road to cheer him up. It contained a stuffed Curious George doll, to replace the rubber chimp on his dashboard that creeped her out, and also a copy of Moulin Rouge! (Luhrmann 2001). Angry Jamie, not to be out done, sent over a bootleg of Hated (Phillips 1994) the documentary on deceased rocker GG Allin and his band, the Murder Junkies .

After three days Frank, clutching the bedspread was finally well enough to slink down to the floor in front of his laptop to eat some saltines and watch a DVD. But which could his ailing stomach handle? A documentary on a punk rocker who eats piss and shit, or a campy musical starring Nicole Kidman? Frank figured he’d better take both in small doses.

Hated is a straight forward documentary in style, though it fails to carry much information or insight on the shocking antics on GG Allin. Moulin Rouge!, on the other hand is a frenetic blur of romance and song. It is easy to see the appeal to Sugarloaf. Also, she tells him, “Ewan MacGregor is the greatest actor of his generation.” Note also “All You Need is Love” by the Beatles (Magical Mystery Tour; 1967) is prominent in both her favorite films, MR! and Love Actually, (Curtis 2003) and her two favorite characters (or 3 counting Frank) are writers.

There are some small irksome bits. What does Nicole Kidman not know about her own TB? Why does she live in Lucy the Elephant from the Jersey Shore? Why does poor Toulouse Lautrec portrayed as a goof with a lisp and not the tragic figure he really was. This sticks in frank’s craw a bit.

And oh, as for the ball of twine, Frank won’t mock, those kids growing up under its immense fibrous shadow have enough to live up to. Go see it yourself. Have a ball, so to speak.

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fuck.

fuck.

fuck.

fuck.

fuck.

fuck.

fuck.

fuck.

fuck.

fuck.

fuck.

fuck.

fuck.

fuck. Bemoans a newly broken Frank. This blog’s a long time in coming. And millions of unsent postcard and silent prayers are scattered between its start and its end.

For in truth Frank’s GG Allin soul fails to live up to the McGregor’s beautiful innocent writer. The writer Sugarloaf wants to love. The man, Frank, is not singing and dancing here. Halting optimism is crushed under the boots of his failure to be good enough for her. Good, yes. But not good enough.

He’s said it before: no one wants to fight for anything in this damn world. We slam on the brakes at the first pot hole. Turn around. Kisses de-evolve into friendly handshakes. Clocks tick out the moments in the darkest of night and in the morning. The cruel fanged sun scowls on a grey horizon and love is gone, tattered, wasted, ruined and all follows in its wake. The winds, more ill than fair, pick the course again. Boots are buckled as are dreams and souls. A jacket against the outside cold. The inside is icy nonetheless. The hero stumbles one shaky foot in front of the other and is away again. Beasts and demons reign again whipping around his coattails unheeded.

No one had ever chosen to be with Frank before. And Sugarloaf has signed the register as the exception to prove the rule. As the tired clichéd script dictates, she tells him how lovable he is and how she cannot love him. Not in that way, of course. She says he not a loser, just that he hasn’t won. He is everything yet nothing to her.

FUCK Moulin Rouge!