Charles Jackson was an author that kinda got lost in the shuffle of 20th century alcoholic writers.
His life was tragic. Naturally.
Jackson appeared to have lived a mostly closeted life. He suffered from tuberculosis, losing a lung, which led to alcohol and substance abuse. He died of apparent suicide in 1968.
Blake Bailey wrote a biography of Jackson titles Farther and Wilder: The Lost Weekends and Literary Dreams of Charles Jackson. Unlike every other book I talk about here, I might actually read that one.
The Lost Weekend is Jackson’s most famous work. Billy Wilder adapted it into a film in 1945. While the book was successful upon its release, it is now largely forgotten in the American canon.
The second chapter of the The Lost Weekend is probably the most harrowing description of being an alcoholic ever written. And while I thought the book was fantastic as a whole, I actually found Jackson’s second novel The Fall of Valor to be much more engrossing.
And unfortunately it’s been totally forgotten.
The Fall of Valor is about a man vacationing with his wife in Nantucket who suddenly becomes obsessed with a recently married Marine captain on leave from World War II. The blatant homosexual overtones were ahead of their time upon its release in 1946, but the novel is powerful in its exploration on the dissolution of relationships and masculinity.
Jackson’s style can get a little long winded at times, which bogged down The Lost Weekend at certain points. But it pays off in second novel. Jackson was an astute observer of human nature. He’s seen the dark side and knows what people are thinking even when they aren’t aware of it themselves. All of this comes together in a heartbreaking conclusion for The Fall of Valor.
While I was reading Sigmund Freud’s Civilization and its Discontents, I was introduced to the term credo quia absurdum, translated as “I believe because it is absurd.”
The phrase is usually attributed to Tertullian in reference to Christian belief.
However, I have said many times before that the mechanism of religious belief has been franchised out to other forms of belief, specifically in the political realm. This process is exacerbated by constant internet usage.
Naturally, this causes further consternation within civilization because we know intellectually that the internet isn’t real, but our relationship and understanding of the real world is constantly being shaped by it.
When this contradiction is pointed out, there’s an almost violent psychological reaction to it because it undermines our entire understanding of self and society. And to maintain this flawed understanding, we double down on our patently false assumptions.
Therefore this “credo quia absurdum” becomes the de facto mode of political/religious discourse.
Guys, I really am sorry about this story. Unfortunately, it’s only going to get worse from here 😭
I thought about Susan’s, as me, proposal.
But I didn’t want to suck a dick. Was it gay to suck your own dick? What if you’re currently a woman and suck a dick that belonged to you? But I was in a woman’s body that wasn’t my own. Was it wrong to suck a dick then? But what if you had permission, or in fact was forced, by the rightful owner of that body to suck a dick that belonged to you? Was THAT gay?
“I suggest a counter proposal,” I said to Susan. “I’ll agree to your terms IF, if, in addition to sucking your dick (that is, in fact, MY dick) you eat my pussy (that is, in fact, YOUR pussy).”
Susan, in my body, thought for a moment. “Fuck it, why not?” (s)he responded.
We both stripped down. Susan’s body that I occupied was a toned work of art. Meanwhile, Susan (in my body) removed her clothing, revealing a disgusting, hairy, and flabby body.
“So this is what it’s like to have an erection,” (s)he said.
“For fuck sake, let’s get this over with,” I replied.
I, being the woman this time, climbed on top while Susan, the man, laid beneath me. I placed this exquisite looking vagina onto Susan’s face while I shoved this pathetic penis into my mouth.
Honestly—getting your pussy eaten—pretty good experience. Almost made me forget that I was blowing myself.
“I’m about to come,” Susan, as a man, screamed.
Oh shit, I thought. I wasn’t prepared to swallow semen.
“I wanna bust in that pussy (that is, in fact, MY pussy),” she said.
Relieved, I stood up and (s)he bent me over the couch and shoved in the full 4.5 inches. At first, it occurred to me that size indeed DOES NOT matter.
“Damn it!” Susan yelled. “Your dick sucks!”
Nevermind then.
(S)he started to speed up until finally pulling out and blowing semen in between my butt cheeks.
“Gotta say,” Susan said, “it’s better to orgasm as woman.”
I laid down on the couch and covered my naked body. Was it worth it? Sure, I rationalized to myself. Too bad I didn’t come though.
After Susan washed up, she put on a suit and tie. She made me look the best I ever looked.
“Alright,” (s)he said, “let’s go find that warlock.”
Then she kicked me in the nuts with her pointed toe stilettos.
As I writhing in pain on the floor, Susan stood over me and said “I’m getting that job you limp dick bastard! Not you, not the board, not anyone can stand in my way!”
Susan stormed off and all my coworkers stood around. “I’m fine,” I said. “She barely knicked my ball sack.”
I crawled back to my office and shut the door. I took the bottle of vodka out of the refrigerator and placed it on my crotch. Bob Dickenburg came in laughing.
“Susan’s a firecracker isn’t she!” he said.
“To put it mildly,” I replied.
“Look, don’t worry about her,” Bob continued. “The board loves your work. You’re definitely getting that job.”
“I better. I’m gonna have to pay for scrotal surgery soon,” I said. I then lifted the bottle of vodka to my mouth.
“Well, we’re gonna announce the promotion on Monday. Go home, enjoy your weekend, and don’t worry yourself over it.”
I nodded to Bob as I swallowed the vodka. I didn’t get much work done that Friday afternoon. I got too drunk.
As I roared my Ferrari back home, almost hitting several motorists, I accidentally plowed my vehicle into a hooded figure. I grabbed my beer and exited the car to check on the person.
The figure laid on the ground, body parts were completely mangled. I kicked his side.
“Hey buddy, are you alright?” I asked.
The figure sat up and snapped his limbs back together. It was disgusting. Finally he stood up and removed the hood.
The man appeared to be blind. I figured that’s why he was standing in the middle of the road. He was ancient, like a warlock.
“You shouldn’t drink and drive,” the man said.
“Oh it’s okay, I’m rich.”
He then lifted his hands to my face and began chanting something in Latin, Greek, or some bullshit I didn’t understand. After standing there for a few moments, he lowered his hands and slowly wondered off.
“You don’t want any money out of my wallet?” I asked.
He didn’t reply.
I finished driving home. I stripped off my clothes, climbed in between the sheets, and fell fast asleep.
When I awoke the next morning, I wasn’t hungover. I also didn’t have rock hard morning wood. Something was amiss.
I sat up in bed and didn’t recognize the room. It was a woman’s room.
A nude man with a rubber mask came crawling in on all fours. He stood up, his partially erect penis inches from my face, and he handed over a cock cage.
“I’ve been a bad boy mommy,” he said.
“Mommy?”
I stood up and looked in the mirror. And there she was: her tall slender frame, small perky breast, and that stern resting bitch face.
I was Susan.
Or, more precisely, I was in Susan’s body. And presumably she was in mine.
“That fucking warlock,” I thought. “I hope Susan doesn’t look at my penis.”
I looked over to the nude man. “Sorry bro, I ain’t gay,” I said. I then threw on some clothes and sped over to my own apartment, expecting to find Susan in my body.
I stormed into my room, and there was me, or rather Susan as me, sitting prim and proper and drinking coffee.
“Look Susan,” I said, “I know that all of this is weird. But we can undo this. There’s a warlock I know that can put us back into our own bodies. Let’s go!”
“Why would I want to do that?” she, as me, asked.
“Well you’re me. I’m you. You know….”
“But I know that you’re the one getting that promotion. Or rather…I’M the one getting that promotion.”
“Susan, we don’t have time for this shit. We need to be looking for this warlock.”
(S)he took a drink of the coffee and slowly put the cup down. “I’ll cut you a deal,” (s)he said. “I’ll help you find this warlock, but first we should take time to appreciate this situation.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve done fellatio before, sure. But I’ve never had MY dick sucked…” (s)he said.
My heart began to sink.
“Will you suck my dick?” (s)he asked. “Or rather…will you suck YOUR dick?
It’s never a good idea to drop acid around Halloween. But definitely make an exception for Highway To Hell (1991)
Is it funny?
Not really.
But then again, I’ve never laughed before.
Yet where Highway to Hell lacks in being funny, it makes up for in imagination. It’s certainly a more enjoyable journey through hell than say What Dreams May Come. (Hellraiser II slams as well)
Honestly, I don’t remember the plot. Something to do with Kristi Swanson getting kidnapped by a cop from hell and her boyfriend attempts a rescue. Ben and Jerry Stiller make an appearance. So do Lita Ford’s boobs.
But what makes this movie stand out (other than Lita Ford’s boobs) is it’s eclectic mix of genres and lack of fucks given.
The special effects are mostly shit, but who cares? Obviously they were trying and they get an easy A for effort.
Kids forget, but there was a time when people actually tried to make memorable films. Even when they are clearly taking the piss out of you it’s a more engaging experience than most Oscar bate that’s trotted year after year nowadays.
Hell, modern schlock sucks too. Just a bunch of dorks behind a computer throwing “special effects” on the screen like that’s supposed to be impressive. They don’t care anymore. As long as it makes $11 trillion at the box office, everything’s fine.
So shout out to Highway to Hell (and to Lita Ford’s boobs)
“What are you going to say now James? That you’ve never walked a step in your life?”
That is correct.
But I get the appeal.
And I’m not talking about “hiking” or “speed walking”. That’s some white people bullshit.
I’m talking about walking in a straight line on a flat plane. It’s great: putting one foot in front of the other, just wondering aimlessly because you’ve got nowhere to go because you’re unemployed and your kids won’t talk to you.
Damn it! I wish someone hadn’t stolen my copy of Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence.
It’s my favorite holiday movie!
Seriously though, it’s probably my favorite POW film. The first time you watch it, it’s kinda underwhelming. Certainly not the kind of thing you’d expect from the director of In the Realm of the Senses.
But it’s actually one of the rare films that get better the more you watch it.
David Bowie plays a British soldier, Jack Celliers, who is taken captive by the Japanese during WWII. The camp commander, played by Japanese musician Ryuichi Sakamoto, becomes obsessed with him. Bowie and Sakamoto, not known for their acting, actually carry the film quite well.
Meanwhile, Tom Conti’s Col. Lawrence and Takeshi Kitano’s Sgt. Hara have a contentious yet mutually admirable relationship.
The emotional highlight of the film is when Lawrence and Celliers get locked up and scheduled for execution. The two confide in each other some of their regrets. We’re shown flashbacks of Celliers high class upbringing and his relationship with his younger brother. Lucky for them, it’s Christmas. Sgt. Hara gets drunk and grants the two of them a reprieve.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence,” Hara says.
At the conclusion of the film, the shoe’s on the other foot. Hara is a POW yet Lawrence is unable to prevent his execution.
Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence is unusual for a war film in that rather than focusing on death and carnage, it explores human relationships, understanding, love, and regret.
I just wish whoever borrowed my copy would return it 😢
The Internet Ruined Everything 