The backstory of the film is the stuff of legend. In 1964, Clint Eastwood was starring in a western television series called Rawhide. The series had been running for a few years and was destined to be cancelled. During the hiatus of Rawhide’s last season, Eastwood was approached by an unknown Italian director named Sergio Leone. Leone was making a new western called The Magnificent Stranger. He had already approached several other American actors including Henry Fonda, Charles Bronson, Steve Reeves and James Coburn, all of whom had turned him down. When Eastwood read the script, he recognized that the story was similar to a Japanese samurai film called Yojimbo. The possibilities intrigued him, and for the salary of $15,000, he flew to Spain and made the film with no expectations. The gamble ultimately changed his life forever.

The low budget ($600,000) film was the complete anti-thesis of the typical American western. The American western, like the Rawhide tv show, was running out of gas, due in large part to the fact that the landscape was changing. President Kennedy had been assassinated (on live television), the civil rights movement was raging, and the Viet-Nam continued its escalation. There was a new mentality on the horizon, both here in America as well as abroad. A cynical mentality. People were starting to realize that official reality was more often than not, complete and total bullshit  John Wayne was way out of style.

The Magnificent Stranger represented a whole new style. The title character was anything but John Wayne. He wasn’t clean shaven, he didn’t wear a white hat, and he only cared about money. Though the script had been written, Eastwood carefully refined his character like a sculptor. And like a sculptor, he instinctively saw the possibilities buried deep within the marble. Eastwood knew just what to do to amp up the cool factor. He removed whole pages of dialog (unheard of for an actor) in order to make his hero less “talkie” and more mysterious. And when he dealt out the violence (extreme for its time), he did it with the detached, virtuosic style of a cool jazz musician. Eastwood’s hero was like Miles Davis with a pistol instead of a trumpet.

Eastwood finished the film, returned to America, and continued his work on Rawhide, all but forgetting The Magnificent Stranger. Many months later, while reading an industry newspaper, he read about a new film doing spectacular business in Europe. The film was being hailed as nothing less than an overnight sensation. The film was called Fistful of Dollars. It would be some time before Eastwood realized that The Magnificent Stranger had been retitled, Fistful of Dollars.

I’ve seen the film countless times and often wondered why it means so much to me. I’m a lifelong film buff and love a wide variety of films, but no film touches me like Fistful of Dollars. In recent years, I’ve come to understand why this film is the only film I need. Eastwood’s character, the so-called Man With No Name is the ultimate individualist, neither owned nor controlled by anyone. For me, that makes him the ultimate hero as well. There’s an alarming trend in the world today and it’s nothing less than a conspiracy. Individualism is slowly but surely being eliminated. Modern society, via mass media, continually reinforces the warped notion that the group is more important than the individual. Why? Because the group, like the herd, is far easier to control than the lone wolf. Modern society is all about control. As a result, the individual has become nothing less than an outlaw. Fistful of Dollars entertains me. But more importantly, Eastwood’s hero serves as an example of the man I want to be.

Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD), as the name implies, is considered a disorder. The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders is the world famous manual used for the diagnosis of mental disorders. It classifies NPD as a sickness characterized by an inflated sense of self importance and an extreme preoccupation with self. Back in the day, NPD was simply known as megalomania.

Whether or not NPD is a sickness makes no difference to me. I could care less; I just love a parade! The narcissist is a sight to behold, and like any good train wreck, you just can’t look away. He/She enters like a roaring, dragon; commanding and demanding all attention; and like the dragon, appears to be all head (and mouth). And what a mouth; it almost never closes. Those who supposedly “suffer” from NPD hardly seem to be in any pain. Born entertainers, they perform endlessly and tirelessly. They love to sing, and while the melody may vary, the lyrics remain the same; “It’s all about me”. They love to dance, and while some are more graceful than others, the body language expresses the same sentiment; “It’s all about me”.

Unfortunately, “sufferers” of NPD seldom receive due credit for their intellectual abilities. Indeed, most narcissists are genuine geniuses. If you doubt it, just ask them. Their vast mental capacities enable them to build empires which they rule over with a firm yet loving hand. The golden crown they wear (at all times) is proof positive of the famous divine right of Kings/Queens. Like an American Express Card, they never leave home without it. Their hearts are often as big as their heads, as evidenced by their many philanthropic endeavors. Doing good deeds is a skill. And like singing and dancing, it’s a skill that reinforces the same fact; “It’s all about me”.

So next time you’re fortunate enough… blessed enough to bask in the glow of someone with NPD, be thankful. You’re witnessing the absolute epitome of all parades. Because the narcissist is nothing less than the Mardi Gras on two legs.

I haven’t actively watched television in over fifteen years. Years ago while on a trip to Paris, I discovered an amazing channel called ARTE, a combination of PBS, Discovery, A&E, Bravo, and something I’d never seen before. ARTE had plenty of sophisticated fare, but the channel also offered a wide variety of populist, lowbrow entertainment as well. Documentaries, opera concerts and profiles of jazz musicians merrily mixed with shows about hookers, hooligans and hell raisers. It was this strange yet successful blend of the high and the low that made ARTE so compelling. And there were no commercials!

Having discovered ARTE, I stopped watching television completely once I returned to the States. There was no need to watch anymore. ARTE was the shining example of what the medium was supposed to be and anything less was unwatchable. Now, the only time I watch television is when I’m traveling and trapped in some motel. And then I watch with the rabid fascination of a research scientist or archeologist. Because I see television as a picture perfect cultural barometer, a mechanism with which to determine where our civilization stands in the grand scheme of things. Now, having recently returned from a short vacation (and television binge), I’ve concluded that modern civilization is up to its eyebrows in bullshit.

In all fairness, not all television is crap. But for the most part, it tends to be trite, flat and predictable. Dramas always feature the holy trinity… the doctor, the lawyer or the cop… as if to remind viewers of the most important members of society.  Situation comedies repeat the same situations ad nauseum, with the same tired, refried jokes to boot. Talk shows feature narcissistic, airhead celebrities with nothing of importance to say. And commercials endlessly remind us that mindless consumption is both nirvana as well as the answer to life’s challenges.  Though cartoons are relegated to saturday morning, it could easily be argued that everything on television is a cartoon.

My recent binge revealed that television remains as trite, flat and predictable as ever. In fact, it’s actually gotten worse. Perhaps the best example of this sad fact is the so-called “reality show”, a paradoxical misnomer to be sure. Because these shows are anything but real. Reality “stars” pout, preen and prance for the cameras, proudly flaunting their affluence and vanity like peacocks on a mission. They already know they’re divine; they want you to know it too. Thanks to reality programming, lucky viewers vicariously live lives of which dreams are made.

Reality programming is far more than just a powerful term, it’s also a powerful tool. Television has always served a purpose beyond mere entertainment. That box has always been about programming. Make no mistake; there’s nothing on television that’s not meant to be there. Keeping Up With The Kardashians, Jersey Shore, Basketball Wives, and other such shows are specifically designed to program a particular reality along with certain ideas and values. Wealth brings happiness, ignorance is bliss, implants are important, etc. The “reality” promoted by such shows represents the reality we’re all supposed to aspire to.

Clearly, we’re being programmed for stupidity.

Comic-Con 2011 hosted a panel discussion featuring rising star Jason Momoa. He portrays a medieval warlord in the television series Game of Thrones and jokingly commented that one of the joys of sci-fi/fantasy television was the opportunity to “rip someone’s throat out and rape beautiful women”. The comment was both idiotic and insensitive.  And the audience roared with laughter.

I’ve watched the clip on Youtube several times and find it more troubling with each viewing. Because Mr. Momoa’s poor choice of words and the strange laughter that followed only served to remind me of a nauseating fact; we live in a rape culture. If I were to take leave of my senses and tell a rape joke in a room with only five women, according to statistics, one of those women would be a rape survivor. So clearly, there were several victims of rape present in that Comic-Con audience.

I’m hardly surprised that most men fail to understand the horror of rape. Objectification and dehumanization of women is part and parcel of many cultures all over the world and has been since the beginning of time. I’m far more confused by the thoughts and actions of many women. Consider the fact that not one woman was courageous enough to boo or heckle Mr. Momoa for his comment. And the audience laughter sadly seemed more boisterous than nervous. Strange indeed.

Strange also, the number of women I’ve met over the years who genuinely enjoy Stanley Kubrick’s “masterpiece”, A Clockwork Orange. I distinctly remember the gleeful ad campaign that described the film as “Being the adventures of a young man whose principle interests are rape, ultra-violence and Beethoven”. I’ve seen the film only once. Once was more than enough. Whenever I find myself in discussions about pornography, I use A Clockwork Orange as the most obvious and odious example. Anything that gloriously sexualizes sexual assault the way that film does is most surely pornographic. Alex, the “rapist/hero” of the film is generally considered to be a pop culture icon. It’s bad enough to see men dressed as “droogs” for Halloween, but when I also see women dressed as those rapists, it makes me want to puke. But it also reminds me that we live in a rape culture.

Perhaps the most incomprehensible example can be found in the beloved soap opera, General Hospital. Most women (and many men) are well acquainted with the tender love story of Luke and Laura, a story often referred to as one of the greatest love stories of all time. Even the grand dame of television herself, Oprah Winfrey, once hosted a special “reunion” to celebrate the cultural phenomenon that was Luke and Laura. And it really was a cultural phenomenon. For those unfamiliar with the basic plotline, Luke raped Laura, they fell in love, got married and lived happily ever after. Truly, the ultimate fairy tale for a rape culture.

One need not be a woman to be horrified by rape. And clearly, one need not be a man to find it unobjectionable. The larger, more important issue is this. As long as our culture continues to treat rape as anything other than the horror it is, it will never go away. And history will continue to repeat itself as the headlines continue to scream.

Anything is possible.

The founding fathers of Las Vegas considered themselves businessmen. And though most of them lacked a formal education, they could have taught business in universities. Their curriculum would have included classes like extortion, loansharking, drug running, the sex trade, murder for hire… crime business. And because violence was an essential part of the way in which they conducted business, they were highly successful indeed. These businessmen built both the city and the concept of Las Vegas. They built Las Vegas with the money and their mentality. Consider the implications. Las Vegas was constructed with the profits of criminal enterprise, money literally imprinted with fear, exploitation, violence and death. Sin City sparkles like a neon oasis in the desert, but that image is a mirage. The real Las Vegas is a dark and toxic town, built by ruthless predators with blood stained money. Las Vegas is most surely cursed, so…

Anything is possible.

Las Vegas is the modern headquarters for a new and very different mob element. Criminal entrepreneurs… both human and demon… they lurk and work in the shadows. Secretly advancing their sinister agenda, remaking Sin City into an international crime capital and the capstone of an evil pyramid. The new mob are practitioners of dark, arcane arts. They well understand the astonishing occult significance of Las Vegas.

Las Vegas is a city of sin, built on the most unlikely of locations… the holy ground of the desert… making Sin City a uniquely spiritual destination. It’s a highly energized nexus where powerful, opposing forces collide… the profane and the sacred, the negative and the positive, the dark and the light. When these forces collide, they explode and Las Vegas is the epicenter of the cosmic blast. The power of the blast blows a hole in the fabric we call “reality”, resulting in the creation of an inter-dimensional gate. This explains many of the supernatural occurrences for which Las Vegas is so legendary. Because a pathway enables explorers from other dimensions to enter our world. Explorers like angels, demons, or the best example being the so-called extra-terrestrials. In plain terms, the entire city of Las Vegas is a door.

Like many explosions, the cosmic blast is accompanied by fallout. And Las Vegas is saturated with fallout in the form of a powerful, supernatural energy. This energy is “Vegas Magic” and it manifests its power in many ways. It’s an aphrodisiac that stimulates the senses and heightens pleasure. It’s a tornado that dismantles the mind, making it difficult to think clearly and rationalize coherently. But most of all, Vegas Magic is a maximizer because it intensifies whatever it touches. Consider the implications.

People come to Las Vegas with hope. But they also come with addictive personalities, predatory mentalities and a host of other demons. Vegas Magic magnifies these demons and the results are usually disastrous. There’s a reason why Sin City is the crash and burn capital of the world. It’s called Vegas Magic.

Las Vegas is a very dangerous place, especially for the weak. But for those with self control and personal power, Las Vegas is a place of enormous potential. Particularly for those with spiritual gifts and esoteric knowledge. Mystics, shaman and magicians tap into Vegas Magic and manipulate it. For them, Las Vegas is a supernatural palette on which to paint possibilities. The will is the wand.

Las Vegas is a city of sin built with blood money on holy ground. It’s a doorway to other dimensions. It’s a mystical cauldron brimming with magic. It’s also the Disneyland of the damned. Las Vegas is a place where literally…

Anything is possible.

Las Vegas is the world of Raven Diablo.

Raven Diablo is the story of a very dark superhero, both in skin color and in temperament. She’s the physical embodiment of Kali’s righteous rage. As a result, Raven is a vicious killer, but no one dies who’s not supposed to.

My novel initially grew out of my belief that modern society is in desperate need of heroes. Heroes are crucial for the health of a society. How a society defines the word hero is reflective of the mental health of that society. Judging from the so-called heroes of contemporary society, it’s clear we’re living in a brain damaged world.

But what to do about it? I’ve always loved the expression, “Be the change you want to see”. As an artist, I’ve adapted it to “Create the change you want to see”, and with that desire in mind, I wrote Raven Diablo: Agent of Kali. Though Raven is very much the star of the show, there are several heroic figures in the book. And each one embodies what I feel to be are heroic characteristics. Heroes need not be flesh and blood in order to be influential. Joseph Campbell’s work certainly articulated and illuminated the power of myth.

Raven Diablo: Agent of Kali is heroic fiction, my humble but well meaning attempt to both destroy and redefine the modern notions of heroism.

There are usually no real heroes in film noir; if the participants possess any moral fiber at all, it’s always shabby, tattered and unraveling. Film noir heroes are typically amoral losers obsessed with sex and money, obsessions that drive them to madness and murder. Al Roberts, the hero of Detour, is actually a decent guy by noir standards. He’s still a loser though, a cynical, wise cracking, world weary piano player in love with the singer in his band. When she heads off to Hollywood in search of fame and fortune, he follows after her, and it’s a decision that seals his DOOM. The cruel hand of fate soon lovingly and systematically slaps the shit out of this poor sap, right up to the final moment of the film. Al doesn’t really deserve the preposterously bad hand he’s been dealt, which makes Detour more pitiful than other noir films.

Tom Neal gives a nuanced performance as Al, subtly transforming from cocksure cynic to cowering coward with ease. You truly feel his mounting helplessness as the merciless noose slowly tightens around his neck. Neal is a joy to watch, but Detour clearly belongs to his costar, a remarkable actress with the most appropriate name… Ann Savage. Savage portrays Vera, giving a performance that belongs in the Bitch Queen Hall of Fame. Cinema history is filled with bitches with varying levels of venom, but what makes Savage so noteworthy is the dimensionality of her performance. Bitch performances tend to be of the one note variety, more an excuse for chewing scenery than character exploration. Not so with Savage’s Vera. Vera is a despicable bitch to be sure, but she’s also a frightened child, a scorned woman, a conniving hustler and a raging lunatic. And she’s even sexy too. Vera is a multi-dimensional bitch and Savage plays every aspect with virtuosic skill, making Vera a fascinating and formidable femme fatale. Aside from her acting chops, Ann Savage has a presence that burns a hole in the screen. It’s unfortunate she never achieved the fame she deserves.

Detour was directed by Edgar Ulmer. It’s clear from the meager production quality that this project was strapped for cash. And yet, it never feels lacking in any way. Ulmer still manages to throw in a few stylistic flourishes that hint at what he could have achieved with more money. A skilled director, Ulmer shoots with a unobtrusive style that allows the story to unfold and the performances to take center stage.

For anyone who has heard the term film noir and wondered what it was all about, may I suggest you veer off the safe, well lit cinematic highway and make a Detour. But be prepared for a dark journey.

As a musician, I’m perplexed by a phenomenon I began to notice a few years ago. There are vast numbers of musicians who can’t play instruments very well. In fact, many successful musical artists don’t play instruments at all since it’s possible to compose and perform entirely with a computer and nothing else. There’s a different beat in the air (almost always a drum machine), and the music on top of that beat was probably sampled/stolen from music made many years ago. On the rare occasions when you do hear an actual instrument being played by a human being, the skill level is usually marginal at best. These are sweeping generalizations to be sure. But look around, and more importantly, listen for yourselves. The facts ring loud and clear.

So what happened? Musical talent, like other kinds of talent these days, is often times optional. Modern celebrity culture has obviously been a major contributor to the existing situation. It’s not really necessary to be proficient in anything in order to achieve fame an fortune. Old school musical skill required long hours of lessons, sacrifice, and of course, practice, practice, practice. In this day and age, why even bother? It’s a very good question indeed.

For those few that still play musical instruments, there’s another problem that needs to be addressed. There’s the tendency for many modern musicians to dismiss the artists that came before them. There was a time when musicians actively studied the music of past masters, much like aspiring painters in museums copying Michaelangelo, Rembrandt and Picasso. Many modern musicians often feel that studying past masters somehow inhibits musical growth and personal style. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Studying masters is the one sure path to mastery in any discipline, musical or otherwise. Dismissal of masters is stupidity that leads to what we see around us; a dumbed down society, filled with the talentless rich and famous, and the sheeple that emulate them.

I have a degree in philosophy. But I’m not bragging. Far from it. Because if life had a rewind button, there would be a different piece of paper hanging on my Mom’s living room wall. The wall might even be bare. Now, in retrospect, I often wonder how I ended up in the philosophy department in the first place. Aside from smoking too much dope at the time, I suppose I was searching for TRUTH. Unfortunately, I never found it studying philosophy. Most of the ideas felt too complicated. Needlessly complicated. I wondered if some of the so called great philosophers made their ideas impenetrable on purpose; as a way of making their thoughts seem heavier than they really were. Nonsense often passes for depth, politics, law and religion being the most obvious examples.

The university I attended was highly respected for its philosophy department. Unfortunately, the school offered only one class in Eastern Philosophy, the one class I was really interested in. And naturally, I was never able to take the class because it was always full. Eastern Philosophy, particularly Taoism, is a lot like Eastern architectural design… simple, elegant and profound. It’s a different mindset from Hegel, Kant and a lot of the other rock stars of western philosophy.

The most profound TRUTH I ever discovered at university was written on a piece of scrap paper and tacked to a telephone pole outside of the cafeteria. I later found out it was an ancient, Eastern proverb.

To be is to do.

The words struck like lightening. And unlike most of the convoluted crap I’d been studying, the idea was practical and applicable to real life. In fact, it felt particularly applicable to my own life. Procrastination has always been a big problem; procrastination fueled by too much dreaming, too much analysis paralysis, and too little doing. A writer writes. A painter paints. A dancer dances. To be is to do. And it’s just that simple, elegant and profound.

Nothing happens without action.

Recently, an article appeared in Paste, an award winning online zine devoted to “music, film and culture”. It was entitled “Bela Lugosi’s Dead: Vampire History From Scary Monster to Sexy Beast” and claimed to be a definitive history of vampires in books and films. It was an interesting article save for one problem. There was an omission… a glaring omission. The article failed to mention the most influential vampire film of all time, Horror of Dracula. What made the article particularly ludicrous was the inclusion of Count Chocula breakfast cereal. I was so appalled that I wrote several scathing replies.

Made in 1957 by Britain’s Hammer Films, Horror of Dracula singlehandedly reinvented the vampire genre, establishing criteria that exists to this very day. It was the first vampire film shot in color and the first to feature fangs. The film was considered extremely shocking for its time with a level of violence never before seen. I’ve read many reviews of the film that were written upon its initial release and most of them deemed the film utterly barbaric. In addition, the film introduced a bold sexuality that was as shocking as the violence. Vampirism was likened to an addiction akin to drug addiction. Dracula’s beautiful female victims clearly welcomed his hungry advances and with Christopher Lee portraying Dracula, it was hard to blame them.

Bela Lugosi gave a memorable interpretation of Count Dracula in the 1931 film, Dracula, but Christopher Lee truly took the character to a stunning new level. He was both frighteningly homicidal and irresistibly charismatic, the epitome of a sexy beast. Lee’s portrayal was an astonishing tour de force. The great Peter Cushing was Lee’s equal and he set the standard for what a vampire hunter should be. The film was directed by the vastly underrated Terrence Fisher who gave the film a moody, stylized look that remains breathtaking even today.

Horror of Dracula is easily the greatest vampire film of all time.