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December 09, 2005

Turn the lights out


I was looking at the Elton John video for "Turn the lights out when you leave" and, through a mind reeling with preterite horror, managed to formulate several questions. My first was to wonder who the guy in the video might be because he seemed strangely familiar; as if he perhaps drinks at my bar in the Annex but being out of context I did not recognize him. It turns out I am not the only one to ask this question and, thankfully, further reflection provided the answer: he is that guy from the movie with the shark. No, not that movie with the shark. The other movie with the shark; the one with Samuel L. Jackson. Though he also looks like a bit like this guy Alex who drinks at my bar.

The precarious balance humans term "sanity" as yet unshattered in my consciousness by the horror to follow, I managed another thought. The thought being that video directors should try to avoid making these promotional efforts more interesting than the songs they are meant to promote. I do not know from surreal and arty but I found I could not look away no matter how much some remaining vestige of my waking self would have wished it so. It took me a moment to realize the triste yet French-word-for-compelling woman who looked like Teri Hatcher to be none other than she herself. Other questions shambled forth: what is Teri thinking starring in a video whose effect is that of cyclopean vistas of soul-rending horror (getting to that bit) and, more to the point, how does she manage to keep in such good trim? It turns out for the latter we may thank pole-dancing, an exercise I understand is "recommended by professional strippers", while the former is almost certainly down to Elton John's desperation to appear on "bitchy and funny" television sensation; Deperate Housewives.

It all is to fall into place. A bid to appear in television's contemporary masterpiece of gnostic horror, often mistaken for a camp distraction, can only be explained as another instance of the unceasing labour of those cultists who pick away at the crumbling foundations of the Watchtowers as all the while their tenebrous masters scratch at the feeble cat-flaps of what I shall laughingly call reality; these cultists seemingly unaware or unconcerned they will be the first to be taken by the Abyss as the Old Ones reclaim what once was theirs. The Guardian might think Elton John's effort is "pure pithy Nashville" but in the man's utterly unconvincing Southern twang I could only hear the warbling of pipes given life by the dancers about the unseeing Chaos at the centre of all things. Some certainties of the universe are discomfitting but may be born in time given the failure of the human mind to correlate its contents. Such was not to be my fate. The placid island of ignorance upon which my particular mind sheltered was overtaken by the revelation to follow. I would relate the moment but to do so would only be to demonstrate the inadequacy of human language. Be warned: my tale would have included the words "Elton John" and "cowboy hat".

Posted by Ghost of a flea at December 9, 2005 08:23 AM

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