Here are my most prophetic words.
Rena has been captured by a Christian Militia and works in a tower as a janitor while she recites thousands of poems. Dark men are taking heads and enslaving women.
I now have to admit I’ve wanted a relationship with a Femme Fatale most of my life. I got one – in spades! Rena is the archetype of the Femme Fatale. This is why she is filled with fear, for she has played wicked games and fear retribution. But, I now see she is the Femme Fatale of the Apocalypse. If I am correct…..This is The End!
Michael Harkins was good friends with Jim Morrison and his friend, Michael McClure, who wrote a novel about a famous Hell’s Angel, Freewheelin Frank. Michael and I talked about making a film, where we go to Nebraska to look for Rena in his Bentley.
Putin is making motorcycle commercials for the coming Apocalypse. As Salome, Rena Easton danced for my head. This is it, the Last Vehicle Commercial at the End of the World.
“Even though we dance on death’s icy brink
does that make the dance, less fun?”
“Greg, I want you to know & listen. I apologize for being an abusive girl when our paths crossed in 1970. I had come out of a dark and dangerous place, and you helped me. Please forgive me. No one deserves abuse. I have learned a lot now.”
My movie about me and my famous sister, Rosamond, will begin with a shot of Rena and I in my pearl 1950 Dodge Coronet making it’s steady way up Mount Tamalpais so I can show Rena Victoria the ocean from way up there, and, pitch our tent. This was going to be our new home.
Many car commercials are filmed on this road on Tamalpais where Bill and I used to camp for a week during summer vacation since we were thirteen. I know every inch of this famous road, the most viewed road in the world. Bill and used to lie in the middle of it after we watched the sunset. It was one of the risks that Bill took, a challenge he made me take. Bill was older than I, and considered himself my father. If a car came flying over the crest of the hill, it would be too late for us to get out of the way. But cars rarely traveled this road, and this is why car companies film commercials here.
A femme fatale (/ˌfæm fəˈtɑːl/ or /ˌfɛm fəˈtɑːl/; French: [fam fatal]) is a stock character of a mysterious and seductive woman whose charms ensnare her lovers, often leading them into compromising, dangerous, and deadly situations. She is an archetype of literature and art. Her ability to entrance and hypnotise her victim with a spell was in the earliest stories seen as being literally supernatural; hence, the femme fatale today is still often described as having a power akin to an enchantress, seductress, vampire, witch, or demon, having power over men.
The phrase is French for “fatal woman”. A femme fatale tries to achieve her hidden purpose by using feminine wiles such as beauty, charm, and sexual allure. In some situations, she uses lies or coercion rather than charm. She may also make use of some subduing weapon such as sleeping gas, a modern analog of magical powers in older tales. She may also be (or imply that she is) a victim, caught in a situation from which she cannot escape; The Lady from Shanghai (a 1947 film noir) is one such example. A younger version of a femme fatale may be called a fille fatale, or “fatal girl”.
An apocalyptic fuel tanker, which looks like it’s rolled off the set of Mad Max has been startling motorists in Belarus.
The black rig, a custom lorry covered in sharp spikes, rusty rivets and battle armour has been spotted on motorways in Mogilev.
The crazy truck was custom built by members of the Night Wolves, Russia’s most famous motorcycle club.
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As we stood in the long summer grass looking down on Stinson Beach, I couldn’t help but send a meaggage to Bill who died on my eighteenth birthday.
“Look at me now Bill. Isn’t she The Death! She’s mine!”
Rena told me she was not very good looking when she was a teenager. She had long skinny legs. She told me no one noticed her, gave her a good long look. I don’t buy it, because she still believed this to be the case. Somehow, Rena was not pretty enough in her own mind. I believe this is because she was raised by her grandmother, and not with her three older sisters who were top fashion models. I assume they were raised by their natal parents, and least one. I could not get Rena to talk about her mother and father. They had to be beautiful people. She presented her self as an orphan, a Foundling, whom I found lost and forsaken in Los Angeles at 3:00 A.M. in the morning.
“She’s mine. I found her!”
In a new KIA commercial outsteps this young beauty who is ‘The Death’. she is dressed in black, and driving a black Cadillac. She is presented as the girl next door, who was an ugly duckling! But, take a look at her now! She is life after death. This is a resurrection!
This stunning beauty is the actress Teresa Moore. She is an entry in my contest, but, she falls short. For one thing, she has a flat elongated ass. Rena had a high pouting dariere. What Teresa is saying, is;
“Sorry you did not end up with that knock-kneed girl next door with the braces that grew up to be the Fox of Foxes. However, you can own a KIA, a second rate car that is better than all the rest because she sat her perfect ass in it – the Female Messiah!”
Car ownership may be America’s No.1 religion. For most, owning a woman is a sticky issue. How to own Rena – is a Greek Tragedy. If Rena had told me she aspired to be a Dancer, I would have taken her dancing in San Francisco, but she did not want to go there, see this city by the bay that I showed her from the top of mount. She wanted to be with me, run with me, go wherever I go, for the time being. She felt like a queen in my Dodge, my ancient chariot with the Aries Ram on the hood. We were living the California Dream – the real thing! There was nothing plastic about us.
All this time, we have been dancing the dance called ‘Capturing Beauty’. It’s the oldest dance in human history.
Below is a chapter from ‘Capturing Beauty’ that I posted on Christine Rosamond’s yahoogroup, six years ago.
Christine’s new Cadillac left the paved road and began to kick up gravel as it
fought for traction, a cloud of dust now swirling behind us as we headed to the
bluff overlooking the sea. I glanced at the speedometer, nonchalantly, then
studied Christine’s beautiful profile. She was showing off, her new confidence,
her overnight success, her craziness she learned from her ex-husband who used to
race his Corvette on Muholland drive, he going around hair pin corners on two
wheels, he more determined not to lose, then to win. Those he raced would tell
him he was insane at the finish line.
Larry Sidle somehow won my sister’s heart. This was not the beginning of the
great injustices that befell my sister and our family as some have claimed. When
my brother-in-law crashed his Corvette, he took his wife’s Mercedes up to Santa
Monica mountain range and rode it into the ground. He destroyed the transmission
and left it in a ditch. It was a grudge match. These matches were a family
theme. Taking what didn’t belong to you was another. Christine and Larry had one
child, my niece, Shannon. Reckless would be her middle name. As an heir, she
would have a fortune taken from her. In the incredible legacy of family abuse,
only she would go to jail.
Getting out of the car we walked through the dry grass to a group of rocks
covered with lichen. A lizard took cover as we sat down. And in our moment of
silence we looked at the Pacific Ocean far below, too far to hear the crash of
the waves, or hear the cry of seagulls gliding over Malibu beach. It was here,
in the Santa Monica Mountains, that the J. Paul Getty Museum would be built, a
modern fairy tale castle that would give sanctuary to some of the world’s
greatest masterpieces. In another fifteen years, Christine would dine at the
Getty’s table. As their overnight guest she called her mother to say;
“Mother, I am calling you from the Getty mansion where I am spending the night.
I have it all, a beautiful home in Pismo Beach, a Gallery in Carmel, and a
million dollars in the bank. But, I don’t know who I am anymore.”I had not seen
Christine in two years, and I studied the cleverness in her blue eyes, as she
began to tell me who she was, then. She was all of a sudden the world famous
artist, Rosamond, whose rendering of lovely women were known all over America,
even in Japan and France, and were “selling like hot-cakes”.
“Hotcakes” I interrupted with a shudder, my sister studying me intently as I
took all this in, she knowing I was a very serious artist, my work touring the
world in a Red Cross show when I thirteen and sixteen. I had been living in
Boston for two years, and had come home to see our father, Victor, who my
mother, Rosemary, told me on the telephone was in the hospital, a rare disease
about to take his eyesight. For some reason I thought it important he behold his
son, the artist, before the light went out. You, see, I was also a spiritual
When I learned Vic was not going blind, and had lost sight in one eye due to a
one pound ashtray his third wife DeeDee hurled at his head, I felt cheated of
reality, something my parents were good at, they both severe alcoholics. Vic
would wear a black patch over his eye and look just like the Pirate on the
Oakland Raider emblem, which was appropriate as he was a Loan Shark, not what he
appeared to be, which proved to be very good for business. Christine and I grew
up guessing at what reality was, and, now we guessed at her success – was it
My sister now told me how it happened, as if it was an accident that had not
meant to happen to her. But it did, and she was in shock. So was I. I didn’t
know it, then, but this accident was going to wipe me out, take from me
everything I held dear and precious, including my sixteen year old daughter I
was yet to conceive. But when I did, I was not told, and saw her for the first
time when she was sixteen. She had shown up out of the blue to be in Rosamond’s
biography.When telling the tale of a famous artist one has to pay attention to
the many attachments to the artist’s immortality in the post mortem, as we all
want to be immortal, or at get close to this idea.
“France! I always wanted to go to France.” I piped, not knowing what to do with
rising feelings of jealousy, that Christine noted, let me know she knew, by
saying;”I can teach you my style. It’s easy. You too can be a success!”
She ended this declaration with her infamous cynical laugh and cackle that I
wondered at it. Why was I being made this offer?
“It may not last, thus you have to hurry and make up your mind!” she added with
aplomb. And now I knew I was in trouble, because on one in our family ever gave
anyone anything without a thousand strings attached.
“Christine.” I interrupted. “You don’t need my approval to be a famous artist. I
am happy for your success that validates my own art, as I have been told art was
a waste of time. You have proven it was not. You have a success no one in the
family has ever owned. This is great,”Arriving back at Christine’s home in
Woodland Hills, I asked to use the bathroom. Christine pointed to a hallway.
“It’s the third door on the left.” She said, looking unsettled from our
conversation. Was she concerned that she had usurped me, taken my role in the
Opening the second door on the left, I found myself peering into a small closet,
and the object that would come to destroy me and my family, including my beloved
sister. On the floor was a large light projector the kind that artists use to
transpose images on to canvases by the use of mirrors, a magnifying lens, and a
bright light bulb. One could put a photo or image from a magazine in the
projector, and then trace the image on a canvas or wall, if you were doing a
mural. This is Rosamond’s lamp, one of them.
The original lamp was owned by Rosamond the Earth Goddess Folk Mother who ruled
the Frisians in 1663 B.C. whom I have traced our ancestry to in my quest to know
who I and my creative sister, are, were, and will always be. For knowing who we
are, the two artists in the family, was not, and is not an easy task as there
were villains along the way who came and claimed pieces of our soul. And they
owned projectors of their own these beings of a lesser light, because they were
not born with the Gift Christine and I were born with, and thus the
transferences began from this day forth, it easy for them to take from my sister
all she was worth, for she felt like a fraud – even before she pick up a brush
for the first time which she did when she twenty four. Why she felt this way, is
the crux of this story.
When I closed the closet door I exposed my sister standing at the end of the
dark hall, she looking very guilty, or ashamed. She said nothing and walked
Taking a seat on the living room sofa I began to piece together Christine’s
enigma, and now understood her offer, her invitation to share in her success.
Somehow, if I was duplistic in it, it would take on a validity it did not own?
Our family had suffered real poverty growing up, we often going to school
hungry, there not enough milk for our cereal, so said Christine in the
autobiography she began, that in chapter one villianized me. Christine was going
to tell the art world of my brutality in the fight we had, because she drank the
last of the milk. I was twelve and she was eleven. And now she was Bob Dylan’s
neighbor, they taking turns babysitting their children. Christine now had
something to lose. She had fame. What did I have in comparison…..credibility?
When Christine walked into the living room she was wearing her famous look of
utter worry, she all but wringing her hands in anticipation of the grave matter
that was upon her, upon us, she not yet understanding what I came to understand
in Recovery, that we were the Parents in our family and had been since we were
At twenty four and twenty five my younger sister and I were very striking, very
good looking, and our relationship was a beautiful one, it described as thus by
our friends. This beauty we shared made our parents jealous, which was not hard
to do as Vic and Rosemary loathed each other till they day they died. The claims
they made that Rosamond got her creativity from them – are outrageous! The
violence our parents shared with their children would leave a great impression
on us. My older brother Mark, and my younger sister Vicki, handled this abuse in
a different way, and would end up with Rosamond’s artistic legacy by default, at
They have no gift or talent, and thus that made them appear more sane in the
ensuing chaos they and outsiders created the day after Christine drowned, in the
sea, near Carmel where her gallery was located. How she ended up in the thing
she feared the most, is a mystery to me. Rosamond had nightmares about being
swept away by a giant wave. In a newspaper account, Vicki says she was helping
Christine overcome her fear of the ocean. We don’t get the complete and honest
account of how she did that.Sitting down next to me on the sofa, Christine spoke
the words that would come to haunt me hence, for not only do they hold the
message of my demise, but the salvation of two siblings that were born in a
world of trouble. This is the story of their mutual struggle to get out that
trouble. I had not yet reclaimed my first name, Jon.
“Greg. I have it all, fame, money, a beautiful house, and I owe it all to you.
When I was young you let me look over your shoulder while you painted. You would
come from the library and show me in art books what you thought was good and bad
art. I owe everything to you. But, I don’t feel like and artist. Can you help
I have replayed these words often, and came to understand why they were so
threatening, why they were so important, even filled with portence; for my
childhood friend Bill was there, his memory, he killed on the crossing of a
railroad track twenty minutes after my eighteenth birthday. Bill was an artist.
He was also the love of Christine’s life though they had never kissed. My sister
fell in love with Bill the very day I brought him to the Presco house, he but
thirteen. Bill and I were famous for our love of art, truth, and integrity, and
Christine knew that, was addressing that, and I was threatened. What would Bill
have deduced, if he were alive?”I can’t give you that. You have to achieve that
on your own.” I told my poor sister as gently as I could. And she got up and
pretended to find something to do in another part of the house. My visit was
over and in the morning I drove back to Oakland.
If you haven’t seen the Kia Cadenza ‘Impossible to Ignore’ commercial yet, you really need to because the actress in it is smoking hot. Want to know who that actress is? Her name is Teresa Moore and she’s best known for modeling lingerie for Triumph. Thaaat’s right, she’s a lingerie model. And a very good one I might add. (She also models bikinis quite well too.) She’s got two Web sites (for some reason), a very nice Facebook page, and is active on Twitter.
California’s Mount Tamalpais Is A (car) Commercial Success
The Winding Road Around The Mountain Is Likely The Most-photographed Strip Of Asphalt In The World.
August 13, 1998|By Wall Street Journal
MOUNT TAMALPAIS, Calif. – Mount Everest has its height, Mount Rushmore its presidents. But only California’s Mount Tamalpais can claim to be the best spot on Earth to shoot a car commercial.
This is the time of year when ponytailed creative types swarm over Mount Tam, as locals call this gold-flecked mountain 20 minutes north of San Francisco. General Motors Corp., Ford Motor Co., Chrysler Corp., Daimler-Benz AG, Porsche AG, Nissan Motor Co., Toyota Motor Corp. – their cars have all hugged the hairpin turns along the ribbon of mountainside asphalt in TV commercials, magazine ads and brochures.
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“You see an ad with a winding road, without a fence in the background – that was shot here,” says Fred Lew, a California State Parks ranger and veteran of more than 40 Mount Tam car shoots.
While other state parks worry about having too many bears, snakes or scorpions, the problem on Mount Tam is keeping the creative-director population in check. Last year, Mount Tamalpais (pronounced tam-al-PIE-us) added a full-time state-park employee who keeps track of requests from film crews eager to reserve camera time for the likes of Mercedes-Benz and Lincoln-Mercury.
The mountain routinely turns into a mile-high traffic jam as camera crews take over the roads.