June 13, 2013: Good Morning, Class ... This week we -- (meaning me) -- were -- (meaning was) -- torn between between writing about why PR people are such uselesss, unnecessary, resource-sucking schmucks whose meaningless purpose in life centers on driving poor, innocent, good-intentioned writers like myself to the point of sour diarrhea with their utterly pointless and time-consuming formalities and importunate moronically self-consumed bullshit ... and writing about The Flintstones. For my own relative peace of mind, I thought it wise to go with The Flintstones.
It's a tad surprising that my Blah-ugh! has, up until now, omitted any Flintstone commentary, for it's a grand show and certainly a vitally important cultural, social and, dare I say, political lynchpin. Yet it's a big world out there. I realized this week that the Blondie (Chris Stein) song "Shayla" deserves an entire entry of its own, for Chris'sake, so with that kind of pedantic focus I'm having to regularly apply, it'll be years before I ever give Steven Spielberg his long-warranted and overdue due.
Anyway, I remain a faithful Flintstones fan, as we probably all do. But that doesn't mean -- like with everything else about me -- there aren't authentic concerns and questions that will probably never be answered. For instance, who was Gerry Johnson and why did she (or he) replace Bea Benederet as the voice of Betty Rubble? Why, in fact, did they stop crediting Benederet in the controversial 3rd Season? What was Wilma's relationship with Boney Hurdle really about (or, for that matter, her history with Rodney the Knife Thrower) And why was I so stupid my entire life as to believe that line in the opening song -- "Through the courtesy of Fred's two feet" -- was "Rudolph, turn and see a place to eat"? (Although, the more I think about it, there really were some valid reasons.)
It's hard to know where to begin writing about a show -- a phenomenon, really -- to which one could devote an entire series of books and perhaps several college courses. The clever use of animals to perform their menial tasks and replace modern automated machines alone is worthy of an essay. (I find it interesting how, even though it was in primitive times, some of the inventions are much more practical than what we have today, such as the turtle jack that will actually lower your car when you tell it to. Of course, some make no sense at all, such as the elephant sprinkler that Barney invents; I mean, how much water can it really hold in its trunk anyway?!)
Where to begin focusing? For one thing, it's fascinating to realize that the great Allan Melvin was one of the regular supporting voices on the show -- something I didn't ever realize until last month! Those of you (cretins) who don't know the name will recognize him not only as the extremely annoying Sam the Butcher from The Brady Bunch, but also Archie Bunker's neighbor and sometimes friend Barney Hefner. (A good trivia question, if nothing else -- Who graced the cast of three of the best and most important TV shows of last century?) I assume you already know that the Great Gazoo was voiced by the great Harvey Korman, who as you must also know did the voice of Carol Burnett.
We just started on the 5th Season last night and it's surprisingly startling how the show demands that you suspend reality going forward. Honestly, I never had a big problem accepting things like the Barney 'Copter (a.k.a. the Flintstone Flyer), Barney's invisibility, or Fred fighting the Bull-osaurus in Rockapulco. But Season Five starts right away with the introduction of Hoppie (the hoparoo -- a much less believable animal than Dino ever was). By the second episode Barney takes Fred to Dr. Len Frankenstone to help restore his sense and, consequently, he switches his personality with, respectively, Dino's, Barney's and ultimately Wilma's. (You probably also remember this episode as including the disturbing oddity of Dr. Dracuslab and his three bats; I mean, come on!)
But I don't want to imply I have a problem with any of this. I don't. It's just surprising to me that a show that was able to establish such a frank believability as a human drama had to, after only four full seasons, resort to such high chicanery. For example, in the rodeo episode, Pebbles suddenly has blue eyes in one scene. I mean, what the hell is that about?! Do they need to, from a dramaturlogical standpoint, establish her obvious love of her daddy by flashing new blue baby eyes? It just seems odd to me, that's all ...
I love The Flintstones, and could spend valuable hours reminiscing about a litany of Flintstone-related moments and experiences -- the spy woman who's "too important to be captured," the gravel-voiced song cameo of Ann Margrock doing "I Ain't Gonna Be Yo Fool," the walk and accompanying jazz music of Perry Gunite walking across the room in the bar to order "Rocks over rocks," Rock Quarry, the extreme oddity of Bam-Bam and Pebbles singing that "Let the Sunshine In" song, Uncle Giggles, "slalom," Wilma as the Happy Housewife singing "Make Your Hubby Happy," Fred's "Pass the poi!" line, "H-E-P-L," The Flintstone Canaries singing the Soft Soap theme on the Hum Along with Herman show, the grissly choking sound the cop makes when Fred tries to drag him through the hole in the wall of his new addition remove that's partially on Barney's property, Grandma Dynamite, Betty as Mrs. O'Lady, the Happy Anniversary song, and of course the cameo by the Beau Brummels, as the Beau Brummelstones, singing their awesome song "Laugh Laugh."
I could go on ... One day I may have to ...
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Thursday, June 13, 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Food Network Move Over: Jarret's Recipe #1 (and only)
May 30, 2013: I'm standing in my kitchen sweating like Mario Battalli (that fat, ugly, sweaty guy who drips his drippings into whatever pan he's preparing on the Food Network ... It's remarkable how often you'll see these chefs drip sweat into the food, if you watch them closely. I guess that's the trade-off of going to someplace like McDonald's, where they spit in your food -- or so the legends tell. Instead, when your food is prepared by the most renowned, their expression of love comes directly off their foreheads and into your pasta sauce ...)
Such an ugly tangent, and I haven't even started. In fact, I thought I'd make this Blah-ugh! entry just a trifle different (starting with using the word “trifle”) and include one of my unique recipes. (I pretty much only have the one, which is mainly why it's so unique. I do a lot of cooking, actually, but it's hard for me to take credit for any great innovations. I'm not a phony, like Rachel Ray, who's something of a pan dripping in her own right. I mean, my pancake recipe came from Alton Brown, whom I respect greatly. My fiddlehead recipes come from the fiddleheads. I don't claim to be any innovator, like these other Food Network phonies claim to be -- the phony ones, I mean, like that southern lard cooker, who looks like a composition of her own processed dough, and seems to believe her grease-laden Pillsbury recipes are the stuff Food Network magic is made from. I always forget her name – as I do everyone’s -- but her airbrushed photos are always gracing magazine covers near the checkout lines if you look. You know who I mean. That ghastly southern woman with the grey hair ... Give me Guy Fieri every time, if we're going to talk Food Network. There's a great innovator, and I'm not even talking about his hair ...)
Anyway, I was just preparing one of my fabulous dishes -- or at least this one dish -- for my daughter and her friend (and no, I didn't sweat in it -- I was incredibly careful not to!) and marveling at how innovative and clever I was with my use of water and salt and other ingredients … Suddenly, I realized, this is something I should be sharing with my Blah-ugh! readers (who are phonies in their own right) – a family recipe that highlights the gentle side of both me and my column … (Is that what this is? A column? … More of a spectacle, I’d say!)
Still, redemption is always possible these days, what with television and Internet reprogramming. I mean, how often do you find yourself quoting Quentin Crisp on how to become a virgin?! (If you’re like me, constantly, and I’m not even gay, although I happen to own two pink shirts.)
I’m not sure how this recipe came about, except I started making its first incarnation around 1986. (God, that’s a long time ago now, and I’ve gotten no richer … Doesn’t that suck?!) Originally this recipe involved a can of chicken broth, as well as strictly yellow cheddar. But you have to understand that that was in the days when white cheddar was still something of an anomaly. (Young people today don’t realize how different things were back then, before cell phones and fresh herbs, when all red meat contained pink putrification, and if you were overheard asking about any foreign mushrooms in a grocery store, the police would likely be called.)
It’s safe to say I’ve made this dish over 300 times, and maybe close to 400. I’ve made it with the addition of fresh and somewhat unfresh greens, such as kale and spinach. I’ve made it with different cheeses, and not usually with good results. I’ve made it for one, and for as many as five, which was a terrible mistake, because it’s a small-batch specialty item, like the essence of saffron, or Swedish meatballs. I’ve also renamed it on several occasions, but the final moniker—the one that’s stuck for all these years—is Glop.
And while it was once published in a small fund-raising cookbook for my daughter’s Santa Monica nursery school, here for the first time on an international level (although there were a couple of Iranians in the school) is the original recipe for my own invented food creation—an original, if ever there was one—Glop!
You’ll need:
1 box of Pastinas, preferably Barillo … (those of you who aren’t familiar with these, they are the teeny-weeny star-shaped flat little dots, which are recommended for babies and toothless adults.)
A thing (I guess a box) of chicken broth, preferably low-salt and squeezed from free range-roving chickens.
One half fresh lemon.
Some salt.
Cheddar cheese – yellow may be better, but definitely a hard kind, and extra sharp, or sharp … whatever … I use white. I use what's there. Let's not complicate it.
At the end of the day, you just get what you can get and make the best and don’t get upset!
Boil your broth in a pot (and have a lid ready). Salt it up pretty good, to taste, I guess, but use nice sea salt like I do, and it’ll be better, although I’m not entirely sure why. Just do it. Stop arguing with me!
When the broth boils, pour in about half a thing of Pastinas. This is where it gets arbitrary, because I’m not sure what the measurements are, because I always do it visually. The thing is, you’ll probably use about 3 or so cups of broth to a half box of pasta. The goal is to cook the pasta – and I recommend turning the heat low immediately and covering for 7 or 8 minutes, stirring occasionally … and you can even turn it off after 5 minutes!
You want it soft, but you want the liquid mostly evaporated into the pasta. Get it to the point where you could pour it and it’s still smooth like liquid, but not much wetter … Or just do what you want. I don’t care anymore. I’m getting tired of writing all this!
(At this point I should mention this is a comfort food, despite my attitude.)
When the pasta is cooking, you can squeeze in half the lemon … Just make sure it’s the right half! (I won’t tell you again.) Mix this in and cover. You can’t really over-cook the pasta, in my book, so don’t be paranoid. I think this whole business of al dente is a lot of bulls**t. Pasta is always best when you boil the hell out of it. (That’s what makes it a comfort food! Duh!!)
Okay, so now you’ll want to grate about a third of a cup, or a half-cup of cheddar cheese atop the pot. (Make sure it’s off the stove and you turned off the burner; don’t make the same mistake I did in the early 90’s.) Now mix the cheese in until it’s all melted … Go on! Mix, mix, mix …
At this point, you could incorporate your greens, but I don’t recommend it the first few times around. Learn to produce your basic Glop first, then expand when I feel you’re ready …
And that’s it … Serve it hot. It doesn’t really reheat well. Sometimes it doesn’t even serve well, but if you hit the mark, you’ll find it an extraordinary happy, wonderful and filling dish -- somewhere between a souffle and cement! Personally, I find it’s better with a shade less cheese, otherwise it congeals on your teeth, and you miss the sweet, subtle flavor of the chicken broth …
If you’ve made it right, it’ll still have the proper liquidity in that you’ll be able to pour it into a serving bowl and it’ll not lump, but be relatively flat. That’s amore … or a lesse …
This is a dish that goes well with orange juice if you’re sick, or if you’re very hungry. (Note that you may find some of the little stars long after you’ve finished eating sticking to your shirt.)
Bon Appetit!
Such an ugly tangent, and I haven't even started. In fact, I thought I'd make this Blah-ugh! entry just a trifle different (starting with using the word “trifle”) and include one of my unique recipes. (I pretty much only have the one, which is mainly why it's so unique. I do a lot of cooking, actually, but it's hard for me to take credit for any great innovations. I'm not a phony, like Rachel Ray, who's something of a pan dripping in her own right. I mean, my pancake recipe came from Alton Brown, whom I respect greatly. My fiddlehead recipes come from the fiddleheads. I don't claim to be any innovator, like these other Food Network phonies claim to be -- the phony ones, I mean, like that southern lard cooker, who looks like a composition of her own processed dough, and seems to believe her grease-laden Pillsbury recipes are the stuff Food Network magic is made from. I always forget her name – as I do everyone’s -- but her airbrushed photos are always gracing magazine covers near the checkout lines if you look. You know who I mean. That ghastly southern woman with the grey hair ... Give me Guy Fieri every time, if we're going to talk Food Network. There's a great innovator, and I'm not even talking about his hair ...)
Anyway, I was just preparing one of my fabulous dishes -- or at least this one dish -- for my daughter and her friend (and no, I didn't sweat in it -- I was incredibly careful not to!) and marveling at how innovative and clever I was with my use of water and salt and other ingredients … Suddenly, I realized, this is something I should be sharing with my Blah-ugh! readers (who are phonies in their own right) – a family recipe that highlights the gentle side of both me and my column … (Is that what this is? A column? … More of a spectacle, I’d say!)
Still, redemption is always possible these days, what with television and Internet reprogramming. I mean, how often do you find yourself quoting Quentin Crisp on how to become a virgin?! (If you’re like me, constantly, and I’m not even gay, although I happen to own two pink shirts.)
I’m not sure how this recipe came about, except I started making its first incarnation around 1986. (God, that’s a long time ago now, and I’ve gotten no richer … Doesn’t that suck?!) Originally this recipe involved a can of chicken broth, as well as strictly yellow cheddar. But you have to understand that that was in the days when white cheddar was still something of an anomaly. (Young people today don’t realize how different things were back then, before cell phones and fresh herbs, when all red meat contained pink putrification, and if you were overheard asking about any foreign mushrooms in a grocery store, the police would likely be called.)
It’s safe to say I’ve made this dish over 300 times, and maybe close to 400. I’ve made it with the addition of fresh and somewhat unfresh greens, such as kale and spinach. I’ve made it with different cheeses, and not usually with good results. I’ve made it for one, and for as many as five, which was a terrible mistake, because it’s a small-batch specialty item, like the essence of saffron, or Swedish meatballs. I’ve also renamed it on several occasions, but the final moniker—the one that’s stuck for all these years—is Glop.
And while it was once published in a small fund-raising cookbook for my daughter’s Santa Monica nursery school, here for the first time on an international level (although there were a couple of Iranians in the school) is the original recipe for my own invented food creation—an original, if ever there was one—Glop!
You’ll need:
1 box of Pastinas, preferably Barillo … (those of you who aren’t familiar with these, they are the teeny-weeny star-shaped flat little dots, which are recommended for babies and toothless adults.)
A thing (I guess a box) of chicken broth, preferably low-salt and squeezed from free range-roving chickens.
One half fresh lemon.
Some salt.
Cheddar cheese – yellow may be better, but definitely a hard kind, and extra sharp, or sharp … whatever … I use white. I use what's there. Let's not complicate it.
At the end of the day, you just get what you can get and make the best and don’t get upset!
Boil your broth in a pot (and have a lid ready). Salt it up pretty good, to taste, I guess, but use nice sea salt like I do, and it’ll be better, although I’m not entirely sure why. Just do it. Stop arguing with me!
When the broth boils, pour in about half a thing of Pastinas. This is where it gets arbitrary, because I’m not sure what the measurements are, because I always do it visually. The thing is, you’ll probably use about 3 or so cups of broth to a half box of pasta. The goal is to cook the pasta – and I recommend turning the heat low immediately and covering for 7 or 8 minutes, stirring occasionally … and you can even turn it off after 5 minutes!
You want it soft, but you want the liquid mostly evaporated into the pasta. Get it to the point where you could pour it and it’s still smooth like liquid, but not much wetter … Or just do what you want. I don’t care anymore. I’m getting tired of writing all this!
(At this point I should mention this is a comfort food, despite my attitude.)
When the pasta is cooking, you can squeeze in half the lemon … Just make sure it’s the right half! (I won’t tell you again.) Mix this in and cover. You can’t really over-cook the pasta, in my book, so don’t be paranoid. I think this whole business of al dente is a lot of bulls**t. Pasta is always best when you boil the hell out of it. (That’s what makes it a comfort food! Duh!!)
Okay, so now you’ll want to grate about a third of a cup, or a half-cup of cheddar cheese atop the pot. (Make sure it’s off the stove and you turned off the burner; don’t make the same mistake I did in the early 90’s.) Now mix the cheese in until it’s all melted … Go on! Mix, mix, mix …
At this point, you could incorporate your greens, but I don’t recommend it the first few times around. Learn to produce your basic Glop first, then expand when I feel you’re ready …
And that’s it … Serve it hot. It doesn’t really reheat well. Sometimes it doesn’t even serve well, but if you hit the mark, you’ll find it an extraordinary happy, wonderful and filling dish -- somewhere between a souffle and cement! Personally, I find it’s better with a shade less cheese, otherwise it congeals on your teeth, and you miss the sweet, subtle flavor of the chicken broth …
If you’ve made it right, it’ll still have the proper liquidity in that you’ll be able to pour it into a serving bowl and it’ll not lump, but be relatively flat. That’s amore … or a lesse …
This is a dish that goes well with orange juice if you’re sick, or if you’re very hungry. (Note that you may find some of the little stars long after you’ve finished eating sticking to your shirt.)
Bon Appetit!
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Jesus & Me
I woke up this morning thinking about how much Jesus and I have in common. (Do I say “have” or “had”? It’s really not clear to me if he’s dead or what. I know he came back on or around Easter, though I don’t think it was as big a holiday at the time. The Bible books don’t make it entirely clear whether he stayed back, and if so, which Apostle he went to live with.)
If you haven’t read the Bible stories about Jesus, by the way, you should, because they’re kind of interesting. I think there are four basic overviews—John, Paul, George, and the fourth may or may not be Ringo. They kind of tell his same story over each time, but with different angles, different versions. It’s kind of like the “All in the Familly” episode where Mike and Archie share conflicting accounts of the guys who came to fix the refrigerator, except they’re pretty much more in agreement that Jesus was a good guy and didn’t have a knife.
I don’t mean to being blasmatic, incidentally, comparing myself to Jesus in any offensive way. It’s my understanding that he was a terrifically nice guy, like Steven Spielberg, and while there are conflicting accounts that he may have been black (at least according to Mr. Jefferson on “All in the Family”), and/or incredibly homely—and I’m not sure where that came from, but I didn’t invent it—I’m pretty sure he was very wise and probably had a good sense of humor, although there’s no record of him having had a blog, as far as I know.
Actually, I was thinking about how we were both misunderstood in our own countries. Like him, I feel that I’m regularly frowned upon for not just my annoying capacity to speak the truth—and the more-annoying capacity for those around me to ignore it—but also for my inherent inability to connect with my fellows. It’s a real problem, as we both know. I understand that at parties and such, Jesus was usually very shy and stood off alone a lot, especially during the faster songs. Some of those pictures you see, like the famous “Last Supper,” seem to show him as the life of the party, but really that’s more of a fictionalized depiction. (Plus, he knew the Apostles pretty well and felt much more comfortable around them anyway.)
What I really identify with about Jesus was how he would always say these seemingly cryptic things that people didn’t get, but really they made a lot of sense. For instance, I was trying to explain to my wife why we should keep the shades drawn on the east side of the house until after noon, then we could open them, but should shut the shades on the west side. She still can’t seem to grasp it, but I know it makes sense when you don’t have air conditioning. See, Jesus went through that kind of thing a lot, and back then no one had air conditioning.
Realistically, I understand there are probably some things we don’t have in common. Like Jesus, I know, used to like to fish, and I don’t really do any fishing anymore, although I did a little when I was younger, but really it’s kind of a barbaric practice better left to Polynesians and southerners. I like eating fish, of course, and have had numerous good experiences with both lobster and haddock. When I was little I hated fish, however, which again makes me think of Jesus, because I don’t think he hated anything, except women. Not to imply he was gay or anything—which is fine, because some of my best friends are gay, although I tend to be in denial about it—but I myself happen to like women even more than haddock.
Jesus and I both like to walk, too, by the way. I just love walking, although I can never get very far in sandals, the way he did. I’ve walked in various shoes, and I’m not being metaphoric. I mean, I’ve worn my good Florsheims, sneakers, cowboys boots … It’s interesting how feet—at least my feet—adapt to changing conditions (meaning changing shoes … or changed shoes). Sometimes I put on shoes that I haven’t worn a lot and walk, then my feet hurt. But after a few walking experiences, they don’t hurt anymore. Then when I return to my previous shoes—meaning my former shoes, or the shoes that were—(in other words, to paraphrase the Bible—before this pair of shoes was, these sneakers am!) … See, when I get that first pair of shoes back on, now suddenly they hurt again (my feet, not the shoes), and the whole process repeats itself, except with different shoes.
This is very much like Jesus, I think, because he was always turning the other cheek, which metaphorically, if you stop and think about it, is very much like my turning the other shoe. I tend to believe that if Jesus lived today, he’d most likely wear a nice pair of old, brown shoes, like a British youth. I just don’t think he’d go in for any of these new fangled kinds of sneakers, or even sneakers at all. Even if he were on the soccer field—I don’t mean in a tourney, of course, but just a pick-up game—you’d probably see him playing in an old-fashioned brown shoe, complimenting his casual street clothes. That’s what I like about Jesus. Despite his savior role and all that fame he attained, I suspect he was very down to earth and probably stood his ground fashion-wise. I like to think I’m the same way.
If Jesus were alive today—or if he is alive and I ever get the opportunity to sit and have coffee with him—or tea, or lamb’s blood or whatever—I want to ask him how he manages to keep such a good attitude about things. I suspect it has to do with his fame. It’s much easier to be a maverick when you’re famous, like Alan Arkin. This I wouldn’t know, for my struggle to maintain integrity as an artist, a wag, and a concerned citizen unfolds in a veritable vacuum of non-appreciation, contempt and misunderstanding.
As usual, I'm not sure I've made myself clear, but I know that if he does read this Blah-ugh!, Jesus gets it. Amen!
Monday, May 20, 2013
More ... I Mean, Less About Me ... and Vegans
May 20, 2013: Ah, my 164th Blah-ugh! post ... It seems like only yesterday I was doing my 163rd, and you can see where that got me ...
I actually encountered some very rude feedback about my Blah-ugh! recently from some militant vegans with poor spelling skills. It was disturbing, I can assure you, but in the end I resisted confrontation -- like Ghandi -- and instead, like Ghandi, made myself a hero sandwich with extra cheese.
When you're a public figure it's hard to not to take the periodic waves of criticism personally, especially since I'm feeling physically ugly these days. I know people who call me names like "egomaniac" and "geletinhead" don't really know anything about me (with the exception of Matt), so it would be silly for an intelligent, balanced mensch like myself to even let these nasty cabbage heads intrude upon my cloud. (NOTE: Speaking of mensches -- or mences -- I'm still meaning to do that Steven Spielberg post, now that I have the correct spelling on his name ... I just haven't gotten around to it. Perhaps the 167th post, if not the 166th. I don't think Spielberg is a vegan, but if he is, I intend to out him!)
Anyway, I was just in the shower, which as you might imagine is cause to wax thoughtful, especially when there's all this mold on the tiles. When I'm in the shower, I also tend to sing, and not even well, but I like to sing loudly because I imagine no one else can hear it, and it annoys the family, who don't even like it when I speak or show my face at the dinner table ... Anyway, I was singing something that reminded me how much I love Jefferson Airplane and The Inkspots, and not in any particular order, so I felt I should devote some time to outlining my love in a public forum (like some kind of pervert) ... but I'm not going to now. (Perhaps in my 168th post.)
What I do want to do now is share a bit about what's going on in the world -- my world, that is, which is the world, and I'm not saying that to be self-centered, it's just that it's the only world I've got, or at least the only one that'll have me, and allow me the space to pretend to be an opera singer. You see, things are bouncing around in all directions, as they tend to do when you don't take your Lithium -- or subscribe to vegan principles -- and the well of worthwhile observations seems poised to be .. well, observed! (Man, that italics feature is just doing all the work tonight. Sweet!)
Wait, wait! Don't go yet! I'll make some point, or get something out worth reading ... Just ... give me ... a ... minute ....
ITEM: Just watched "Election" last night and I really love that movie. I always feel that Matthew Broderick is really kind of an angry person based on my perceptions of his photographs, but he really was made for this part. And Reese Witherspoon and her mammoth chin just steal the show, though not necessarily in that order. Best of all is this kid who plays Paul, who's running against the notorious Tracy Flick. He's great -- kind of a mutant Little Rascal grown up. One day I'll look his name up and include it here, unless I get a nasty note from Broderick and have to rescind this whole entry. (I'm convinced he's vegan, btw.)
ITEM: My daughter and I made an awesome red velvet cake last night, except it isn't red. This might disturb some people, but we expected it would turn out as is. It's delicious, and in fact the three pieces I've had today were better than yesterday's slice. (I can't wait until tomorrow.)
ITEM: Speaking of my daughter, her softball team -- which I manage -- had its first win Thursday. It was a glorious event, and while I wasn't really in any way responsible for the victory, I made it clear to the girls that I was. (I figured they shouldn't get too arrogant, and as I'm already arrogant, it wouldn't matter so much.) We celebrated with vegan pizza.
ITEM: I'm convinced the National Security Council has begun monitoring this Blah-ugh! -- or my brain, or possibly both. This because I picked up a copy of The Catcher in the Rye someone left atop the gun locker and ... No, no. See, I kid. (I actually keep my gun under my pillow, where I can reach it quickly if a spy comes in the window when I'm making love ... or a vegan.) Anyway, the reference to the red hunting cap made me nervous, so I tried to read faster, because I'm sure that by reading the book I'm inviting questions about my Americanism and my morality and god-knows-what-else ... Then, around page seventy-something -- I won't claim to know the actual number -- I noticed that certain letters on the left side of the page began to form messages ... Now, you're maybe going to think I'm crazy, but there was clearly a progression of letters that included a "C," an "I," and an "A," although I don't think they were in that order ... You see where I'm going with this. And while you may be wondering why the CIA isn't keeping the tabs, it's because they're involved with international chicanery ... I mean, alleged chicanery ... Alleged! That's what I meant ...
ITEM: If you rearrange the letters in "vegan," it spells "N - AGE - V," which stands for "New Age Virus," which is a clear indication that something much more radical is going on with veganism than with my bedtime book reading. "Vegan" is also suspiciously close to "Vegas," which is a suspicious place surprisingly close to the Hoover Dam, which as we all know generates a significant amount of power -- or what the Indians called "Pow-wower" ... You see where I'm going with this ...
ITEM: It's time for another movie and some more vegan red velvet cake ...
I actually encountered some very rude feedback about my Blah-ugh! recently from some militant vegans with poor spelling skills. It was disturbing, I can assure you, but in the end I resisted confrontation -- like Ghandi -- and instead, like Ghandi, made myself a hero sandwich with extra cheese.
When you're a public figure it's hard to not to take the periodic waves of criticism personally, especially since I'm feeling physically ugly these days. I know people who call me names like "egomaniac" and "geletinhead" don't really know anything about me (with the exception of Matt), so it would be silly for an intelligent, balanced mensch like myself to even let these nasty cabbage heads intrude upon my cloud. (NOTE: Speaking of mensches -- or mences -- I'm still meaning to do that Steven Spielberg post, now that I have the correct spelling on his name ... I just haven't gotten around to it. Perhaps the 167th post, if not the 166th. I don't think Spielberg is a vegan, but if he is, I intend to out him!)
Anyway, I was just in the shower, which as you might imagine is cause to wax thoughtful, especially when there's all this mold on the tiles. When I'm in the shower, I also tend to sing, and not even well, but I like to sing loudly because I imagine no one else can hear it, and it annoys the family, who don't even like it when I speak or show my face at the dinner table ... Anyway, I was singing something that reminded me how much I love Jefferson Airplane and The Inkspots, and not in any particular order, so I felt I should devote some time to outlining my love in a public forum (like some kind of pervert) ... but I'm not going to now. (Perhaps in my 168th post.)
What I do want to do now is share a bit about what's going on in the world -- my world, that is, which is the world, and I'm not saying that to be self-centered, it's just that it's the only world I've got, or at least the only one that'll have me, and allow me the space to pretend to be an opera singer. You see, things are bouncing around in all directions, as they tend to do when you don't take your Lithium -- or subscribe to vegan principles -- and the well of worthwhile observations seems poised to be .. well, observed! (Man, that italics feature is just doing all the work tonight. Sweet!)
Wait, wait! Don't go yet! I'll make some point, or get something out worth reading ... Just ... give me ... a ... minute ....
ITEM: Just watched "Election" last night and I really love that movie. I always feel that Matthew Broderick is really kind of an angry person based on my perceptions of his photographs, but he really was made for this part. And Reese Witherspoon and her mammoth chin just steal the show, though not necessarily in that order. Best of all is this kid who plays Paul, who's running against the notorious Tracy Flick. He's great -- kind of a mutant Little Rascal grown up. One day I'll look his name up and include it here, unless I get a nasty note from Broderick and have to rescind this whole entry. (I'm convinced he's vegan, btw.)
ITEM: My daughter and I made an awesome red velvet cake last night, except it isn't red. This might disturb some people, but we expected it would turn out as is. It's delicious, and in fact the three pieces I've had today were better than yesterday's slice. (I can't wait until tomorrow.)
ITEM: Speaking of my daughter, her softball team -- which I manage -- had its first win Thursday. It was a glorious event, and while I wasn't really in any way responsible for the victory, I made it clear to the girls that I was. (I figured they shouldn't get too arrogant, and as I'm already arrogant, it wouldn't matter so much.) We celebrated with vegan pizza.
ITEM: I'm convinced the National Security Council has begun monitoring this Blah-ugh! -- or my brain, or possibly both. This because I picked up a copy of The Catcher in the Rye someone left atop the gun locker and ... No, no. See, I kid. (I actually keep my gun under my pillow, where I can reach it quickly if a spy comes in the window when I'm making love ... or a vegan.) Anyway, the reference to the red hunting cap made me nervous, so I tried to read faster, because I'm sure that by reading the book I'm inviting questions about my Americanism and my morality and god-knows-what-else ... Then, around page seventy-something -- I won't claim to know the actual number -- I noticed that certain letters on the left side of the page began to form messages ... Now, you're maybe going to think I'm crazy, but there was clearly a progression of letters that included a "C," an "I," and an "A," although I don't think they were in that order ... You see where I'm going with this. And while you may be wondering why the CIA isn't keeping the tabs, it's because they're involved with international chicanery ... I mean, alleged chicanery ... Alleged! That's what I meant ...
ITEM: If you rearrange the letters in "vegan," it spells "N - AGE - V," which stands for "New Age Virus," which is a clear indication that something much more radical is going on with veganism than with my bedtime book reading. "Vegan" is also suspiciously close to "Vegas," which is a suspicious place surprisingly close to the Hoover Dam, which as we all know generates a significant amount of power -- or what the Indians called "Pow-wower" ... You see where I'm going with this ...
ITEM: It's time for another movie and some more vegan red velvet cake ...
Monday, May 6, 2013
Jarret's Frank Film Forum: A Few Different Films & Things ...
May 6, 2013: I'm thoroughly enjoying a second viewing of the old British film "The Wicker Man," and not only because it's such a sincere pleasure to watch a young Britt Ekland dancing naked. (Needless to say, her song number in the bedroom adjacent to the police inspector's chamber is not only a remarkable visual -- and auditory -- pleasure, but it and other moments --{although not the other moments as much}-- really highlight the utter {a tacky comic with less thoughtful material would say 'udder,' but I won't!} delight of her lovely talents and talented udders ... I mean, loveliness ... Ah, to be young and Swedish in 1971 Europe!)
I like movies. You might have gathered as much from my periodic Frank Film Forum entries, which ... Did I say "entries?" I meant "entrails." ... Or did I? ... FFF -- Frank Film Forum entries, which offer tired and impatient Blah-ugh! readers the chance to get an honest appraisal of the most important, or least important, cinematic fare polluting our natural environment today and in years gone past ... I believe I've done the Bond films as a whole, owing to my laziness, and "Chicago" and "Halloween III," and maybe others ... and others still ... Who really remembers?! And who really cares anyway. I know I don't!
But this is quite a startling movie for other reasons as well -- "The Wicker Man," I mean -- really quite a frightening little flick ... But I don't want to say anymore, in part because I don't want to ruin anything, but also because I've lost interest in writing about it ...
It's funny how that works. I mean, I start out with these grand ideas to craft a Blah-ugh! entry -- all those important details swirling around, like so many gnats in summer, and then by the time I finish proofreading my first paragraph on the fly, I'm so tired of whatever it is I'm writing about, I usually deteriorate into something of unrelated interest ...
Which brings me to another movie I really enjoyed recently called "The Third Man." (Not a sequel, nor prequel, to "The Wicker Man;" completely different man!) This is a post-WWII flick set in Vienna with the great Joseph Cotton (Cotten? ... I mean, how great was he really, that I should have to remember how he spelled his name?!) and Orson Welles, who I love and revere on some strange level, and directed by the wonderful Carol Reed, who I was always attracted to until I found out he was a man. The best part of this movie for me is the tweaky cinematography by Robert Krasker, which is just cool, and especially I love the last long, long shot, which I'll say no more about. Also, the unnerving zither music is just terrific and inspiring. (I mean, I'm inspired to never let a zither player in my house after hearing it, but it works so well in this masterpiece.)
As I continue on my own creative journey as a filmmaker ... (What? You didn't know I made film?! ... Well, we'll talk at some point, but I've got to get this thing done now ...) ... I find it's so easy to learn (and enjoy) more and more each time I watch anything. I subscribe to what I think Coppola said about a BAD movie being the best teacher for learning how to make film, but the good stuff can also do well to open your eyes/mind to some very cool tricks, techniques and psychic treachery ...
Another superb movie I just watched was "Taxi Driver," which really rings my bells as an overall example of very fine filmmaking. Here I'm smitten with Michael Chapman's photo work--that look of the city night and lights captures a spirit to me the way Haskell Wexler's work on "American Graffiti" did ... But what really cements this movie -- "Taxi Driver," I mean -- is that awesome, terrifying Bernard Hermann music. It's really intensely cool. His last film, I believe, but he went out with a Zap ...
And that's how I'm going to go out tonight -- with a Zap!
Zap!
I like movies. You might have gathered as much from my periodic Frank Film Forum entries, which ... Did I say "entries?" I meant "entrails." ... Or did I? ... FFF -- Frank Film Forum entries, which offer tired and impatient Blah-ugh! readers the chance to get an honest appraisal of the most important, or least important, cinematic fare polluting our natural environment today and in years gone past ... I believe I've done the Bond films as a whole, owing to my laziness, and "Chicago" and "Halloween III," and maybe others ... and others still ... Who really remembers?! And who really cares anyway. I know I don't!
But this is quite a startling movie for other reasons as well -- "The Wicker Man," I mean -- really quite a frightening little flick ... But I don't want to say anymore, in part because I don't want to ruin anything, but also because I've lost interest in writing about it ...
It's funny how that works. I mean, I start out with these grand ideas to craft a Blah-ugh! entry -- all those important details swirling around, like so many gnats in summer, and then by the time I finish proofreading my first paragraph on the fly, I'm so tired of whatever it is I'm writing about, I usually deteriorate into something of unrelated interest ...
Which brings me to another movie I really enjoyed recently called "The Third Man." (Not a sequel, nor prequel, to "The Wicker Man;" completely different man!) This is a post-WWII flick set in Vienna with the great Joseph Cotton (Cotten? ... I mean, how great was he really, that I should have to remember how he spelled his name?!) and Orson Welles, who I love and revere on some strange level, and directed by the wonderful Carol Reed, who I was always attracted to until I found out he was a man. The best part of this movie for me is the tweaky cinematography by Robert Krasker, which is just cool, and especially I love the last long, long shot, which I'll say no more about. Also, the unnerving zither music is just terrific and inspiring. (I mean, I'm inspired to never let a zither player in my house after hearing it, but it works so well in this masterpiece.)
As I continue on my own creative journey as a filmmaker ... (What? You didn't know I made film?! ... Well, we'll talk at some point, but I've got to get this thing done now ...) ... I find it's so easy to learn (and enjoy) more and more each time I watch anything. I subscribe to what I think Coppola said about a BAD movie being the best teacher for learning how to make film, but the good stuff can also do well to open your eyes/mind to some very cool tricks, techniques and psychic treachery ...
Another superb movie I just watched was "Taxi Driver," which really rings my bells as an overall example of very fine filmmaking. Here I'm smitten with Michael Chapman's photo work--that look of the city night and lights captures a spirit to me the way Haskell Wexler's work on "American Graffiti" did ... But what really cements this movie -- "Taxi Driver," I mean -- is that awesome, terrifying Bernard Hermann music. It's really intensely cool. His last film, I believe, but he went out with a Zap ...
And that's how I'm going to go out tonight -- with a Zap!
Zap!
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Once Again, for The Bradys ...
April 25, 2013: I had every intention of doing a Blah-ugh! entry on my friend Steven Spielberg, but that's going to have to wait. My inclination to spout about my favorite sit-com family has again grabbed at my groin and I'm going to seize the opportunity the way I seize the towel when I leave the shower naked, although hopefully I won't hurt my back this time ...
Yes, The Brady Bunch is the subject again today. Faithful Blah-ugh! readers -- the 23 of you -- know that I've barfed up some of my Brady ideas in past entries. This time, however, I won't bore you with more Marcia-related revelations, but I will put a new twist on Mike. You see, once again my children and I have slogged through another cycle of our DVDs and now, after the 14th -- or 40th, I'm not sure which -- viewing, it's become abundantly clear that Mike Brady is really the antithesis of the great father role model I always presumed him to be. (And no, Shannon, it has nothing to do with Robert Reed being gay and from Chicago.)
You see, though I've tried to deny it, I can't now watch one of these episodes without noticing how often Mike hits the kids. Yes, it's absolutely true. He swats them like insects on a regular basis, particularly in the first couple of seasons. It's a wonder he wasn't reported sooner, or that he hasn't now been cast in the sour light of other psychopathic television parents -- Homer Simpson, Archie Bunker, and Cloris Leachman. The examples are numerous -- the viewing of Greg's film on the pilgrims, Greg buying the lemon, Greg learning something-or-other ... In fact, I think Greg took the worst of his blows, which were often loud slaps on the back, but also sound whacks on the butt, the leg or the arm, depending on Robert Reed's mood.
It's ironic that Reed was such a fussbudget about the numerous implausibilities in Brady scripts, such as the time so-called Method actress "Meerna" Carter gave him and Henderson (a.k.a. Carol) tips on how to be motivated in the Safe commercial. All that time he was focusing his somewhat warped Shakespearean sensibilities on script revisions and scolding memos to the Schwartz family, he might have better served everyone by refraining from hitting the children so often.
That said, I think it's important to address the spectacle of Cousin Oliver. It was a dark day in Brady history when this pesty little jinx ambled onto the set looking like a shrunken John Denver. His smarmy one-liners and irritating glasses all served to beg the question of why Robert Reed didn't hit him more often.
Hmmmm... I see there are many, many more involved Brady-related points that require broaching, and I simply don't have the time or fortitude to address them right now. Why is Carol wearing Marcia's shirt in that episode with Lovey Howell and the Good Ship Lollipop? Does Jim Backus have a toupee or a comb-over in the pool episode? And what happened to Mr. Phillips? Was the new City Hall built in Woodland Park? Did Alice and Sam ever marry, and did he ever repair that gaping space in his front teeth? Did the kids ever record a family-version of "Clowns Never Laughed Before?" Did Maureen McCormick ever stop pronouncing words with that California patois, such as "dinist" for "dentist," etc. Does she still hate Alan Anthony? (I know I do and always will!) ...
Yes, The Brady Bunch is the subject again today. Faithful Blah-ugh! readers -- the 23 of you -- know that I've barfed up some of my Brady ideas in past entries. This time, however, I won't bore you with more Marcia-related revelations, but I will put a new twist on Mike. You see, once again my children and I have slogged through another cycle of our DVDs and now, after the 14th -- or 40th, I'm not sure which -- viewing, it's become abundantly clear that Mike Brady is really the antithesis of the great father role model I always presumed him to be. (And no, Shannon, it has nothing to do with Robert Reed being gay and from Chicago.)
You see, though I've tried to deny it, I can't now watch one of these episodes without noticing how often Mike hits the kids. Yes, it's absolutely true. He swats them like insects on a regular basis, particularly in the first couple of seasons. It's a wonder he wasn't reported sooner, or that he hasn't now been cast in the sour light of other psychopathic television parents -- Homer Simpson, Archie Bunker, and Cloris Leachman. The examples are numerous -- the viewing of Greg's film on the pilgrims, Greg buying the lemon, Greg learning something-or-other ... In fact, I think Greg took the worst of his blows, which were often loud slaps on the back, but also sound whacks on the butt, the leg or the arm, depending on Robert Reed's mood.
It's ironic that Reed was such a fussbudget about the numerous implausibilities in Brady scripts, such as the time so-called Method actress "Meerna" Carter gave him and Henderson (a.k.a. Carol) tips on how to be motivated in the Safe commercial. All that time he was focusing his somewhat warped Shakespearean sensibilities on script revisions and scolding memos to the Schwartz family, he might have better served everyone by refraining from hitting the children so often.
That said, I think it's important to address the spectacle of Cousin Oliver. It was a dark day in Brady history when this pesty little jinx ambled onto the set looking like a shrunken John Denver. His smarmy one-liners and irritating glasses all served to beg the question of why Robert Reed didn't hit him more often.
Hmmmm... I see there are many, many more involved Brady-related points that require broaching, and I simply don't have the time or fortitude to address them right now. Why is Carol wearing Marcia's shirt in that episode with Lovey Howell and the Good Ship Lollipop? Does Jim Backus have a toupee or a comb-over in the pool episode? And what happened to Mr. Phillips? Was the new City Hall built in Woodland Park? Did Alice and Sam ever marry, and did he ever repair that gaping space in his front teeth? Did the kids ever record a family-version of "Clowns Never Laughed Before?" Did Maureen McCormick ever stop pronouncing words with that California patois, such as "dinist" for "dentist," etc. Does she still hate Alan Anthony? (I know I do and always will!) ...
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Spring Sprangs ... Again ...
April 10, 2013: I'll never be able to mutter the trite truism that 'Spring is in the air,' without immediately remembering Groucho Marx's concerned response to Thelma Todd in "Horse Feathers" -- "You mean you want me to spring in the air and fall in the lake?"
But the fact is, despite all the nuances of Global Warming and El Ninny and various weather-related geo-thermal exacerbations, spring has apparently sprung eternal ... or at least external, and that's where we'd want it, I'd think, especially because the house is so dirty ...
I'm not sure what I wanted to say about it, except it's certainly lighter. This, as you may know, owes to the new tilt we're getting from the sun, or perhaps the earth. All I know is I heard some loud noise last night, and I don't think it was my neighbor, Mrs. Schtiple, who shaves her legs with a bandsaw. No, this was spring springing, and the light lighting, casting shadows in a new and vivid way ... so get that hat on or you'll burn!
I spent a few moments yesterday lying out on the lawn photographing a bird ... And I got some great shots! Then the bird got a few shots of me, including one great one where I caught a worm ... Then the bird went in my house and drank the last Yoo-Hoo. But I showed him and ate the last of the birdseed in the driveway ...
This brings us to the question of whether this Blah-ugh! is really funny. I tend not to think so, but to be honest, I don't really read it that often. Granted, I come to the site a lot, but mostly it's because I can't get over how young I look in that picture!
Again, I'm trying to remember why I started this entry. I keep meaning to publish a remarkable poem I've been working on about Starbuck's, but I'm blocked. (I think it was the banana walnut bread.) Now I'm just trying to remind myself -- others too -- why we call this Blah-ugh! a comedy site, and not a tragedy site, although some would argue that my attempts at comedy continue to be tragic, while my forays into tragedy are endlessly masked in a kind of humorous pathos.
Speaking of pathos, did you ever read that poet John Dos Pathos. I think he wrote that volume about mid-20th century America called "Regurgitate This, Ye Sons of Soil." (And to demonstrate just how reductionist my damaged sense of humor really is, I'm actually having an uncontrollable fit of laughter after writing that last sentence! Consider this further evidence that a good writer writes for themselves, and a good reader shouldn't put up with it!)
On a completely different note, there's this very strange smell in my living room at the moment, and I can't decide whether it's coming from the kitchen, from outside, or possibly from my shirt. It sort of smells like plastic, but a kind of burnt plastic -- polyethylene terephthalate resin, I think. I don't believe anyone in the house was cooking plastic this morning, although my domestic partner tends to put anything in the oven and call it lunch. I'm hoping it's not some kind of new spring lawn chemical that Mrs. Schtiple is applying to her geraniums, the old hag. It's so weird how normal, red-blooded Americans will put all sorts of foreign objects and chemicals on their lawn in some strange vain hope it's going to make them more popular and sexier. Our lawn isn't like that. It's a down-and-dirty lawn, with lots of onion grass and dandelions. I like to go out there now and again and trim it with a pair of eyebrow tweezers.
(That smell is really making me nervous. If I cared more about my health, I'd probably investigate. As it is, I have to conclude it's probably building up my immune system and, perhaps, making my teeth whiter ... I'm beginning to think my teeth will never get whiter, which makes me wonder if I should stop eating out ... Which reminds me, I haven't even had my morning tea, and I've been up since 5:40 ...
So on that note, I'll add the closing parenthesis later, when I've had more rest and stopped ruminating on this awful stink ...
But the fact is, despite all the nuances of Global Warming and El Ninny and various weather-related geo-thermal exacerbations, spring has apparently sprung eternal ... or at least external, and that's where we'd want it, I'd think, especially because the house is so dirty ...
I'm not sure what I wanted to say about it, except it's certainly lighter. This, as you may know, owes to the new tilt we're getting from the sun, or perhaps the earth. All I know is I heard some loud noise last night, and I don't think it was my neighbor, Mrs. Schtiple, who shaves her legs with a bandsaw. No, this was spring springing, and the light lighting, casting shadows in a new and vivid way ... so get that hat on or you'll burn!
I spent a few moments yesterday lying out on the lawn photographing a bird ... And I got some great shots! Then the bird got a few shots of me, including one great one where I caught a worm ... Then the bird went in my house and drank the last Yoo-Hoo. But I showed him and ate the last of the birdseed in the driveway ...
This brings us to the question of whether this Blah-ugh! is really funny. I tend not to think so, but to be honest, I don't really read it that often. Granted, I come to the site a lot, but mostly it's because I can't get over how young I look in that picture!
Again, I'm trying to remember why I started this entry. I keep meaning to publish a remarkable poem I've been working on about Starbuck's, but I'm blocked. (I think it was the banana walnut bread.) Now I'm just trying to remind myself -- others too -- why we call this Blah-ugh! a comedy site, and not a tragedy site, although some would argue that my attempts at comedy continue to be tragic, while my forays into tragedy are endlessly masked in a kind of humorous pathos.
Speaking of pathos, did you ever read that poet John Dos Pathos. I think he wrote that volume about mid-20th century America called "Regurgitate This, Ye Sons of Soil." (And to demonstrate just how reductionist my damaged sense of humor really is, I'm actually having an uncontrollable fit of laughter after writing that last sentence! Consider this further evidence that a good writer writes for themselves, and a good reader shouldn't put up with it!)
On a completely different note, there's this very strange smell in my living room at the moment, and I can't decide whether it's coming from the kitchen, from outside, or possibly from my shirt. It sort of smells like plastic, but a kind of burnt plastic -- polyethylene terephthalate resin, I think. I don't believe anyone in the house was cooking plastic this morning, although my domestic partner tends to put anything in the oven and call it lunch. I'm hoping it's not some kind of new spring lawn chemical that Mrs. Schtiple is applying to her geraniums, the old hag. It's so weird how normal, red-blooded Americans will put all sorts of foreign objects and chemicals on their lawn in some strange vain hope it's going to make them more popular and sexier. Our lawn isn't like that. It's a down-and-dirty lawn, with lots of onion grass and dandelions. I like to go out there now and again and trim it with a pair of eyebrow tweezers.
(That smell is really making me nervous. If I cared more about my health, I'd probably investigate. As it is, I have to conclude it's probably building up my immune system and, perhaps, making my teeth whiter ... I'm beginning to think my teeth will never get whiter, which makes me wonder if I should stop eating out ... Which reminds me, I haven't even had my morning tea, and I've been up since 5:40 ...
So on that note, I'll add the closing parenthesis later, when I've had more rest and stopped ruminating on this awful stink ...
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