December 19, 2012: I don't think people come to my Blah-ugh! to get sappy and find inspiration or anything like that. You're a voyeuristic bunch of cads, by and large -- just like me -- and you expect nothing more or less by engaging here but naughty base fulfillment ...
But I have to write this one out before I forget, because it was just too ridiculously poignant and significant for me, this past Saturday, too remarkable a moment the day following that terrible school stuff ...
So I'm despondent, as we all were and are. It's awful, and I'm of the mind these days that we're part of a collective consciousness that feels something like this across the whole race. And I want to be mindful about not wallowing in misery for misery sake, which is so easy to do -- for I wasn't there; I no longer work in Newtown, though I actually did teach elementary in another school there years ago; and they weren't my kids, thank god ... and yet ... somehow I know today that they're ALL our kids ... Somehow that's real too.
Anyway ... So I had a hard time lifting myself out of bed Saturday morning ... very late morning ... I headed downtown, planning to force myself to do some work at the library. And of course I always park way away, as is my manner. (As my old mentor teacher Dr. Joseph Lieberman once advised, when you see everyone running in one direction to see something, run the other way!)
I made my unique circle turn to bypass town and was heading up the street to park, when along comes this horse and buggy trotting up the street before me. You see, the downtown merchants organized this lovely little free, old-fashioned buggy ride Saturday afternoon, with these two big white horses drawing a vintage wagon, while a man in a top hat, wielding a whip ... You get the idea ... and so here they come jingling, clopping up the street toward me ...
And after they pass, I see in the street one of the long strings of horse jingle bells left right there in the middle of the road. It's dropped off one of the horses, and, looking so odd, it's clumped right there in the middle of the road ...
Of course, being the good citizen I am, I throw on my brakes and hop out of the car, narrowly missing everyone, and even fooling them with my broken emergency lights, which certainly make it more interesting for all of us. And like a good Johnny-on-the-Spot I fetch this long strand of big sleighbells, which are attached to a long, dry, old leather strap, and I dash back into my car and proceed to go find my parking up the road where no one can bother me ...
I knew where the carriage would park when he came back around, and had in fact done a story on it the week before for the paper, so I kind of felt like I had a connection to these people. I grabbed my briefcase, lock my door and head over to Main Street on foot carrying the jingle bells...
And still I'm despondent, and the terrible day before keeps hanging over me -- over all of us -- a blanket of depression, making things feel pointless and hopeless ...
But I'm amused to be holding this incredible large strand of jingle bells, as I've never held one -- a real authentic horse's strand -- big bells the size of plums, starlight shining silver, split with the cross and inside the pea-sized metal marble ... There are close to 30 of them -- held fast to the kind of old, dry leather that makes you know some things are still made of real materials, and that this strand has a spirit ...
Walking along, I shake it -- all those bells, and they sound so beautiful ... And suddenly, out of nowhere, it occurs to me ... in a magical flash ... like in a movie ... lifting my meager spirits ... like the little girl says in "It's a Wonderful Life" ...
"Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings ..."
Wow! ... And there really is no end ... Not really ...
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Monday, December 10, 2012
Vie Geht es Innen!
December 11, 2012: Guten Tag ... Well, well, well! I'm back. I'm guessing you, like the Westport school board, thought you could get rid of me if you held your breath long enough, but alas, I'm still here, like gum in the exquisite treads of your high-performance running sneaker ...
Believe me, I wouldn't even consider returning to this insipid Blah-ugh! if it weren't for the outpouring of support and invasive questions I've received these past two months--ironically from most of the same people. That, along with the general guilt I carry with me on an ongoing basis, makes it now the right time to move forward with entry Number ... I don't know, 147 or so ... So let's proceed ...
For starters, Yes, I'm restraining myself quite gallantly as I continue to meet such unnecessary resistence and ineffectuality from Westport's unconscious headstrong school administration. It makes me wonder if and when I'll see it as time to make public a couple of rather dark--and sincerely disturbing--secrets I have on a couple of those people. I'm really hoping it won't come to that, because I'm honestly not out to embarrass anyone. But there comes a time when one man must take a stand on behalf of the myriad wretches who are too frightened or too cowardly to do likewise, if only to strengthen this man's unbearably fetching ego. And if traditional means don't serve the public to the level it deserves, a hissyfit may be in order, and some of you have seen firsthand what a vindictive twit I can be ... and I'm referring to my friends! ... So stay tuned ...
But let's talk of more important matters ... I wanted to share about my remarkable discovery of Lactaid eggnog, which has truly changed my life, at least insofar as it relates to the holiday months. Many of you loyal readers know my issues with intolerance--lactose and otherwise--so please rejoice for me, for I can once again enjoy the tantalizing joy of late-night eggnog without an enzyme of worry about what disturbing surprises might greet me all throughout the following day ... Yes, my appreciation goes out to the Lactaid people, and let me say I especially like their logo, which features an impressionist icon of a man dancing with a cow. I want to be that man, or at least that cow.
On another note, I'm working on a new novel, which some of you will find even better than SPACE CASE, which many of you despised, and the rest of you didn't even bother reading. (I'm talking to YOU, Michael N.) This one, however, should be more palitable for the mainstream, if not more palatible. (I still can't decide which.) I'll tell you what it's about as soon as I'M sure, then we'll talk about how you can purchase it without feeling that you're, in any way, supporting me or what I do ...
And what DO I do? Wouldn't YOU like to know! But I can't tell you, because that would spoil everything, or at least it would spoil my next Blah-ugh! entrance, which promises to be chockful of thrills and drama and all kinds of cool punctuation ...
Which reminds me, when are people going to stop confusing the dash and the hyphen? Some of you are, perhaps, wondering when they're going to START confusing them, and this is why things get confusing, because half the time whatever I type anyway gets automatically corrected by the computer, so there isn't much power I have left with these written words.
And speaking of written words, if you haven't read "The Wind in the Willows," you're a toad, and not like a fun, rich toad, like Toad, but a nasty, wart-ridden carbunkle with nay the aesthetic flavor of a breathmint. Gosh, I just love this book. I honestly don't think I could name a better written book today, except for SPACE CASE, but that's a modern AMERICAN book, so it's kind of hard to compare. But man and toad alive, this is just some exquisite artful writing ... (Which reminds me, I intended to do an essay on how Toad's devious escapades with motor car driving are a clear metaphor for drug and alcohol addiction; Badger, Mole and Rat even do an intervention on the poor wretch, but ultimately they're second level enablers, and they don't allow Toad to hit his bottom ... But anyway, now I'm too lazy.)
So read the book, or don't. I don't care anymore. I'm feeling like Phil Collins that way. I just want to drink Lactaid eggnog, or just pour it on the cats, and watch Christmas movies and Halloween movies, even though I'm mostly Jewish, and ask myself redundant questions so I know the answers ...
Isn't life great?! I think it is ...
Believe me, I wouldn't even consider returning to this insipid Blah-ugh! if it weren't for the outpouring of support and invasive questions I've received these past two months--ironically from most of the same people. That, along with the general guilt I carry with me on an ongoing basis, makes it now the right time to move forward with entry Number ... I don't know, 147 or so ... So let's proceed ...
For starters, Yes, I'm restraining myself quite gallantly as I continue to meet such unnecessary resistence and ineffectuality from Westport's unconscious headstrong school administration. It makes me wonder if and when I'll see it as time to make public a couple of rather dark--and sincerely disturbing--secrets I have on a couple of those people. I'm really hoping it won't come to that, because I'm honestly not out to embarrass anyone. But there comes a time when one man must take a stand on behalf of the myriad wretches who are too frightened or too cowardly to do likewise, if only to strengthen this man's unbearably fetching ego. And if traditional means don't serve the public to the level it deserves, a hissyfit may be in order, and some of you have seen firsthand what a vindictive twit I can be ... and I'm referring to my friends! ... So stay tuned ...
But let's talk of more important matters ... I wanted to share about my remarkable discovery of Lactaid eggnog, which has truly changed my life, at least insofar as it relates to the holiday months. Many of you loyal readers know my issues with intolerance--lactose and otherwise--so please rejoice for me, for I can once again enjoy the tantalizing joy of late-night eggnog without an enzyme of worry about what disturbing surprises might greet me all throughout the following day ... Yes, my appreciation goes out to the Lactaid people, and let me say I especially like their logo, which features an impressionist icon of a man dancing with a cow. I want to be that man, or at least that cow.
On another note, I'm working on a new novel, which some of you will find even better than SPACE CASE, which many of you despised, and the rest of you didn't even bother reading. (I'm talking to YOU, Michael N.) This one, however, should be more palitable for the mainstream, if not more palatible. (I still can't decide which.) I'll tell you what it's about as soon as I'M sure, then we'll talk about how you can purchase it without feeling that you're, in any way, supporting me or what I do ...
And what DO I do? Wouldn't YOU like to know! But I can't tell you, because that would spoil everything, or at least it would spoil my next Blah-ugh! entrance, which promises to be chockful of thrills and drama and all kinds of cool punctuation ...
Which reminds me, when are people going to stop confusing the dash and the hyphen? Some of you are, perhaps, wondering when they're going to START confusing them, and this is why things get confusing, because half the time whatever I type anyway gets automatically corrected by the computer, so there isn't much power I have left with these written words.
And speaking of written words, if you haven't read "The Wind in the Willows," you're a toad, and not like a fun, rich toad, like Toad, but a nasty, wart-ridden carbunkle with nay the aesthetic flavor of a breathmint. Gosh, I just love this book. I honestly don't think I could name a better written book today, except for SPACE CASE, but that's a modern AMERICAN book, so it's kind of hard to compare. But man and toad alive, this is just some exquisite artful writing ... (Which reminds me, I intended to do an essay on how Toad's devious escapades with motor car driving are a clear metaphor for drug and alcohol addiction; Badger, Mole and Rat even do an intervention on the poor wretch, but ultimately they're second level enablers, and they don't allow Toad to hit his bottom ... But anyway, now I'm too lazy.)
So read the book, or don't. I don't care anymore. I'm feeling like Phil Collins that way. I just want to drink Lactaid eggnog, or just pour it on the cats, and watch Christmas movies and Halloween movies, even though I'm mostly Jewish, and ask myself redundant questions so I know the answers ...
Isn't life great?! I think it is ...
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Jarret's FFF: "Subspecies" (or The Chronicles of Radu)
October 6, 2012: For the last few days I've been back and forth over whether to write a Blah-ugh! exploring my recent life-changing experiences relating to consciousness enlightenment and deep self-fulfillment through a practice of present-minded concentration, and the "Subspecies" vampire series I just got on DVD.
I assure you, you're going to love "Subspecies," and while I haven't actually watched the other four movies in the quintilogy, I know I'm going to love them too. For starters, Radu is a perfectly ghastly vampire, and while his fingernails -- hell, his actual fingers -- are ridiculously long, the brutal, Frankenstinian mug of star Anders Hove, coupled with his deliciously demented voice, makes this one B horror movie you won’t want to miss! (Some of you may remember Hove from such films as “Zakka West” and “The Twitchers,” but I don’t.)
Still better than Hove’s great ghoulish vampire are the incredibly gorgeous women fronting the cast. Laura Mae Tate, I have to say, is possibly the most beautiful woman I've ever seen on film, even with clothes on. While she’s suspiciously billed as Laura Tate in this film, it didn’t pass me by that she’s the same woman appearing in “I Love Trouble.” (Actually, I’ve never seen it, but it was a fact I came across in my Internet search for nude pictures of her.)
Michelle McBride is another gorgeous lead, playing the striking blonde to Tate’s vibrant brunette with the smart pixie cut. Rounding it out is Irina Movila as the foreign chick, who, while initially not as attractive as the other two, perhaps became my favorite after Radu chained her to the wall half-naked in the dungeon. (What is it about a half-naked woman chained to a wall in a dungeon that just speaks to my sense of art?)
Despite this impossible array of talent, Angus Scrimm still claims top billing with his brief appearance as King Vladislav. You’ll, of course, remember Scrimm as the Tall Man in the wonderful “Phantasm” series, but you’ll find it hard recognizing him in his colossal white fright wig. And to speak of further falsies, don’t let the box cover mislead you, because even though it shows a sexy woman (and I’m not sure which) being carried by a host of little demon creatures while Radu looks on in a pretty poorly animated depiction, there are in reality only four demon creatures, although where the fourth one comes from is anyone’s guess, because Radu creates the other three by cutting off the ends of three of his fingers and they turn into these little guys. (The fingers do grow back, which is good, but the Ray Harryhausen-type stop-motion work seems regrettably out of place in this otherwise visually engaging effort. (The part where Movila is chained to the wall is especially engaging!)
I also like the story itself, which takes place in modern Transylvania, where we learn the legend of how the town’s folk made a kind of deal with the vampires 500 years ago after they helped kill the invading Turks. (F***ing Turks!) Basically, they’re all living in peace and the King feeds off the Bloodstone, which is this kind of red egg that bleeds the blood of the saints (I guess all of them). It was stolen from the Pope, but they don’t go into details how. Anyway, Radu wants the stone, and he hates his half-brother Stefan, who’s basically the original model for the “Twilight” series—pensive, handsome, half-human and not really a blood sucker like Radu. I won’t give away more, but the Bloodstone returns in subsequent movies, as evidenced by the second movie being called “Subspecies II: Bloodstone.” I’m looking forward to rolling it now, in fact, so I’ll wrap this up and just hope they’ll be more half-naked wall chaining …
Regarding consciousness and enlightenment, all I can tell you is you can’t be self-conscious and write a Blah-ugh! like this, so I’m not sure whether I need to work more or less … My best conclusion is that I’m not going to think any more about it and will, instead, start the movie and perhaps eat some chocolate …
I assure you, you're going to love "Subspecies," and while I haven't actually watched the other four movies in the quintilogy, I know I'm going to love them too. For starters, Radu is a perfectly ghastly vampire, and while his fingernails -- hell, his actual fingers -- are ridiculously long, the brutal, Frankenstinian mug of star Anders Hove, coupled with his deliciously demented voice, makes this one B horror movie you won’t want to miss! (Some of you may remember Hove from such films as “Zakka West” and “The Twitchers,” but I don’t.)
Still better than Hove’s great ghoulish vampire are the incredibly gorgeous women fronting the cast. Laura Mae Tate, I have to say, is possibly the most beautiful woman I've ever seen on film, even with clothes on. While she’s suspiciously billed as Laura Tate in this film, it didn’t pass me by that she’s the same woman appearing in “I Love Trouble.” (Actually, I’ve never seen it, but it was a fact I came across in my Internet search for nude pictures of her.)
Michelle McBride is another gorgeous lead, playing the striking blonde to Tate’s vibrant brunette with the smart pixie cut. Rounding it out is Irina Movila as the foreign chick, who, while initially not as attractive as the other two, perhaps became my favorite after Radu chained her to the wall half-naked in the dungeon. (What is it about a half-naked woman chained to a wall in a dungeon that just speaks to my sense of art?)
Despite this impossible array of talent, Angus Scrimm still claims top billing with his brief appearance as King Vladislav. You’ll, of course, remember Scrimm as the Tall Man in the wonderful “Phantasm” series, but you’ll find it hard recognizing him in his colossal white fright wig. And to speak of further falsies, don’t let the box cover mislead you, because even though it shows a sexy woman (and I’m not sure which) being carried by a host of little demon creatures while Radu looks on in a pretty poorly animated depiction, there are in reality only four demon creatures, although where the fourth one comes from is anyone’s guess, because Radu creates the other three by cutting off the ends of three of his fingers and they turn into these little guys. (The fingers do grow back, which is good, but the Ray Harryhausen-type stop-motion work seems regrettably out of place in this otherwise visually engaging effort. (The part where Movila is chained to the wall is especially engaging!)
I also like the story itself, which takes place in modern Transylvania, where we learn the legend of how the town’s folk made a kind of deal with the vampires 500 years ago after they helped kill the invading Turks. (F***ing Turks!) Basically, they’re all living in peace and the King feeds off the Bloodstone, which is this kind of red egg that bleeds the blood of the saints (I guess all of them). It was stolen from the Pope, but they don’t go into details how. Anyway, Radu wants the stone, and he hates his half-brother Stefan, who’s basically the original model for the “Twilight” series—pensive, handsome, half-human and not really a blood sucker like Radu. I won’t give away more, but the Bloodstone returns in subsequent movies, as evidenced by the second movie being called “Subspecies II: Bloodstone.” I’m looking forward to rolling it now, in fact, so I’ll wrap this up and just hope they’ll be more half-naked wall chaining …
Regarding consciousness and enlightenment, all I can tell you is you can’t be self-conscious and write a Blah-ugh! like this, so I’m not sure whether I need to work more or less … My best conclusion is that I’m not going to think any more about it and will, instead, start the movie and perhaps eat some chocolate …
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Meditating and Various Meditations
September 30, 2012: Bob and I would like to express our sincere gratitude for the outpouring of support we received regarding the removal of his testicles. Things came off fine, so to speak, and he shows no linger effects, save a new tendency to blush.
It’s morning in America and I’m happy to report that things are swell. Halloween is coming and the leaves, too, are blushing, as am I. In fact, last night I indulged in yet another viewing of my all-time favorite spooky mood movie “Halloween III: Season of the Witch.” I was further thrilled to be joined by my son, Max, who commented to me so sharply during the closing credits, in heartfelt disbelief, “THAT’S your favorite horror movie?!!”
Yes, it is, my young pup, and I’ll never be able to explain it to anyone who doesn’t understand the strange, spooky subtleties of the Halloween spirit—a kind of kid-like magic that surrounds things like autumn-time hide-and-seek in the dark, diving under bushes to avoid detection when one of Conal Cochran’s evil robots drives by in a white Mazda … (After all, what does anyone under 30 understand about being a kid?!) Sure, it’s a bit over-the-top in places, but shouldn’t we give ourselves over to such experiences, like my cat did?
But I’m being vague, and that’s not why you visit this Blah-ugh! … I don’t think. Why DO you visit this Blah-ugh! anyway? I mean, what exactly is your problem? (I know what MINE is, after all, but that’s why I take the medication.)
Anyway, if for no other reason, Halloween III is worth the viewing for Tom Atkins’ terrific honest acting reactions each time he’s faced with a violence scene. As you know, Atkins plays Dr. Dan Chalice—brilliantly—subtly—and when this grisly, hulking, mustachioed actor moans and reacts, it’s so perfectly authentic. For instance, when he’s punching one of the guards and the guy doesn’t even flinch. “Oo-oh!” Atkins moans—a model of depth and truth. He should have been the hero in the Die Hard movies, and yes, my ignorant child, Dr. Chalice will remain one of my all-time favorite fictional heroes, right up there with Capt. Kirk, Mr. Thackery, Ed Wood and Andre Gregory.
Now, I intended to talk about meditation, as you garnered from the title, but we all know what good intentions are, or what good it is having them, especially when you have no intention of following them. But I did, and that’s why I’m confused, or at least I’m GETTING confusing in a tough effort to keep YOU from being confused … You see, ironically all I can think about right now is that I just realized orange juice gives me upflux, and this is ironic because meditation is all about concentration and not letting your thoughts drift to vomit or breasts—not letting vomit-covered breasts cloud your anchoring to the present moment.
So what can I really say about meditating anyway, except I’ve been practicing it. Hell, I don’t even know what meditation’s about, nor should, because if I did I’d be one of those hype frauds, like Wayne Dwyer, or Dyer, or whatever his name is. Now, in my critical estimation, there’s a nervous man. When you listen to his tapes you can just hear his teeth grinding. That’s why I’m a dedicated Deepak Chopra man and proud of it. I always feel like Deepak is embarrassed at having to be commercial, but his handlers keep encouraging it.
My newest discovery is Eggbert Tolle (Reinhart … some German name). He’s really on the money with his crap, I must say, and I’m getting a lot out of HIS book. The hardest part—and believe me, it took me a full year—was getting over the disturbing picture of him on the back, where he looks like a kind of mutated Dr. Seuss character, with that chin beard and what I find to be a suspicious and disturbing elfin expression.
Anyway, meditation is good, vomit is bad, breasts are very good, cats are good if they don’t have testicles, Halloween III is awesome and Tom Atkins is the best!
It’s morning in America and I’m happy to report that things are swell. Halloween is coming and the leaves, too, are blushing, as am I. In fact, last night I indulged in yet another viewing of my all-time favorite spooky mood movie “Halloween III: Season of the Witch.” I was further thrilled to be joined by my son, Max, who commented to me so sharply during the closing credits, in heartfelt disbelief, “THAT’S your favorite horror movie?!!”
Yes, it is, my young pup, and I’ll never be able to explain it to anyone who doesn’t understand the strange, spooky subtleties of the Halloween spirit—a kind of kid-like magic that surrounds things like autumn-time hide-and-seek in the dark, diving under bushes to avoid detection when one of Conal Cochran’s evil robots drives by in a white Mazda … (After all, what does anyone under 30 understand about being a kid?!) Sure, it’s a bit over-the-top in places, but shouldn’t we give ourselves over to such experiences, like my cat did?
But I’m being vague, and that’s not why you visit this Blah-ugh! … I don’t think. Why DO you visit this Blah-ugh! anyway? I mean, what exactly is your problem? (I know what MINE is, after all, but that’s why I take the medication.)
Anyway, if for no other reason, Halloween III is worth the viewing for Tom Atkins’ terrific honest acting reactions each time he’s faced with a violence scene. As you know, Atkins plays Dr. Dan Chalice—brilliantly—subtly—and when this grisly, hulking, mustachioed actor moans and reacts, it’s so perfectly authentic. For instance, when he’s punching one of the guards and the guy doesn’t even flinch. “Oo-oh!” Atkins moans—a model of depth and truth. He should have been the hero in the Die Hard movies, and yes, my ignorant child, Dr. Chalice will remain one of my all-time favorite fictional heroes, right up there with Capt. Kirk, Mr. Thackery, Ed Wood and Andre Gregory.
Now, I intended to talk about meditation, as you garnered from the title, but we all know what good intentions are, or what good it is having them, especially when you have no intention of following them. But I did, and that’s why I’m confused, or at least I’m GETTING confusing in a tough effort to keep YOU from being confused … You see, ironically all I can think about right now is that I just realized orange juice gives me upflux, and this is ironic because meditation is all about concentration and not letting your thoughts drift to vomit or breasts—not letting vomit-covered breasts cloud your anchoring to the present moment.
So what can I really say about meditating anyway, except I’ve been practicing it. Hell, I don’t even know what meditation’s about, nor should, because if I did I’d be one of those hype frauds, like Wayne Dwyer, or Dyer, or whatever his name is. Now, in my critical estimation, there’s a nervous man. When you listen to his tapes you can just hear his teeth grinding. That’s why I’m a dedicated Deepak Chopra man and proud of it. I always feel like Deepak is embarrassed at having to be commercial, but his handlers keep encouraging it.
My newest discovery is Eggbert Tolle (Reinhart … some German name). He’s really on the money with his crap, I must say, and I’m getting a lot out of HIS book. The hardest part—and believe me, it took me a full year—was getting over the disturbing picture of him on the back, where he looks like a kind of mutated Dr. Seuss character, with that chin beard and what I find to be a suspicious and disturbing elfin expression.
Anyway, meditation is good, vomit is bad, breasts are very good, cats are good if they don’t have testicles, Halloween III is awesome and Tom Atkins is the best!
Thursday, September 13, 2012
The Unceremonious Removal of My Cat's Testi
September 13, 2012: Well, the moment's fast approaching when we'll remove my cat Bob's testicles. I, for one, am looking forward to getting it done. It's not that I wish ill of him -- in fact, he's a fetching young gentleman with a heart of gold -- but he's apparently starting this onorous (and odorous) practice of "spraying" around the house, and it stinks of weird ammonia and feh, and we've got to put a stop to it ASAP. (Lord only knows WHAT this little fiend is spraying -- I mean, it may be urine or it may be something worse!)
But I'm grateful to the authorities who will perform this necessary operation, and while I like the idea of keeping people natural -- I mean, come on! I certainly wouldn't want you removing MY testicles, at least not without a good reason -- it's good to do as Bob Barker used to always advise us at the end of "The Price Is Right" and remember spay and neuter your pet. (And while I don't intend to do BOTH, I think doing at least ONE is a good thing where Bob is concerned. And, mind you, I'm not even really sure WHICH we're doing -- I mean, I never said I was a knowledgable writer, just a witty one -- but the unceremonious plucking of his little man marbles must certainly fall into one category or another ...)
But more to our point, isn't it just too easy to make jokes about such a dire event?! It's like laughing at the death of some old movie actress who had a bookcase fall on her, or a decrepit right-wing politician, who got anal cancer ... I can do better, probably, or at least keep this dumb Blah-ugh! moving without resorting to cheap laughs ... Hmmm ... Or CAN I ?? ...
There's little other news to report. I was, once again, highly disappointed by the poor attendance at my speaking engagement last night, and while many of you were there with me in spirit, it was only because I invested mental energy fantasizing about gouging your respective eyes out with my quill pen (or unceremoniously removing your testisticles with tweezers).
On another note, I watched this weak but intriguing movie called "16 Blocks" -- at least, I THINK that's what it was called. It was a rather hokey and generally predictable cop suspense movie with Bruce Willis as a cop who, looking back over the movie, probably only had about five lines, and instead spent his performance looking all hungover and despondent. And it was really a pretty good performance, as well as one could expect him to perform. Of course, I spent an equal amount of time wondering about his hair, because I was sure he was bald already. I mean, I know he shaves his head to NOT look bald -- which is a weird, remarkable irony of modern aging man -- but suddenly he had a kind of LOT of hair, but it was not really THAT much, if you know what I mean. In other words, I kept thinking that if this was a hairpiece, it was a hairpiece aimed at making him look like he was losing his hair ... and it may have been. I don't know. It was certainly dyed -- that kind of rusty red-brown colored that men will dye their hair in the movies, or the hairdresser will dye ... All I know is Demi Moore certainly made a fool of herself going after that young idiot, whose name escapes me, and then getting dumped. And all the surgery! Ugh! It makes me want to plotz! Willis handled it like a gentleman, which was probably the advise of a good agent, and now he's got continuing work while she spends her time lurking in the bushes outside her ex's house and sniffing amyl nitrate and trying to keep her face from cracking with hot bee's wax treatments ...
But I'm being tangential, because I really wanted to comment on Willis's costar, who is this guy Def Moss, or Moss Def, or Deft Mos, or something quite around there, and I have no idea how anyone gets such a name. It makes me want to plotz! If my cat had that name, I'd have removed his testicles long ago ...
Anyway, despite his odd name, this person had the most remarkably funny cute weird voice. I mean, it was intriguing. I've never heard such a voice, and he talked and talked all through the movie, and I found myself holding my breath trying to figure out where he got such a strange voice. I guess even Willis was mesmerized, because he wasn't saying anything either ...
Anyway, I recommend the movie if you have nothing better to do and it's free to rent from the library and you don't particularly care for Demi Moore and don't want to make your testicles hurt more than they already do.
Which makes me wonder if there's a movie out there that centers on the removal of a cat's personal parts. If not, I could see an intriguing storyline to develop involving doctors and Bob Barker and money and sex and fame, and you could get this guy Deaf Moseley to play the voice of the cat ... Shee-it!
But I'm grateful to the authorities who will perform this necessary operation, and while I like the idea of keeping people natural -- I mean, come on! I certainly wouldn't want you removing MY testicles, at least not without a good reason -- it's good to do as Bob Barker used to always advise us at the end of "The Price Is Right" and remember spay and neuter your pet. (And while I don't intend to do BOTH, I think doing at least ONE is a good thing where Bob is concerned. And, mind you, I'm not even really sure WHICH we're doing -- I mean, I never said I was a knowledgable writer, just a witty one -- but the unceremonious plucking of his little man marbles must certainly fall into one category or another ...)
But more to our point, isn't it just too easy to make jokes about such a dire event?! It's like laughing at the death of some old movie actress who had a bookcase fall on her, or a decrepit right-wing politician, who got anal cancer ... I can do better, probably, or at least keep this dumb Blah-ugh! moving without resorting to cheap laughs ... Hmmm ... Or CAN I ?? ...
There's little other news to report. I was, once again, highly disappointed by the poor attendance at my speaking engagement last night, and while many of you were there with me in spirit, it was only because I invested mental energy fantasizing about gouging your respective eyes out with my quill pen (or unceremoniously removing your testisticles with tweezers).
On another note, I watched this weak but intriguing movie called "16 Blocks" -- at least, I THINK that's what it was called. It was a rather hokey and generally predictable cop suspense movie with Bruce Willis as a cop who, looking back over the movie, probably only had about five lines, and instead spent his performance looking all hungover and despondent. And it was really a pretty good performance, as well as one could expect him to perform. Of course, I spent an equal amount of time wondering about his hair, because I was sure he was bald already. I mean, I know he shaves his head to NOT look bald -- which is a weird, remarkable irony of modern aging man -- but suddenly he had a kind of LOT of hair, but it was not really THAT much, if you know what I mean. In other words, I kept thinking that if this was a hairpiece, it was a hairpiece aimed at making him look like he was losing his hair ... and it may have been. I don't know. It was certainly dyed -- that kind of rusty red-brown colored that men will dye their hair in the movies, or the hairdresser will dye ... All I know is Demi Moore certainly made a fool of herself going after that young idiot, whose name escapes me, and then getting dumped. And all the surgery! Ugh! It makes me want to plotz! Willis handled it like a gentleman, which was probably the advise of a good agent, and now he's got continuing work while she spends her time lurking in the bushes outside her ex's house and sniffing amyl nitrate and trying to keep her face from cracking with hot bee's wax treatments ...
But I'm being tangential, because I really wanted to comment on Willis's costar, who is this guy Def Moss, or Moss Def, or Deft Mos, or something quite around there, and I have no idea how anyone gets such a name. It makes me want to plotz! If my cat had that name, I'd have removed his testicles long ago ...
Anyway, despite his odd name, this person had the most remarkably funny cute weird voice. I mean, it was intriguing. I've never heard such a voice, and he talked and talked all through the movie, and I found myself holding my breath trying to figure out where he got such a strange voice. I guess even Willis was mesmerized, because he wasn't saying anything either ...
Anyway, I recommend the movie if you have nothing better to do and it's free to rent from the library and you don't particularly care for Demi Moore and don't want to make your testicles hurt more than they already do.
Which makes me wonder if there's a movie out there that centers on the removal of a cat's personal parts. If not, I could see an intriguing storyline to develop involving doctors and Bob Barker and money and sex and fame, and you could get this guy Deaf Moseley to play the voice of the cat ... Shee-it!
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Michael Enders Made My Day ... (and Of Course Sue Too!)
September 9, 2012: I'm not sure who Michael Enders is, exactly -- and I certainly hope we're not old friends or something -- but he really just made my evening complete. You see, because I DON'T know who he is, and yet he was scrumptious enough to actually respond to my stupid Blah-ugh!, I am just overjoyed and am now motivating myself to write another one of these stupid entries ...
Thank you, Michael Enders -- or CURSE you, as I'm sure some readers are thinking -- those of you who keep waiting for me to die, keep hoping this will be the LAST entry and that you can chuckle your disconcerting snortle and say, "See! I knew he'd eventually die an evil death owing to his overt anti-everything-ism ... Dirty bastard!"
Anyway, enough about Michael Enders. I don't know who the hell he is or what he wants from me, except he seemed to have some interesting insights, or he made a good joke or something. I don't even remember now. I just want you all to love him as much as I do at this moment, or did in the last moment ...
Okay, so, the next issue is WHY I got hit in the eye so much today. It's very odd. My left eye in particular. The first time was at my daughter's softball practice this afternoon, and let me tell you this big gold-yellow ball skipped right off the homeplate and shot right into my left prescription sunglass. "Ouch!" I said, and then proceeded to vehemently posture this way and that to make it clear I was hurt. (No one seemed that concerned, so I just stopped.)
Then, as if this wasn't enough abuse, I got a splash of this new clumping cat litter in that very same eye later this night. I mean, the coincidence was maddening. And imagine my shocked disappointed pissed-offedness when, after FINALLY buying the "clumping" kind of litter instead of the cheapest generic clay brand, which quickly turns into ammonia and very well may have burned my lungs out from cleaning it -- and god knows what it's doing to those stupid cats -- I finally, FINALLY get this expensive box of clumping crap ... And here I am opening -- struggling to open -- this stupid fancy-schmancy designer box, having to push in this stupid fancy-schmancy opening, when POP!!! A veritable hailstorm of tiny rocks shoots out of that opening like so many asteroids bound for a doomed and endangered planet -- earth possibly, or Krypton.
I worry about my eyes, now and again anyway. I like my eyes, even though I have froglike lids and my eyebrows have been deforming in later life ...
The point is, I WILL be appearing at the New Haven Public Library on Thursday, I think at 6pm, to talk about SPACE CASE and e-publishing and e-publishing SPACE CASE, and why it has so many typos, and why my eyebrows look so funny these days ...
The irony is that I think it's actually called the New Haven "Free" Library, and yet you're going to be charged an admission price if you come. Come if you can, but be ready to pay, and perhaps more than with your life, which I won't refund, no matter how much you try to sweet talk me ...
Stick with me, folks! I'll have you regretting your Internet connection in no time ...
Thank you, Michael Enders -- or CURSE you, as I'm sure some readers are thinking -- those of you who keep waiting for me to die, keep hoping this will be the LAST entry and that you can chuckle your disconcerting snortle and say, "See! I knew he'd eventually die an evil death owing to his overt anti-everything-ism ... Dirty bastard!"
Anyway, enough about Michael Enders. I don't know who the hell he is or what he wants from me, except he seemed to have some interesting insights, or he made a good joke or something. I don't even remember now. I just want you all to love him as much as I do at this moment, or did in the last moment ...
Okay, so, the next issue is WHY I got hit in the eye so much today. It's very odd. My left eye in particular. The first time was at my daughter's softball practice this afternoon, and let me tell you this big gold-yellow ball skipped right off the homeplate and shot right into my left prescription sunglass. "Ouch!" I said, and then proceeded to vehemently posture this way and that to make it clear I was hurt. (No one seemed that concerned, so I just stopped.)
Then, as if this wasn't enough abuse, I got a splash of this new clumping cat litter in that very same eye later this night. I mean, the coincidence was maddening. And imagine my shocked disappointed pissed-offedness when, after FINALLY buying the "clumping" kind of litter instead of the cheapest generic clay brand, which quickly turns into ammonia and very well may have burned my lungs out from cleaning it -- and god knows what it's doing to those stupid cats -- I finally, FINALLY get this expensive box of clumping crap ... And here I am opening -- struggling to open -- this stupid fancy-schmancy designer box, having to push in this stupid fancy-schmancy opening, when POP!!! A veritable hailstorm of tiny rocks shoots out of that opening like so many asteroids bound for a doomed and endangered planet -- earth possibly, or Krypton.
I worry about my eyes, now and again anyway. I like my eyes, even though I have froglike lids and my eyebrows have been deforming in later life ...
The point is, I WILL be appearing at the New Haven Public Library on Thursday, I think at 6pm, to talk about SPACE CASE and e-publishing and e-publishing SPACE CASE, and why it has so many typos, and why my eyebrows look so funny these days ...
The irony is that I think it's actually called the New Haven "Free" Library, and yet you're going to be charged an admission price if you come. Come if you can, but be ready to pay, and perhaps more than with your life, which I won't refund, no matter how much you try to sweet talk me ...
Stick with me, folks! I'll have you regretting your Internet connection in no time ...
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Which Indians are Worse -- India's or the Seattles?
August 29, 2012: I don't know what you did today, but I spent the afternoon yelling at Indians. Ironically, I love Indians -- or, as I call them, the Indian people -- but the bitter maelstrom that has become my communcations life forced me -- yes, it literally forced me -- into waxing violent with these level-headed peace-loving people who wear dots on their collective foreheads for some reason that western man is still struggling to understand.
To begin, I strongly recommend that you never have an "Msn" email account. Thanks to their stupidity -- at least I think it's their stupidity, or it may be someone else's, possibly mine -- but I at least know in this scenario they've acted with a remarkable 21st-century brand of stupidity -- and thanks to that stupidity, I may never see my email account again. This means that all the information that I have stored there -- literally eight-years-worth of letters, notes, files -- everything you could imagine, including some prime examples of erotic art composed entirely from typing the letter "x" over and over in specific patterns -- has been plucked from my world. They assured me today, in fact, (after hanging up on me several times over the course of several hours) that I very well may never see my email again!
So where does this leave me? Well, today's journey began in New Delhi, or so I was told. I even gave this man -- I think he was a man, and his name was either Eric or Ali -- access to my very computer. "You can trust me," he kept saying, because I kept assuring him that I knew full-well that this was all some kind of elaborate scam to screw me -- screw with my mind and steal my identity. (Now, why anyone would want to steal my identity, I can't even begin to imagine, but as we all know, the world is thick with remarkably sick individuals, so the more surprising fact is that more people don't try to steal my identity.)
Where was I? So, this Indian character remoted into my computer, and let me tell you, it was like having a proctologist sticking his finger in your ass. I mean, suddenly someone is moving your cursor about, and he seemed to be poking into all sorts of strange places, and for the life of me I still don't know why. "Don't worry," he kept saying (or at least I think that's what he said, because it was hard to understand that accent, and he may have been saying "Eat curry!").
"How do I know you won't be going on my computer all the time now?" I asked, and while he offered some mumbo-jumbo about passwords and such, I will certainly go to sleep tonight just ASSUMING he's going on there and trying to find my pornography cache (the dirty bastard). And if that isn't enough, imagine my emotional reaction later this evening when I tried to use the computer and the keyboard no longer worked! It turned out to be the battery (because it's one of these stupid wireless invisible floating keyboards or something), but am I really supposed to believe that was a coincidence?! Nice try, New Delhi!!
All I know is that when I tried to sign onto my email yesterday evening, the computer told me someone "may" have been trying to sign on besides me (possibly EJ, more likely Shannon), and so they froze everything until such time as I can PROVE it's actually my account, and etc. and etc.
The problem is, as yet I've been unable to adequately answer their odd collection of questions that would supposedly solve this. These include typing the exact subject lines of emails I've recently sent, as well as a mysterious question about my favorite historical figure that still has me baffled, as I don't have one. (I may have put Orson Welles, but it was so long ago, I'm completely miffed!) Anyway, they're having none of it -- while someone else has the ability to "hack" into my email, clearly I'll never be able to.
Further, they've been unnecessarily difficult about even entertaining my calls to the support line. In fact, one line -- the special one for customers like me who supposedly have some stupid specialized account that costs something-or-other -- simply won't give me a live person. Instead, the recorded woman -- who sounds like someone is lovingly shoving marshmallows up her ass while she's talking to you -- keeps hanging up on me because I'm not providing the right phone number ... The problem is -- as if this isn't a litany of enough problems -- for the life of me, I have no recollection of what phone number started the account so many years ago, and so I can't provide one. It's really quite an extraordinary Catch-22 situation, and if I wasn't so very used to my warped life consisting of literal comedy episode after comedy episode, I'd be more disturbed than I am ...
The bottom line is, when all else fails, rage at the Indians to whom Microsoft has outsourced so many jobs. Honestly, I really don't care, but someone cares, so if it can add to your dislike of Microsoft, I'll gladly push that button. I blame it (and the northwest region) for this whole debacle.
For me, the Indians I've spoked with are lovely, and part of it may simply be that we don't understand one another anyway, and are always too shy to ask what the other actually said, so that makes relating much more joy-filled ... I just spend the conversation alternately thanking them profusely every time they indicate that they're "trying something," and then raging at them after it doesn't work ...
I'm not sure where this leaves me, except I started a "gmail" email account now, but it doesn't seem like there's much point, as I don't have anyone's email address, let alone much motivation to again commit myself -- extend myself -- out into the ether for more of this cyber-screwing.
I did, however, just check that new gmail, and the only email there is is from Microsoft saying that, due to heavy volume, it may now be -- are you ready for this -- 5 TO 7 DAYS before they EVEN RESPOND to the guesses I made about my information, to let me know whether or not they'll let me back in to the account ...
It's all too much, as George Harrison sang. It's all too much. I never knew he was talking about his experiences in India, where his luggage was probably lost, or some such nonsense ...
Anyway, feel free to send sympathetic missives to jarretliotta@gmail.com, and give serious consideration to buying ANOTHER copy of SPACE CASE out of sheer pity, if you don't already own two ...
To begin, I strongly recommend that you never have an "Msn" email account. Thanks to their stupidity -- at least I think it's their stupidity, or it may be someone else's, possibly mine -- but I at least know in this scenario they've acted with a remarkable 21st-century brand of stupidity -- and thanks to that stupidity, I may never see my email account again. This means that all the information that I have stored there -- literally eight-years-worth of letters, notes, files -- everything you could imagine, including some prime examples of erotic art composed entirely from typing the letter "x" over and over in specific patterns -- has been plucked from my world. They assured me today, in fact, (after hanging up on me several times over the course of several hours) that I very well may never see my email again!
So where does this leave me? Well, today's journey began in New Delhi, or so I was told. I even gave this man -- I think he was a man, and his name was either Eric or Ali -- access to my very computer. "You can trust me," he kept saying, because I kept assuring him that I knew full-well that this was all some kind of elaborate scam to screw me -- screw with my mind and steal my identity. (Now, why anyone would want to steal my identity, I can't even begin to imagine, but as we all know, the world is thick with remarkably sick individuals, so the more surprising fact is that more people don't try to steal my identity.)
Where was I? So, this Indian character remoted into my computer, and let me tell you, it was like having a proctologist sticking his finger in your ass. I mean, suddenly someone is moving your cursor about, and he seemed to be poking into all sorts of strange places, and for the life of me I still don't know why. "Don't worry," he kept saying (or at least I think that's what he said, because it was hard to understand that accent, and he may have been saying "Eat curry!").
"How do I know you won't be going on my computer all the time now?" I asked, and while he offered some mumbo-jumbo about passwords and such, I will certainly go to sleep tonight just ASSUMING he's going on there and trying to find my pornography cache (the dirty bastard). And if that isn't enough, imagine my emotional reaction later this evening when I tried to use the computer and the keyboard no longer worked! It turned out to be the battery (because it's one of these stupid wireless invisible floating keyboards or something), but am I really supposed to believe that was a coincidence?! Nice try, New Delhi!!
All I know is that when I tried to sign onto my email yesterday evening, the computer told me someone "may" have been trying to sign on besides me (possibly EJ, more likely Shannon), and so they froze everything until such time as I can PROVE it's actually my account, and etc. and etc.
The problem is, as yet I've been unable to adequately answer their odd collection of questions that would supposedly solve this. These include typing the exact subject lines of emails I've recently sent, as well as a mysterious question about my favorite historical figure that still has me baffled, as I don't have one. (I may have put Orson Welles, but it was so long ago, I'm completely miffed!) Anyway, they're having none of it -- while someone else has the ability to "hack" into my email, clearly I'll never be able to.
Further, they've been unnecessarily difficult about even entertaining my calls to the support line. In fact, one line -- the special one for customers like me who supposedly have some stupid specialized account that costs something-or-other -- simply won't give me a live person. Instead, the recorded woman -- who sounds like someone is lovingly shoving marshmallows up her ass while she's talking to you -- keeps hanging up on me because I'm not providing the right phone number ... The problem is -- as if this isn't a litany of enough problems -- for the life of me, I have no recollection of what phone number started the account so many years ago, and so I can't provide one. It's really quite an extraordinary Catch-22 situation, and if I wasn't so very used to my warped life consisting of literal comedy episode after comedy episode, I'd be more disturbed than I am ...
The bottom line is, when all else fails, rage at the Indians to whom Microsoft has outsourced so many jobs. Honestly, I really don't care, but someone cares, so if it can add to your dislike of Microsoft, I'll gladly push that button. I blame it (and the northwest region) for this whole debacle.
For me, the Indians I've spoked with are lovely, and part of it may simply be that we don't understand one another anyway, and are always too shy to ask what the other actually said, so that makes relating much more joy-filled ... I just spend the conversation alternately thanking them profusely every time they indicate that they're "trying something," and then raging at them after it doesn't work ...
I'm not sure where this leaves me, except I started a "gmail" email account now, but it doesn't seem like there's much point, as I don't have anyone's email address, let alone much motivation to again commit myself -- extend myself -- out into the ether for more of this cyber-screwing.
I did, however, just check that new gmail, and the only email there is is from Microsoft saying that, due to heavy volume, it may now be -- are you ready for this -- 5 TO 7 DAYS before they EVEN RESPOND to the guesses I made about my information, to let me know whether or not they'll let me back in to the account ...
It's all too much, as George Harrison sang. It's all too much. I never knew he was talking about his experiences in India, where his luggage was probably lost, or some such nonsense ...
Anyway, feel free to send sympathetic missives to jarretliotta@gmail.com, and give serious consideration to buying ANOTHER copy of SPACE CASE out of sheer pity, if you don't already own two ...
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Bad Dreams or Good Reality
August 25, 2012: Requests continue pouring in for further Blah-ugh! entries. Myriad topics remain left untouched and people are starting to worry—my anxiety, my diarrhea, my constipation, my mother, my mother’s constipation, my mother’s mother’s constipation … It’s hard to know where to begin!
Recent events have influenced the direction of my life, meaning the things that happened to me over the past few weeks have directly impacted these last few weeks. (And if you’ve fallen for that mumbo-jumbo, it’s no wonder America’s in the kind of shape it is!)
Which reminds me of a hysterical and simultaneously awful dream I had last night, wherein it was revealed that President Obama was fooling us all by really being a foreigner, and during one symposium he inadvertently began speaking with a heavy west African accent until one of his handlers kind of smacked him really hard on the shoulder and he stopped. (It’s still unclear to me how I knew it was a west Africa accent, and I’m probably a racist for thinking it, although I’m not sure why for that, and it all just goes to demonstrate that I either read too much Joseph Conrad or not enough.)
Anyway, I hate to report negatively on Obama, even though I’ve always suspected his name was somehow linked to terrorism. As many of you know—and even fewer of you care—I’ve literally garnered extensive scientific research demonstrating the fallacy of the Republican platform, and indisputably determined what fallices so many of them are. But at the end of the day, anybody who’d enter politics has got to be deranged. And if they’re not deranged, I’m far too lazy and disinterested to determine otherwise, and so will continue to focus my attention on art, spirituality and photos of naked women on the Internet.
On another note, I’ve been researching trees—not extensively, but I have this great children’s Golden Guide book that provides all the information I need to differentiate an oak from a sycamore. It’s a rather hysterical book, actually, because it emphasizes the importance of trees for the good of mankind, in particular for things like baseball bats, ship masts and tennis rackets. (I keep waiting to read something about the oxygen factor, but I guess they didn’t know about that back in 1969.) I can’t tell you how fascinating I find the identification of trees—at least the ones I know. I consider it a badge of pride that I can handily ID tulips, sycamore and catalpas. Of course, elms are harder, but part of that may be that they’re all wiped out. I’m not sure. After all, it’s only a children’s book.
Finally, I think it’s high time to have our cat fixed. A stolid young gentleman, Bob’s spastic outbursts continue to disrupt family members and cause pillows to be unceremoniously knocked to the floor. I’ve long suspected that the removal of testicles would work miles toward aligning his disposition and bringing him into the family fold. Plus, he’s begun getting a bit rude and forward with the older, fatter cat, who, like all of us, finds his rear advances both distasteful and vaguely frightening.
Recent events have influenced the direction of my life, meaning the things that happened to me over the past few weeks have directly impacted these last few weeks. (And if you’ve fallen for that mumbo-jumbo, it’s no wonder America’s in the kind of shape it is!)
Which reminds me of a hysterical and simultaneously awful dream I had last night, wherein it was revealed that President Obama was fooling us all by really being a foreigner, and during one symposium he inadvertently began speaking with a heavy west African accent until one of his handlers kind of smacked him really hard on the shoulder and he stopped. (It’s still unclear to me how I knew it was a west Africa accent, and I’m probably a racist for thinking it, although I’m not sure why for that, and it all just goes to demonstrate that I either read too much Joseph Conrad or not enough.)
Anyway, I hate to report negatively on Obama, even though I’ve always suspected his name was somehow linked to terrorism. As many of you know—and even fewer of you care—I’ve literally garnered extensive scientific research demonstrating the fallacy of the Republican platform, and indisputably determined what fallices so many of them are. But at the end of the day, anybody who’d enter politics has got to be deranged. And if they’re not deranged, I’m far too lazy and disinterested to determine otherwise, and so will continue to focus my attention on art, spirituality and photos of naked women on the Internet.
On another note, I’ve been researching trees—not extensively, but I have this great children’s Golden Guide book that provides all the information I need to differentiate an oak from a sycamore. It’s a rather hysterical book, actually, because it emphasizes the importance of trees for the good of mankind, in particular for things like baseball bats, ship masts and tennis rackets. (I keep waiting to read something about the oxygen factor, but I guess they didn’t know about that back in 1969.) I can’t tell you how fascinating I find the identification of trees—at least the ones I know. I consider it a badge of pride that I can handily ID tulips, sycamore and catalpas. Of course, elms are harder, but part of that may be that they’re all wiped out. I’m not sure. After all, it’s only a children’s book.
Finally, I think it’s high time to have our cat fixed. A stolid young gentleman, Bob’s spastic outbursts continue to disrupt family members and cause pillows to be unceremoniously knocked to the floor. I’ve long suspected that the removal of testicles would work miles toward aligning his disposition and bringing him into the family fold. Plus, he’s begun getting a bit rude and forward with the older, fatter cat, who, like all of us, finds his rear advances both distasteful and vaguely frightening.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Crap In General (and General Crap)
August 5, 2012: Well, hello everybody! I'd like to say it was nice to see you again -- figuratively, of course -- but in reality I'm very hot and sticky and cranky, and I don't really have any good feelings toward you at all right now, despite a vague appreciation that you are here with me after all -- figuratively, that is -- and that has to mean something, although it could merely be a symptom of your innate selfishness or demented voyeurism.
That said, there are so many, many things to catch up on ... and yet I'm so cranky and sticky and hot that I'm in absolutely no mood to begin recounting everything. Sufficie it to say that everyone in the outside world remains stupid and self-centered, I remain baffled and disturbed, and the disconnect between me and reality continues
to grow exponentially.
On a positive note, I've seen some really good movies lately, including (for the eighth time) John Carpenter's "Vampires," which is really just one of the greatest of its kind. Jack Crow, the Catholic church's expert vampire slayer, is the role James Woods was meant to play, soundly accentuated by the subtle skilled work of Daniel Baldwin -- the best Baldwin brother, for sure -- as the reliable Montoyo. This really is a brilliant horror movie -- loads of fun, slick and corny -- everything you could want from the genre -- and best of all centered on characters that aren't teenagers!
That said, I found the new "Amazing Spiderman" a bit disappointing for that very reason -- too much "Twilight"-type dialogue, unstably supported by a weak actress with bugged-out eyes and a new Peter Parker who is definitely not Toby Maguire. Lots of the special effects were good, and the story -- while a weird departure from the classic origin -- and let me tell you, it's classic for a very good reason -- is fair and fine, such as it is ... But ... But ... I don't know. I just don't know! Perhaps this new incarnation can redeem itself by including some of the more important villains in the next movies -- Mysterio, perhaps, or the Scorpion or Electro ... If not, it may just have to mumble its way into tepid obscurity.
What else? Geez, how the hell should I know. I'm so sticky and short-minded and hot and crampy, all I want to do is climb in the freezer and rest my parts on the ice tray. That, in turn, reminds me that we've got to get the cat fixed for a variety of reasons, the least of which is it might teach him a lesson for knocking over three glasses in the kitchen (the stupid fool!).
I'm also looking for a new car -- that is an old new car (or a new old one). I'm certainly not up to having to track one down, and yet I'm also not relishing the prospect of a rich taperstry of new problems should I fail to secure one in the next few days. Were I smart, I'd pack up and move to the city, but I'm coming to realize more and more, as each sweaty day passes me, that I was never quite as smart as I thought I was. Unfortunately, I'm now getting just smart enough to realize that ...
But enough about me. You came here to find out where modern culture was heading, and I assure you it's not really moving anywhere. That's probably a good thing. It makes valid the perpetual regurgitation of everything classic, for lack of better things new. It explains why magazines like Rolling Stone (which is crappy) and Mojo (which is crummy, but my kind of crummy) keep putting Led Zeppelin and The Beatles on their covers, respectively, and why "The Catcher in the Rye" still gets printed up the wazoo.
Speaking of books, there's a brilliant new humorous sci-fi novel out that my son is reading as we speak. I can't recall the name, but if you come back here next week, I'll try and report it ...
That said, there are so many, many things to catch up on ... and yet I'm so cranky and sticky and hot that I'm in absolutely no mood to begin recounting everything. Sufficie it to say that everyone in the outside world remains stupid and self-centered, I remain baffled and disturbed, and the disconnect between me and reality continues
to grow exponentially.
On a positive note, I've seen some really good movies lately, including (for the eighth time) John Carpenter's "Vampires," which is really just one of the greatest of its kind. Jack Crow, the Catholic church's expert vampire slayer, is the role James Woods was meant to play, soundly accentuated by the subtle skilled work of Daniel Baldwin -- the best Baldwin brother, for sure -- as the reliable Montoyo. This really is a brilliant horror movie -- loads of fun, slick and corny -- everything you could want from the genre -- and best of all centered on characters that aren't teenagers!
That said, I found the new "Amazing Spiderman" a bit disappointing for that very reason -- too much "Twilight"-type dialogue, unstably supported by a weak actress with bugged-out eyes and a new Peter Parker who is definitely not Toby Maguire. Lots of the special effects were good, and the story -- while a weird departure from the classic origin -- and let me tell you, it's classic for a very good reason -- is fair and fine, such as it is ... But ... But ... I don't know. I just don't know! Perhaps this new incarnation can redeem itself by including some of the more important villains in the next movies -- Mysterio, perhaps, or the Scorpion or Electro ... If not, it may just have to mumble its way into tepid obscurity.
What else? Geez, how the hell should I know. I'm so sticky and short-minded and hot and crampy, all I want to do is climb in the freezer and rest my parts on the ice tray. That, in turn, reminds me that we've got to get the cat fixed for a variety of reasons, the least of which is it might teach him a lesson for knocking over three glasses in the kitchen (the stupid fool!).
I'm also looking for a new car -- that is an old new car (or a new old one). I'm certainly not up to having to track one down, and yet I'm also not relishing the prospect of a rich taperstry of new problems should I fail to secure one in the next few days. Were I smart, I'd pack up and move to the city, but I'm coming to realize more and more, as each sweaty day passes me, that I was never quite as smart as I thought I was. Unfortunately, I'm now getting just smart enough to realize that ...
But enough about me. You came here to find out where modern culture was heading, and I assure you it's not really moving anywhere. That's probably a good thing. It makes valid the perpetual regurgitation of everything classic, for lack of better things new. It explains why magazines like Rolling Stone (which is crappy) and Mojo (which is crummy, but my kind of crummy) keep putting Led Zeppelin and The Beatles on their covers, respectively, and why "The Catcher in the Rye" still gets printed up the wazoo.
Speaking of books, there's a brilliant new humorous sci-fi novel out that my son is reading as we speak. I can't recall the name, but if you come back here next week, I'll try and report it ...
Monday, July 23, 2012
Does This Read Like a Rhetorical Blah-ugh! Essay?!
July 23, 2012: What is it about Glen Campbell I love so much, anyway?! It's a rhetorical question, and I'm never sure whether you're supposed to put a question mark, so I always compensate by putting both an exclamation mark AND a question mark. How's that for conscientious?! (See?!)
Anyway, it's my kind of morning -- heavy rain, moody clouds and lots of thunder. The cats are being pleasant -- that is, the little cat is being sweet and friendly, but the fat one followed up pooping on the basement floor by vomiting in the kitchen. Still, they're better than some people I know, who poop everywhere!
And speaking of poop, I was recalling this great comment John Lennon made in some documentary, wherein he references that the quality of a given song he'd written on some day may have just been the result of his having had a good (dare I say, sound) bowel movement that day. And it makes sense, if you think about it. After all, what myriad details of living craft the precarious state of my emotions at any given time?!
For instance, this thunderstorm just set me straight, and now that it's clearing up I'm getting depressed. Frequent Blah-ugh! readers will (or won't) recall that I favor British weather to the skin-burning sun of modern summer, and any chance to be enveloped by the lovely hydraulic gauze of nature's natural sprinkler is, for me, just peachy keen.
On another note, I'm sitting here nude right now, as some of my regular Blah-ugh! readers may (or may not) realize, and I'm wondering if the front door being open constitutes my being some kind of public spectacle. It's certainly not my intention, as my regular Blah-ugh! readers would (or wouldn't) understand. It's just that I was about to shower when I was sucked into listening to this Glen Campbell album and felt compelled to let you know -- my regular (and irregular) Blah-ugh! readers -- that Glen is among the most underrated performers of the 20th century. Certainly, his is among my five all-time favorite singing voices, the others being Lennon, Lulu, Brian Wilson and Sam Cooke.
Anyway, I've got to go now. Put that in your pipe and smoke it! Don't forget to buy my Youtube video at this location, and watch "Space Case" if and when you've got the nerve ... And keep watching the flagpoles, because I note they're STILL all at half-mast and I have no F***ING idea why!
Anyway, it's my kind of morning -- heavy rain, moody clouds and lots of thunder. The cats are being pleasant -- that is, the little cat is being sweet and friendly, but the fat one followed up pooping on the basement floor by vomiting in the kitchen. Still, they're better than some people I know, who poop everywhere!
And speaking of poop, I was recalling this great comment John Lennon made in some documentary, wherein he references that the quality of a given song he'd written on some day may have just been the result of his having had a good (dare I say, sound) bowel movement that day. And it makes sense, if you think about it. After all, what myriad details of living craft the precarious state of my emotions at any given time?!
For instance, this thunderstorm just set me straight, and now that it's clearing up I'm getting depressed. Frequent Blah-ugh! readers will (or won't) recall that I favor British weather to the skin-burning sun of modern summer, and any chance to be enveloped by the lovely hydraulic gauze of nature's natural sprinkler is, for me, just peachy keen.
On another note, I'm sitting here nude right now, as some of my regular Blah-ugh! readers may (or may not) realize, and I'm wondering if the front door being open constitutes my being some kind of public spectacle. It's certainly not my intention, as my regular Blah-ugh! readers would (or wouldn't) understand. It's just that I was about to shower when I was sucked into listening to this Glen Campbell album and felt compelled to let you know -- my regular (and irregular) Blah-ugh! readers -- that Glen is among the most underrated performers of the 20th century. Certainly, his is among my five all-time favorite singing voices, the others being Lennon, Lulu, Brian Wilson and Sam Cooke.
Anyway, I've got to go now. Put that in your pipe and smoke it! Don't forget to buy my Youtube video at this location, and watch "Space Case" if and when you've got the nerve ... And keep watching the flagpoles, because I note they're STILL all at half-mast and I have no F***ING idea why!
Monday, July 16, 2012
Half a Fla-ugh! is Better Than None!
July 16, 2012: I noticed something odd the other day. (And why should we be surprised to find odd things, what with Washington airports being named after Iran-Contra Scandal principals, and Watergate perpetrators being put on stamps?! ... No, nothing surprises me anymore. I don't even surprise myself, except when I come out of the shower, and then it's more shock than anything ...)
Still, this was -- and is -- always odd to me these days. Flags, I mean -- public flags, and the fact that they always seem to be at half-mast. Yes, once again, just last week, I walked (or perhaps skulked is the right word) past a public flagpole -- you know the kind, all straight and white and tall and public -- and there, once again, was a flag left hanging halfway up the pole, and for some reason I still can't quite grasp.
Once upon a time -- it seems so long ago now, when people were people, and not robots, and stamps were 10 cents, or 13 cents, and people licked them for the sheer pleasure of it, and not just to "send" ... Well, back then flags were almost always at the tops of flagpoles where they belonged. It was a rare occasion -- a dark, shared-public-consciousness kind of day -- when some serious death occurred in America that brought the flag back to mid-strife -- presidents or Miss America finalists -- and we walked around for a couple of solid numb days going "ooh" and respectfully mooing "moo," all sublime in our solemnity, like a bunch of sterile coconuts.
But now -- or so it seems to me -- that stupid flag is always fluttering halfway up the flagpole, and I really can't figure out why. After last week's afternoon of inspired contemplation, I finally concluded it had to do with the untimely death of Ernest Borgnine, and then for a few minutes it all made sense ...
But then I began to wonder why was it always at half-mast so often times before his dying. I mean, what am I to conclude? (And by the way, what are you to conclude? What are any of us to conclude, except that these Blah-ugh! entries get worse and worse, and our money would be better spent on fresh copies of "Space Case" by Jarret Liotta (meaning me) (available through Amazon).(Yes, yes. It's all true!))
Anyway, I don't remember what my point was, except you can't trust anything these days, even our founding father flag. I suspect that eventually we'll learn certain corporations are paying significant amounts of money to keep the flags half-masted in the hopes of marketing something. Flags perhaps. It may simply be that Wal-Mart can sell more flags in the summertime if they're kept closer to the crowd so the rabble can grasp them quicker and find motivation to get out and buy more ...
I don't know. It's just one theory, good as another ... Peace out! R.I.P. Ernie!
Still, this was -- and is -- always odd to me these days. Flags, I mean -- public flags, and the fact that they always seem to be at half-mast. Yes, once again, just last week, I walked (or perhaps skulked is the right word) past a public flagpole -- you know the kind, all straight and white and tall and public -- and there, once again, was a flag left hanging halfway up the pole, and for some reason I still can't quite grasp.
Once upon a time -- it seems so long ago now, when people were people, and not robots, and stamps were 10 cents, or 13 cents, and people licked them for the sheer pleasure of it, and not just to "send" ... Well, back then flags were almost always at the tops of flagpoles where they belonged. It was a rare occasion -- a dark, shared-public-consciousness kind of day -- when some serious death occurred in America that brought the flag back to mid-strife -- presidents or Miss America finalists -- and we walked around for a couple of solid numb days going "ooh" and respectfully mooing "moo," all sublime in our solemnity, like a bunch of sterile coconuts.
But now -- or so it seems to me -- that stupid flag is always fluttering halfway up the flagpole, and I really can't figure out why. After last week's afternoon of inspired contemplation, I finally concluded it had to do with the untimely death of Ernest Borgnine, and then for a few minutes it all made sense ...
But then I began to wonder why was it always at half-mast so often times before his dying. I mean, what am I to conclude? (And by the way, what are you to conclude? What are any of us to conclude, except that these Blah-ugh! entries get worse and worse, and our money would be better spent on fresh copies of "Space Case" by Jarret Liotta (meaning me) (available through Amazon).(Yes, yes. It's all true!))
Anyway, I don't remember what my point was, except you can't trust anything these days, even our founding father flag. I suspect that eventually we'll learn certain corporations are paying significant amounts of money to keep the flags half-masted in the hopes of marketing something. Flags perhaps. It may simply be that Wal-Mart can sell more flags in the summertime if they're kept closer to the crowd so the rabble can grasp them quicker and find motivation to get out and buy more ...
I don't know. It's just one theory, good as another ... Peace out! R.I.P. Ernie!
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
OMG ODD to Me a COS Discovery
July 4, 2012: Silly me, in my last Blah-ugh! post I stupidly called ODD "EDD." Those of you who read (or are reading) "Space Case" will see that I still have "EEDs" on my mind, thus the mistake is understandable, given MY mind. But I'll set the record straight now, for an EED is an "Experiential Experience Drone" (see SC, which is "Space Case"), ODD is "Oppositional Defiance Disorder" and EDD ... Well, I don't know what the hell that is, but it doesn't matter ...
ODD is what I wanted to talk about, and I'm sitting here still reeling, rocking and rolling (my eyes, that is) because I can't believe that the medical world could create such a RIDICULOUS diagnosis ...
And yet, as my readers know (assuming they've been paying attention to me), nothing should surprise us in this ass-backward world. Why wouldn't the alleopathic medical community -- the psych world in particular, which favors over-medicating the whole human race for residuals and travel junkets paid by the pharmaceutical industry -- create some official disorder for what is, I'm sure, in almost all cases the simple bratty behavior of children fostered by poor, ineffectual and somewhat stupid parenting.
I know how it happened. Some wealthy family, who'd created an incredibly spoiled, out-of-control kid, DEMANDED of their high-priced child psychologist that they "fix" him (or her).
"Yes, well, but, uh, Mr. and Mrs. Bushwacker, there's really nothing wrong with him from a medical standpoint," the shrinking shrink meekly defended.
"Bull!" the parents shouted, projecting the same solid immovable righteous resolve that works so well in corporate business meetings, and with Hispanic gardeners, respectively. "We're paying you to fix him, so do it."
"Well, I can medicate him. Owing to the fact that he's an up-and-coming sociopath, it's reasonable to get this kid on some drugs, but--"
"Yes, but we can't have any labels," the mother moaned, as she was one to do at the oddest of times. "Certainly not any that could plague him later in politics, or when he goes to Yale."
"Yes, I concur," the father concurred. (He was always concurring, especially when his wife wasn't around.) "He needs a broader diagnosis. Something more befitting a Bushwacker."
"Well," the therapist began hesitantly, "I'm not sure there ..."
"Perhaps we can help move this thing forward with your help," the father said, getting his checkbook out with the dramatic relish he often showed when concurring.
The therapist, who always needed more money to fund his gambling and pornography addictions, grew quite reasonable in quite a quick moment. "Hmm, well ... Y'know, for a long time I've wondered why the DSM-IV wasn't recognizing some of the more subtle afflictions that seem to plague the one percent, meaning you kind folks."
He accepted the remarkably large check with a humble warm feeling in and about his genitals.
"In fact," he said, waxing patriotic, "I think it's an authentic tragedy that afflicted young people, like your child -- so misunderstood and-and-and unappreciated -- that they should go through life being shunned and held accountable for their behavior, when in fact they're not doing anything wrong ... at least, they shouldn't be held accountable. It's this disorder, damnit! This damn disorder of-of-of defiance and-and ...
"Wait! I've got it! Your son is suffering from a Defiance Disorder, which is why he's oppositional. My god, it's a revelation! He's not a spoiled brat, who's grown up with no boundaries, no healthy limits set by healthy attentive parents who were present in his life ... He's a victim! A victim of an Oppositional Defiance Disorder!"
The parents were pleased, as was the therapist, who vowed to move forward in lobbying all the official governing agencies to get their kid the diagnosis he deserved ... Yes, it was a great day for the Bushwacker family ... and another typical day in the psychiatric community at large!
NOTE: If you enjoyed the fluid joyful journey of this renegade writing sample, you'll love the virulent prose of my new novel SPACE CASE. It's the witty and vaguely disturbing tale of somebody who does something, and then some other people get involved in some other ways too ... It's great!
ODD is what I wanted to talk about, and I'm sitting here still reeling, rocking and rolling (my eyes, that is) because I can't believe that the medical world could create such a RIDICULOUS diagnosis ...
And yet, as my readers know (assuming they've been paying attention to me), nothing should surprise us in this ass-backward world. Why wouldn't the alleopathic medical community -- the psych world in particular, which favors over-medicating the whole human race for residuals and travel junkets paid by the pharmaceutical industry -- create some official disorder for what is, I'm sure, in almost all cases the simple bratty behavior of children fostered by poor, ineffectual and somewhat stupid parenting.
I know how it happened. Some wealthy family, who'd created an incredibly spoiled, out-of-control kid, DEMANDED of their high-priced child psychologist that they "fix" him (or her).
"Yes, well, but, uh, Mr. and Mrs. Bushwacker, there's really nothing wrong with him from a medical standpoint," the shrinking shrink meekly defended.
"Bull!" the parents shouted, projecting the same solid immovable righteous resolve that works so well in corporate business meetings, and with Hispanic gardeners, respectively. "We're paying you to fix him, so do it."
"Well, I can medicate him. Owing to the fact that he's an up-and-coming sociopath, it's reasonable to get this kid on some drugs, but--"
"Yes, but we can't have any labels," the mother moaned, as she was one to do at the oddest of times. "Certainly not any that could plague him later in politics, or when he goes to Yale."
"Yes, I concur," the father concurred. (He was always concurring, especially when his wife wasn't around.) "He needs a broader diagnosis. Something more befitting a Bushwacker."
"Well," the therapist began hesitantly, "I'm not sure there ..."
"Perhaps we can help move this thing forward with your help," the father said, getting his checkbook out with the dramatic relish he often showed when concurring.
The therapist, who always needed more money to fund his gambling and pornography addictions, grew quite reasonable in quite a quick moment. "Hmm, well ... Y'know, for a long time I've wondered why the DSM-IV wasn't recognizing some of the more subtle afflictions that seem to plague the one percent, meaning you kind folks."
He accepted the remarkably large check with a humble warm feeling in and about his genitals.
"In fact," he said, waxing patriotic, "I think it's an authentic tragedy that afflicted young people, like your child -- so misunderstood and-and-and unappreciated -- that they should go through life being shunned and held accountable for their behavior, when in fact they're not doing anything wrong ... at least, they shouldn't be held accountable. It's this disorder, damnit! This damn disorder of-of-of defiance and-and ...
"Wait! I've got it! Your son is suffering from a Defiance Disorder, which is why he's oppositional. My god, it's a revelation! He's not a spoiled brat, who's grown up with no boundaries, no healthy limits set by healthy attentive parents who were present in his life ... He's a victim! A victim of an Oppositional Defiance Disorder!"
The parents were pleased, as was the therapist, who vowed to move forward in lobbying all the official governing agencies to get their kid the diagnosis he deserved ... Yes, it was a great day for the Bushwacker family ... and another typical day in the psychiatric community at large!
NOTE: If you enjoyed the fluid joyful journey of this renegade writing sample, you'll love the virulent prose of my new novel SPACE CASE. It's the witty and vaguely disturbing tale of somebody who does something, and then some other people get involved in some other ways too ... It's great!
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Movies and More from Me -- Good Old Me
June 30, 2012: I've never been one to give my Blah-ugh! readers a shoddy product, but this may be just that. You see, I'm pressed for emotional time and I want to get back to watching "Death Sentence," which is extraordinarily disturbing and yet engaging (and quite like "Death Wish 2," I suspect, even though I'm only 15 minutes into it).
I'm also pressing to make the end-of-June deadline with filing this -- I don't know why -- but really it's all about giving you something to remember me by and to keep encouraging your transparent support of SPACE CASE and that stupid Youtube video I keep linking. (Well, you'll be happy to see I'm too lazy to link it THIS time, so you finally have an excuse!)
First off, I watched "Death Wish 2" last night -- finally -- and boy, let me tell you, it did NOT disappoint! My god, it was better than the original! And imagine my dumbfounded surprise to see in the opening credits that Jimmy Page himself wrote and performed the music. Yes, and that was only part of what made this disturbing piece of cinematic refried beans all that it was.
To be honest, I spent a lot of the viewing time wondering if Charles Bronson is (or was) an Indian, meaning of the Native American variety. He certainly has that dour stone-faced quality, like the ones you see in cigar stores (or used to ... or so they tell me). Further, it may have been the color of my set, but he seemed strikingly red -- his bubbling chiseled marauder's face a strange constrast to the odd unsteady beauty of Jill Ireland. (And weren't they married or something? What a weird couple. God, I'll believe anything goes, at this point!)
Anyway, I highly recommend it, although it's a little disturbing. I certainly don't recommend it for kids ... or women ... really I'd say that people like me are probably the best audience -- muddle-minded, semi-disturbed disgruntles who are living alone for a weekend and have had too much caffeine.
It's a poor segue -- in fact, I have no segue of which to speak -- but I wanted to also mention ... Actually, you know what? I'm not even going to get into that. It's just too weird and strange and somewhat stupid, which means it would certainly rate its own Blah-ugh! entry ... Remind me, if you will. It involves the ridiculousness of a child getting diagnosed with EDD -- actually the ridiculousness of there even being a disorder such as EDD. (As my friend Glee would say, "EDD indeed!")
I guess I'll wrap up by saying I also watched that Martin Scorcese-directed quasi-animated fluff thing "Hugo." Bleah! Don't tell me you liked it, because then I'll lose even MORE respect for you, and I'm really feeling awfully judgmental about you anyway. I found that stupid movie predictably transparent. But see, it's not supposed to be, like "Death Wish 2," which basically sets out to be transparently predictable and soundly delivers. This "Hugo" thing thinks it's all shades of wonderful, with its billion-dollar production values and bilious Americanized French fantasy features. And was Scorcese so unable to find a competent young actress to play the girl -- one who didn't have to grin incessantly and crinkle her eyes, like she was coached to death to do by her probably equally annoying acting coach?! And could that boy have been any creepier and unlikeable?! No, I agree. He couldn't have been. What a shame that Scorcese, who demonstrated such grand ability working with a young Jody Foster in the very brillliant "Taxi Driver" now has to pass a movie like this out of his colon. That's what comes of being a 75-year-old father of an elementary-age kid ...
Anyway, no one cares what I think, especially Jill Ireland. The important thing is that I made the deadline and satisfied those hard-to-satisfy Blah-ugh! readers, who may perhaps give me another couple of days now before storming the bloody Bastille! (Bloody bastards!)
And ..., BTW, it turned out the file was already open, so .... Goodnight! Buy "Space Case," or at least talk about it to your bowling buddies ...
I'm also pressing to make the end-of-June deadline with filing this -- I don't know why -- but really it's all about giving you something to remember me by and to keep encouraging your transparent support of SPACE CASE and that stupid Youtube video I keep linking. (Well, you'll be happy to see I'm too lazy to link it THIS time, so you finally have an excuse!)
First off, I watched "Death Wish 2" last night -- finally -- and boy, let me tell you, it did NOT disappoint! My god, it was better than the original! And imagine my dumbfounded surprise to see in the opening credits that Jimmy Page himself wrote and performed the music. Yes, and that was only part of what made this disturbing piece of cinematic refried beans all that it was.
To be honest, I spent a lot of the viewing time wondering if Charles Bronson is (or was) an Indian, meaning of the Native American variety. He certainly has that dour stone-faced quality, like the ones you see in cigar stores (or used to ... or so they tell me). Further, it may have been the color of my set, but he seemed strikingly red -- his bubbling chiseled marauder's face a strange constrast to the odd unsteady beauty of Jill Ireland. (And weren't they married or something? What a weird couple. God, I'll believe anything goes, at this point!)
Anyway, I highly recommend it, although it's a little disturbing. I certainly don't recommend it for kids ... or women ... really I'd say that people like me are probably the best audience -- muddle-minded, semi-disturbed disgruntles who are living alone for a weekend and have had too much caffeine.
It's a poor segue -- in fact, I have no segue of which to speak -- but I wanted to also mention ... Actually, you know what? I'm not even going to get into that. It's just too weird and strange and somewhat stupid, which means it would certainly rate its own Blah-ugh! entry ... Remind me, if you will. It involves the ridiculousness of a child getting diagnosed with EDD -- actually the ridiculousness of there even being a disorder such as EDD. (As my friend Glee would say, "EDD indeed!")
I guess I'll wrap up by saying I also watched that Martin Scorcese-directed quasi-animated fluff thing "Hugo." Bleah! Don't tell me you liked it, because then I'll lose even MORE respect for you, and I'm really feeling awfully judgmental about you anyway. I found that stupid movie predictably transparent. But see, it's not supposed to be, like "Death Wish 2," which basically sets out to be transparently predictable and soundly delivers. This "Hugo" thing thinks it's all shades of wonderful, with its billion-dollar production values and bilious Americanized French fantasy features. And was Scorcese so unable to find a competent young actress to play the girl -- one who didn't have to grin incessantly and crinkle her eyes, like she was coached to death to do by her probably equally annoying acting coach?! And could that boy have been any creepier and unlikeable?! No, I agree. He couldn't have been. What a shame that Scorcese, who demonstrated such grand ability working with a young Jody Foster in the very brillliant "Taxi Driver" now has to pass a movie like this out of his colon. That's what comes of being a 75-year-old father of an elementary-age kid ...
Anyway, no one cares what I think, especially Jill Ireland. The important thing is that I made the deadline and satisfied those hard-to-satisfy Blah-ugh! readers, who may perhaps give me another couple of days now before storming the bloody Bastille! (Bloody bastards!)
And ..., BTW, it turned out the file was already open, so .... Goodnight! Buy "Space Case," or at least talk about it to your bowling buddies ...
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Piles of Paper & Real Cowardly Racism
June 21, 2012: It’s a combination day, where I’m toiling through my paper pile and sorting through the myriad mental observations cluttering my precarious mind (Space Case and my Youtube video, of course, among them) ...
I jot notes and ideas, paragraphs, thoughts, and more and more on folded up pieces of paper, and it’s only every so often that I review the enormous collection I’ve accumulated—the somewhat unused ones that weren’t for a current story or project—the ones that collect in my drawers and atop my night table …
For instance, here’s one in which I briefly recount an interesting dream wherein I was riding on a bus with Hitler and asked him for his autograph. (I can’t detail this one, because somehow the paper got all wet and the thick red ink ran all over the place.) I remember I was somewhat embarrassed about asking him—he was, after all, Hitler—but I think we eventually fell into a kind of light conversation, keeping it off the war and his being a Nazi.
And speaking of Hitler, I wanted to share the great moment I had yesterday at the Motor Vehicle office in Norwalk, CT. It was incredibly crowded, but I was still all the chipper comrade where my friends on line were concerned, bantering away with the friendly convivial gloss particular to civil service stress. Of course, all we all kept talking about—the lady in front of me, and the lady in back—was the longness of the lines, etc., and how long and long they were, and how grouchy the workers would be when we finally got up to the front of the line the following afternoon, etc., etc.
“And you notice, ubba-zubba-zubba,” the woman behind me said quite confidentially.
“I’m sorry, what?” I said, being deaf and all.
“They’re mostly minorities,” she whispered about the workers, quite sure I’d understand her point.
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I simply asked, “Are you a racist?” and it wasn’t a rhetorical question. I’m just surprised when I meet one, at least in Fairfield County, Connecticut.
“No, no!” she assured me quickly. “I’m not racist.” And I always find it interesting how rarely a racist will admit to being racist. That kind of annoys me. I find the lack of conviction even more appalling than the practice. If I were a racist I’d be adamant about my racism; I’d be the raciest! But nowadays, you can’t even draw passion from a bigot. I mean, what’s the world coming to?!
Ironically, she was sent to the front of the line by a sort of wandering information guy who felt her case was worthier than mine (or something), and replaced behind me by a very dark-skinned woman who in all probability was some kind of minority or other. (I didn’t ask, but had I known I was going to Blah-ugh! about this, I might have.)
Anyway, when I finally reached the front of the line, the minority worker—I mean, she was clearly not in the majority—was remarkably friendly and polite (except when she called me Tubby, which I didn’t appreciate). No, seriously, she was a princess, and I even made a point of complimenting her, and said, “Y’know, you’ve been really polite, lady. You were basically as polite as a normal person.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well, I mean, as a minority, it’s not quite as usual for you to be so civil, even though you’re a civil servant, and so I just wanted to mention that you carried your handling with the articulate dignity of a dignified and articulate gentleman, but like a lady gentleman.” (I may not be quoting myself here exactly, but it was that kind of idea I expressed, and she was thankful to the end.
“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you,” she said in that way minorities have. “You really have been nice to be so pollutioning and acknowledgating,”she said she said.
“Yes, I am,” I sighed, "and thank you for being so articulate and dignified, as minorities have such a hard time being. You is truly a articulate and dignified lady gemmun!” I rambled.
Ah, yes! Another breakthrough in minority-normality relations. We’ve come a long way, baby, and that’s not even beginning to dive into the large, long messy pile of papers with all sorts of other ideas I have cluttering about on my bed at just this very moment …
Sunday, June 17, 2012
The Odd Couple & 1984-Style Revisionist History
June 17, 2012: I just again reread George Orwell's frightening "1984" and currently find it much less a "prophetic" vision of a dystopian future, than a brutal assessment of the world in which we already live.
Make no mistake -- it is a corrupt corporate-controlled 1984 world, and I'm not sure there's anything left to be done about it. Worse -- more significantly -- I'm not even sure that many people really care anymore anyway, and that's the most frightening aspect, to me ...
One of the remarkable operations of a 1984 world is the revising of history -- something you'll remember (or NOT remember, if you're adept at applying doublethink) from reading the book. To me, it's hysterical to see it happen so often in once instance where gas prices are concerned. One day the cost shoots up, say from $3.60 to $4.00 per gallon, and the helpless population gets pointlessly up-in-arms, and plays out its derision with flaccid expressions of benign protest ... Then, maybe two weeks go by, and prices drops from $4.00 to $3.85 per gallon! The media heralds the news: "Gas Prices Drop!" ... And the population is pleased, and pacified once again (if it ever needed to be) and the public and its' permanently damaged short-term memory rest comfortably until the next time ... Yeesh! What a species mankind is ...
But more importantly, what does this have to do with The Odd Couple? Please understand, The Odd Couple -- (which I'm too lazy to keep putting in quotes) -- is one of the most brilliant humorous shows ever on TV -- here or in Germany! The writing is absolutely fantastic, and Jack Klugman and Tony Randall are in a class by themselves with their magnificent performances of Oscar Madison and Felix Unger.
I'm proud to own the DVDs for all five seasons, which originally ran from 1969 to 1974, and even prouder to have indoctrinated my children into an intelligent appreciation of real comic genius. (We also own catalogues of "All in the Family," "The Honeymooners," and "I Love Lucy," as well as 14 seasons of "The Simpsons.")
But what is now -- and will remain -- so awfully disturbing to me -- having mainly fostered my Odd Couple appreciation through the WPIX (channel 11 in NY) reruns of the show in my formative years -- is to see the numerous sections that have been cut from the original episodes for DVD release. These, unfortunately, all seem to center around song numbers that Show Runner Garry Marshall -- I guess a cheap bastard, despite how awesome his show was, including some hysterical cameo roles he played -- did not fight to have put in the DVDs. There are perhaps a dozen song numbers that I vividly remember being sung, usually by Felix, sometimes Oscar, or from an ensemble -- that have been mercilessly butchered from these classic shows.
The worst part -- again, for me -- (this all being about me, after all) -- is that my children WILL NEVER KNOW that these moments were an important part of these brilliant episodes. Of course, I try and explain -- pointing out why there's an awkward cut (before Felix sings "Cocktails for Two," or when the cast is singing "Give My Regards To Broadway" on the subway train). Still, what a terrible shame to not enjoy those gem-like moments, some of which are actually pretty significant to the overall episode.
I'll always wonder why they couldn't leave these moments in. They played, after all, on television reruns for years and years. How petty do those songwriters and publishing companies have to have been to block their use?! What reason could they have had, really? How much money could they even expect for them?! Could Paramount not have shelled out a few extra dollars to preserve the shows in their entirety? And couldn't Marshall, who I have to assume became a zillionaire after then creating "Happy Days" AND "Laverne & Shirley," (which I hope he'll always remain embarrassed by) throw a couple thousand bucks into the pot to clear the bloody rights?! (How does one make a show as brilliant as The Odd Couple, and then -- now situated up on High -- not demand a proper preservation of that artwork?!!)
No, not today, not in 2012. As far as the world is concerned, Jaye P. Morgan was never singing "Sunshine of My Life," and Felix did not sing "Peg O' My Heart" to his plant. Nor Felix did not serenade Oscar and Blanche on their honeymoon with "I Love You Truly" while Murray played the harmonica, and Murray, Oscar and Myrna did not croon Felix to sleep singing "Dream." The boys did not break into "I Want the Sun in the Morning and the Moon at Night," nor did Felix sing the torchsong "Quarter to Three" during the poker game in the hotel, or "Look for the Silver Lining" during their monks' retreat ...
It never happened. I must have imagined it ... probably because I'm unloyal to the state because I think too much, and harbor these awful delusions that could damage the tranquility of this new Morning in America ...
Ah ... Yes ... I need to stop thinking so much ... Stop thinking so much ... Stop noticing things ... Rest ... Rest and sleep ... Sleep ... Sleep ... Zzzzzzzz ...
Make no mistake -- it is a corrupt corporate-controlled 1984 world, and I'm not sure there's anything left to be done about it. Worse -- more significantly -- I'm not even sure that many people really care anymore anyway, and that's the most frightening aspect, to me ...
One of the remarkable operations of a 1984 world is the revising of history -- something you'll remember (or NOT remember, if you're adept at applying doublethink) from reading the book. To me, it's hysterical to see it happen so often in once instance where gas prices are concerned. One day the cost shoots up, say from $3.60 to $4.00 per gallon, and the helpless population gets pointlessly up-in-arms, and plays out its derision with flaccid expressions of benign protest ... Then, maybe two weeks go by, and prices drops from $4.00 to $3.85 per gallon! The media heralds the news: "Gas Prices Drop!" ... And the population is pleased, and pacified once again (if it ever needed to be) and the public and its' permanently damaged short-term memory rest comfortably until the next time ... Yeesh! What a species mankind is ...
But more importantly, what does this have to do with The Odd Couple? Please understand, The Odd Couple -- (which I'm too lazy to keep putting in quotes) -- is one of the most brilliant humorous shows ever on TV -- here or in Germany! The writing is absolutely fantastic, and Jack Klugman and Tony Randall are in a class by themselves with their magnificent performances of Oscar Madison and Felix Unger.
I'm proud to own the DVDs for all five seasons, which originally ran from 1969 to 1974, and even prouder to have indoctrinated my children into an intelligent appreciation of real comic genius. (We also own catalogues of "All in the Family," "The Honeymooners," and "I Love Lucy," as well as 14 seasons of "The Simpsons.")
But what is now -- and will remain -- so awfully disturbing to me -- having mainly fostered my Odd Couple appreciation through the WPIX (channel 11 in NY) reruns of the show in my formative years -- is to see the numerous sections that have been cut from the original episodes for DVD release. These, unfortunately, all seem to center around song numbers that Show Runner Garry Marshall -- I guess a cheap bastard, despite how awesome his show was, including some hysterical cameo roles he played -- did not fight to have put in the DVDs. There are perhaps a dozen song numbers that I vividly remember being sung, usually by Felix, sometimes Oscar, or from an ensemble -- that have been mercilessly butchered from these classic shows.
The worst part -- again, for me -- (this all being about me, after all) -- is that my children WILL NEVER KNOW that these moments were an important part of these brilliant episodes. Of course, I try and explain -- pointing out why there's an awkward cut (before Felix sings "Cocktails for Two," or when the cast is singing "Give My Regards To Broadway" on the subway train). Still, what a terrible shame to not enjoy those gem-like moments, some of which are actually pretty significant to the overall episode.
I'll always wonder why they couldn't leave these moments in. They played, after all, on television reruns for years and years. How petty do those songwriters and publishing companies have to have been to block their use?! What reason could they have had, really? How much money could they even expect for them?! Could Paramount not have shelled out a few extra dollars to preserve the shows in their entirety? And couldn't Marshall, who I have to assume became a zillionaire after then creating "Happy Days" AND "Laverne & Shirley," (which I hope he'll always remain embarrassed by) throw a couple thousand bucks into the pot to clear the bloody rights?! (How does one make a show as brilliant as The Odd Couple, and then -- now situated up on High -- not demand a proper preservation of that artwork?!!)
No, not today, not in 2012. As far as the world is concerned, Jaye P. Morgan was never singing "Sunshine of My Life," and Felix did not sing "Peg O' My Heart" to his plant. Nor Felix did not serenade Oscar and Blanche on their honeymoon with "I Love You Truly" while Murray played the harmonica, and Murray, Oscar and Myrna did not croon Felix to sleep singing "Dream." The boys did not break into "I Want the Sun in the Morning and the Moon at Night," nor did Felix sing the torchsong "Quarter to Three" during the poker game in the hotel, or "Look for the Silver Lining" during their monks' retreat ...
It never happened. I must have imagined it ... probably because I'm unloyal to the state because I think too much, and harbor these awful delusions that could damage the tranquility of this new Morning in America ...
Ah ... Yes ... I need to stop thinking so much ... Stop thinking so much ... Stop noticing things ... Rest ... Rest and sleep ... Sleep ... Sleep ... Zzzzzzzz ...
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Unfinished Business ...
June 12, 2012: Before anything else, I just spotted this new review of my novel "Space Case" at Amazon ... And while I'm blushing -- and only in part because I'm sitting here in my underwear -- I felt YOU -- my loyal fans (such as you are) -- would enjoy hearing what an unprompted "Space Case" purchaser -- someone who actually shelled out money to read my drivel! -- what they had to say about this devilishly unique novel ...
""Space Case" by Jarret Liotta is funny, imaginative and refreshingly creative. I thoroughly enjoyed reading as this delightfully amusing adventure unfolded. Mr. Liotta draws a humorous picture of life here on earth and gives us a matter-of-fact, non-judgemental look at the natural dysfunction that is inherent in human nature. "Space Case" was a quick read that left a smile on my face."
Wow! Is that awesome?! ... And let's be honest, am I not awesome?! ... And while you're considering that, I'll again remind you to buy the f***ing book already, because you know deep in your heart that you ought to buy it, even if it means going without frogurt for a weekend ...
And everyone, even those with the shortest attention span, should really take a minute (and 20 seconds) to not only enjoy my clever, excruciatingly witty youtube promo video for Space Case, but you should -- and yes, here I am shoulding on you! -- forward it around to friends. For the love of god, people, get this ball rolling! You see, I don't have friends that I can forward to. I don't have that luxury! But you do ... So it becomes somehow criminal of you not to use all your powers to get this veritable zeppelin up and off the German runway, so to speak.
Now, next note of business -- I'm embarrassed, in my last Blah-ugh!, to have neglected two of the most important facets of Kolchak and The Night Stalker. 1) How could I forget to mention that the great Richard Matheson wrote the screenplays for the first two movies. This is important because Matheson, whom many of you will solely identify as the author of the startling "The Legend of Hell House," was the original Twilight Zone writer who crafted, among many other brilliant scripts, my very all-time favorite episode "Third From the Sun" (with the great Fritz Weaver and Edward Andrews) ... 2) I don't know how I could be so negligent as to write about The Night Stalker without fervently recognizing the incredible and rather groundbreaking music composed for the first picture, along with the theme, and especially that great whistling part that Kolchak whistles in the series ...
Okay, and since the past is on my mind, driving home today I noted a whole new selection of trees that had been brought down by CL&P and their Westport, CT, assigned assassins, which was depressing. I guess I naively thought my brilliant Blah-ugh! entry of several weeks ago, couple with the great Dan Woog's follow-up, would curb the pointless overkilling of trees that have the audacity to be growing within yards of power lines ... But alas, once again the population proves itself too stupid to listen to me, even though I (like Kolchak) am right again ...
Lastly, major kudos out to the Westport Public Library (and Marta Campbell & Bill Derry especially) -- not only because they were kind enough to host me Wednesday night in what may have been the surprise event of the season -- that is, it certainly surprised me, because I managed to get through an entire hour-long speaking engagement without having to use the bathroom -- but for so much more that they do (the library, I mean, in case you too had forgotten due to my ridiculously incoherent run-on sentence) ... (Has anyone figured out yet that, as a Blah-ugh! writer, I'm much too lazy to bother rereading my sentences as I write them?!) ...
Anyway, the point is that the library purchased "Death Wish 2" on my behalf, and I'm simply giddy about this. The people who work in the video section of the library are just an awesome collection, so to speak, and kind to a fault, as evidenced by how nice they are to me, which clearly demonstrates some mistake on their part. But beyond all that, I'm so magnificently pleased that my request was granted, and promptly, and they replaced a missing gem from their collection and brought a grand wave of joy upon this old and soulless soul. Hurrah! as they say in England. Westport Library is the shits! (as they say in L.A.)
So that's all for tonight, because, believe it or not, I want to put on another "Night Stalker" episode and let my harsh late-night dinner start digesting. It's going to be a sunny day tomorrow and this really makes me sad, because I like rain and the idea of rain ... My neighbor is pressuring me to cut my lawn, and this makes me hate them, but I have to realize that not everyone thinks the way I do, and that makes me hate everyone else ...
Summer is coming, and I hate summer, but it's good because it means fall will eventually come, even if it's after winter, which I like, but sometimes get suspicious of when it's trying to sneak its way past the other seasons ...
NEXT WEEK I'll hopefully be able to offer the quintessential review of "Death Wish 2."
""Space Case" by Jarret Liotta is funny, imaginative and refreshingly creative. I thoroughly enjoyed reading as this delightfully amusing adventure unfolded. Mr. Liotta draws a humorous picture of life here on earth and gives us a matter-of-fact, non-judgemental look at the natural dysfunction that is inherent in human nature. "Space Case" was a quick read that left a smile on my face."
Wow! Is that awesome?! ... And let's be honest, am I not awesome?! ... And while you're considering that, I'll again remind you to buy the f***ing book already, because you know deep in your heart that you ought to buy it, even if it means going without frogurt for a weekend ...
And everyone, even those with the shortest attention span, should really take a minute (and 20 seconds) to not only enjoy my clever, excruciatingly witty youtube promo video for Space Case, but you should -- and yes, here I am shoulding on you! -- forward it around to friends. For the love of god, people, get this ball rolling! You see, I don't have friends that I can forward to. I don't have that luxury! But you do ... So it becomes somehow criminal of you not to use all your powers to get this veritable zeppelin up and off the German runway, so to speak.
Now, next note of business -- I'm embarrassed, in my last Blah-ugh!, to have neglected two of the most important facets of Kolchak and The Night Stalker. 1) How could I forget to mention that the great Richard Matheson wrote the screenplays for the first two movies. This is important because Matheson, whom many of you will solely identify as the author of the startling "The Legend of Hell House," was the original Twilight Zone writer who crafted, among many other brilliant scripts, my very all-time favorite episode "Third From the Sun" (with the great Fritz Weaver and Edward Andrews) ... 2) I don't know how I could be so negligent as to write about The Night Stalker without fervently recognizing the incredible and rather groundbreaking music composed for the first picture, along with the theme, and especially that great whistling part that Kolchak whistles in the series ...
Okay, and since the past is on my mind, driving home today I noted a whole new selection of trees that had been brought down by CL&P and their Westport, CT, assigned assassins, which was depressing. I guess I naively thought my brilliant Blah-ugh! entry of several weeks ago, couple with the great Dan Woog's follow-up, would curb the pointless overkilling of trees that have the audacity to be growing within yards of power lines ... But alas, once again the population proves itself too stupid to listen to me, even though I (like Kolchak) am right again ...
Lastly, major kudos out to the Westport Public Library (and Marta Campbell & Bill Derry especially) -- not only because they were kind enough to host me Wednesday night in what may have been the surprise event of the season -- that is, it certainly surprised me, because I managed to get through an entire hour-long speaking engagement without having to use the bathroom -- but for so much more that they do (the library, I mean, in case you too had forgotten due to my ridiculously incoherent run-on sentence) ... (Has anyone figured out yet that, as a Blah-ugh! writer, I'm much too lazy to bother rereading my sentences as I write them?!) ...
Anyway, the point is that the library purchased "Death Wish 2" on my behalf, and I'm simply giddy about this. The people who work in the video section of the library are just an awesome collection, so to speak, and kind to a fault, as evidenced by how nice they are to me, which clearly demonstrates some mistake on their part. But beyond all that, I'm so magnificently pleased that my request was granted, and promptly, and they replaced a missing gem from their collection and brought a grand wave of joy upon this old and soulless soul. Hurrah! as they say in England. Westport Library is the shits! (as they say in L.A.)
So that's all for tonight, because, believe it or not, I want to put on another "Night Stalker" episode and let my harsh late-night dinner start digesting. It's going to be a sunny day tomorrow and this really makes me sad, because I like rain and the idea of rain ... My neighbor is pressuring me to cut my lawn, and this makes me hate them, but I have to realize that not everyone thinks the way I do, and that makes me hate everyone else ...
Summer is coming, and I hate summer, but it's good because it means fall will eventually come, even if it's after winter, which I like, but sometimes get suspicious of when it's trying to sneak its way past the other seasons ...
NEXT WEEK I'll hopefully be able to offer the quintessential review of "Death Wish 2."
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Carl Kolchak - Great American Hero
June 7, 2012: Carl Kolchak is a true American hero, and even though he's a fictional character, he still means more to me than most of the people I know ... (excepting those who've vehemently supported SPACE CASE, and the thoughtful people who continue plugging my new Youtube video of course!)
Alternately known as The Night Stalker, Kolchak is the abrasive aging reporter who breaks stories involving vampires and other-worldly figures. Originally created by a weak writer named Jeff Rice in a hard-to-read novella, and portrayed by the ever-freckled Darren McGavin (the belligerent, beleagured "Old Man" in the classic film "Christmas Story"), he first appeared in a brilliant 1971/2 TV movie that featured not only the voluptuously vapid Carol Lindley, but Claude Akins and Simon Oakland as well. The subsequent short-lived TV series was supposedly the inspiration for Chris Carter's creation of "The X-Files, and McGavin was honored with a small recurring role on that show before his death (at some point, from something). Also, one of its main writers and story consultants was one David Chase, who went on to create "The Sopranos."
Kolchak the character is many things, but mostly -- for me -- he's the truth-teller that no one wants to believe. He's the voice of reality that everyone wants to silence and ignore. He's the gadfly that people wish would just go away. He's the conscious conscience who passionately fights for not only truth, but the vital need that it be dissemated.
One of the other things that I really like about him is that, despite his slightly crass demeanor, (which in television seems to lend itself to the caricature of an oaf), Carl's also extremely intelligent. W,hile he's intolerant of people in general -- or seems to be -- it's not without reason, because like so many of us, he's surrounded by idiots and individuals whose fear has robbed them of keeping strong convictions.
Further, despite his innate frailty, he's forever finding himself in supernatural situations that demand bravery. With morose resolve, he descends into the sewer to slay a swamp monster, crawls into an abandoned car to sew shut the mouth of a dormant zombie, slinks into the Seattle underground in search of a timeless serial killer, and, of course, (as certainly someone must remember), stands his ground against a sword-wielding headless motorcyclist ...
I love Kolchak, and give him significant credit for helping inspire me to become a writer. (Of course, some of you might use the word "blame.") And as I grew and went out into this weird, wild world stuffed with dangerous creeping people who dwell underneath all sorts of physical and spiritual rocks, the example of Carl Kolchak has often reminded me of the value of fighting for a righteous cause, arguing for an unpopular truth, even if all the odds are against you, even if the publications won't print the facts, and even if you're feeling all alone in the world ... again!
When last I checked IMDB.com -- the movie site -- I was happily astounded to see that a remake involving none other than my friend Johnny Depp was in development. It pleased me at the time, but now I'm not so sure. Despite what a grand actor like Johnny might think, there are some things that shouldn't even be touched or any attempts made to expand upon them or replicate their magic. He already made that mistake with Willy Wonka ... Beatles music is another example of that kind of thing ... I'm pretty convinced that Kolchak, The Night Stalker, is another ...
But so goes our stupid world, where the fetid winds of box office projections, egomania, questionable taste and the like all blow up my skirt.
Kudos to all who shared in the original creation of Carl Kolchak, and I pledge my ongoing allegiance to such a vigorous fine figure of truth, justice and the American Way.
Alternately known as The Night Stalker, Kolchak is the abrasive aging reporter who breaks stories involving vampires and other-worldly figures. Originally created by a weak writer named Jeff Rice in a hard-to-read novella, and portrayed by the ever-freckled Darren McGavin (the belligerent, beleagured "Old Man" in the classic film "Christmas Story"), he first appeared in a brilliant 1971/2 TV movie that featured not only the voluptuously vapid Carol Lindley, but Claude Akins and Simon Oakland as well. The subsequent short-lived TV series was supposedly the inspiration for Chris Carter's creation of "The X-Files, and McGavin was honored with a small recurring role on that show before his death (at some point, from something). Also, one of its main writers and story consultants was one David Chase, who went on to create "The Sopranos."
Kolchak the character is many things, but mostly -- for me -- he's the truth-teller that no one wants to believe. He's the voice of reality that everyone wants to silence and ignore. He's the gadfly that people wish would just go away. He's the conscious conscience who passionately fights for not only truth, but the vital need that it be dissemated.
One of the other things that I really like about him is that, despite his slightly crass demeanor, (which in television seems to lend itself to the caricature of an oaf), Carl's also extremely intelligent. W,hile he's intolerant of people in general -- or seems to be -- it's not without reason, because like so many of us, he's surrounded by idiots and individuals whose fear has robbed them of keeping strong convictions.
Further, despite his innate frailty, he's forever finding himself in supernatural situations that demand bravery. With morose resolve, he descends into the sewer to slay a swamp monster, crawls into an abandoned car to sew shut the mouth of a dormant zombie, slinks into the Seattle underground in search of a timeless serial killer, and, of course, (as certainly someone must remember), stands his ground against a sword-wielding headless motorcyclist ...
I love Kolchak, and give him significant credit for helping inspire me to become a writer. (Of course, some of you might use the word "blame.") And as I grew and went out into this weird, wild world stuffed with dangerous creeping people who dwell underneath all sorts of physical and spiritual rocks, the example of Carl Kolchak has often reminded me of the value of fighting for a righteous cause, arguing for an unpopular truth, even if all the odds are against you, even if the publications won't print the facts, and even if you're feeling all alone in the world ... again!
When last I checked IMDB.com -- the movie site -- I was happily astounded to see that a remake involving none other than my friend Johnny Depp was in development. It pleased me at the time, but now I'm not so sure. Despite what a grand actor like Johnny might think, there are some things that shouldn't even be touched or any attempts made to expand upon them or replicate their magic. He already made that mistake with Willy Wonka ... Beatles music is another example of that kind of thing ... I'm pretty convinced that Kolchak, The Night Stalker, is another ...
But so goes our stupid world, where the fetid winds of box office projections, egomania, questionable taste and the like all blow up my skirt.
Kudos to all who shared in the original creation of Carl Kolchak, and I pledge my ongoing allegiance to such a vigorous fine figure of truth, justice and the American Way.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Sociopathic Corporate Madness is Making My Groin Hurt
June 3, 2012: Finally, I want to get to this issue of the Killer Bees, because tonight they're feeling like the perfect metaphor for the new Fear that's gripping me around the ankles, throat and genitals, and all simultaneously ... And wasn't it Anne Sexton who spoke of that "awful rowing toward god?" ... or perhaps that was Dan Woog, referencing those idiots on the Saugatuck River in Westport.
The point is, I'm drowning in the awful visions of corporate domination and one-percent control and private GOP armies and the like, and the Fear has me, like it did in the early '80s when Reagan first came to power and I was sure a nuclear strike was imminent, and that it would be hitting ME in particular ... It's like the Killer Bees, which were poised to attack when I was just a little lad, if you can imagine such a thing, me being all grown up and devilishly handsome and all, but at that time existing on pure Fear, adrenalin, and iced tea ...
But you see the question comes to mind for me: What the hell happened to the Killer Bees anyway?! I mean, I was told they were attacking. We all were! They were allegedly flying north from Mexico, as all dangerous things are wont to do. There were kitcsh TV movies about them, where dopey victims were stung repeatedly beyond recognition and the heroes outran them to the last, but not before stomping a few of the worse ones into pulp ... So where are they now?!
It's interesting, for I remember someone telling me -- some idiot in the never-ending series of idiots I've known -- that "the scientists" -- and that's what he said -- would merely meet the Bees at the border -- the Rio Grande River, I guess -- and they would spray them and solve the whole problem. Such a comforting image it still evokes -- a small group of Gary Larsen-type white-coated nerds shooting a few puffs of gas out over the water with one of those little metal pumping cannisters, and halting dead the rampaging cloud of gangland Bees in an instant ...
I guess that's what happened, because after the 70's I stopped hearing anything about Killer Bees ... Except, just three weeks ago I found a book at the library that's right now, at this very moment, sitting in the other room (probably overdue, actually), and there are probably additional answers there waiting to be realized ...
But you know what? I don't want to know them! I don't want to know anything, except that SPACE CASE is selling and you're going to buy a THIRD copy and will bring a harum of gorgeous women to my speaking engagement this Wednesday night at the Westport Library ... That's all I want to hear about! F*** the Killer Bees and Reagan and the crooked governors ...
But no, my stomach is being wrenched by the new knowledge of widespread corruption and union crushing and proletariat neutering and supreme court stacking and graft, and ongoing corporate malfeasance and chicanery and scum selling lies and scum telling lies and liars lying with straight-faced sociopathic integrity and old fools believing them and young fools as well ... Ouch! It makes my stomach hurt! Ouch! I AM Charlie Brown, you see, and my stomach always hurts ...
But wait! For now I'll quote Robert Plant, who bubbled so specifically in that lovely "The Song Remains the Same" movie rendition of "Stairway to Heaven," "But there's good news! Listen!" Yes! Why not?! Why not good news, for the Killer Bees are away from my radar after all, and all dead and buried at the bottom of the Rio Grande, for all I know ... and that's where one day soon we may find all these malfeasants and supplicating nitwits and schmucks and greedheads after all ... Aren't they just Killer Bees, really, on a demented rampage to keep alive and sting out at anything they THINK threatens them -- a fear-fueled frenzy of sociopathic stupidity ...
Even as we speak, there are probably focused, intelligent scientists in nerdy white lab coats who are developing vaccines for bullshit and marketed media manipulation and stupidity, and they'll be innoculating mankind before I know it ... And these lovely simply honest smart men (and women -- a few hot ones, with horn-rimmed glasses!) will be using their antiquated DDT puffer devises to soundly gas the bloodsucking parasites and heinous stinging bastards ...
They'll wait for them by the side of the River Styx, or some such river, and make it clear to them that they'll never be allowed in to heaven, which is probably here on earth after all ...
And heaven should be a place without sociopaths, Killer Bees or plastic surgery, and we'll all sit together by a quiet springtime stream and read aloud from the Bagvhad Gita, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, and Space Case ...
The point is, I'm drowning in the awful visions of corporate domination and one-percent control and private GOP armies and the like, and the Fear has me, like it did in the early '80s when Reagan first came to power and I was sure a nuclear strike was imminent, and that it would be hitting ME in particular ... It's like the Killer Bees, which were poised to attack when I was just a little lad, if you can imagine such a thing, me being all grown up and devilishly handsome and all, but at that time existing on pure Fear, adrenalin, and iced tea ...
But you see the question comes to mind for me: What the hell happened to the Killer Bees anyway?! I mean, I was told they were attacking. We all were! They were allegedly flying north from Mexico, as all dangerous things are wont to do. There were kitcsh TV movies about them, where dopey victims were stung repeatedly beyond recognition and the heroes outran them to the last, but not before stomping a few of the worse ones into pulp ... So where are they now?!
It's interesting, for I remember someone telling me -- some idiot in the never-ending series of idiots I've known -- that "the scientists" -- and that's what he said -- would merely meet the Bees at the border -- the Rio Grande River, I guess -- and they would spray them and solve the whole problem. Such a comforting image it still evokes -- a small group of Gary Larsen-type white-coated nerds shooting a few puffs of gas out over the water with one of those little metal pumping cannisters, and halting dead the rampaging cloud of gangland Bees in an instant ...
I guess that's what happened, because after the 70's I stopped hearing anything about Killer Bees ... Except, just three weeks ago I found a book at the library that's right now, at this very moment, sitting in the other room (probably overdue, actually), and there are probably additional answers there waiting to be realized ...
But you know what? I don't want to know them! I don't want to know anything, except that SPACE CASE is selling and you're going to buy a THIRD copy and will bring a harum of gorgeous women to my speaking engagement this Wednesday night at the Westport Library ... That's all I want to hear about! F*** the Killer Bees and Reagan and the crooked governors ...
But no, my stomach is being wrenched by the new knowledge of widespread corruption and union crushing and proletariat neutering and supreme court stacking and graft, and ongoing corporate malfeasance and chicanery and scum selling lies and scum telling lies and liars lying with straight-faced sociopathic integrity and old fools believing them and young fools as well ... Ouch! It makes my stomach hurt! Ouch! I AM Charlie Brown, you see, and my stomach always hurts ...
But wait! For now I'll quote Robert Plant, who bubbled so specifically in that lovely "The Song Remains the Same" movie rendition of "Stairway to Heaven," "But there's good news! Listen!" Yes! Why not?! Why not good news, for the Killer Bees are away from my radar after all, and all dead and buried at the bottom of the Rio Grande, for all I know ... and that's where one day soon we may find all these malfeasants and supplicating nitwits and schmucks and greedheads after all ... Aren't they just Killer Bees, really, on a demented rampage to keep alive and sting out at anything they THINK threatens them -- a fear-fueled frenzy of sociopathic stupidity ...
Even as we speak, there are probably focused, intelligent scientists in nerdy white lab coats who are developing vaccines for bullshit and marketed media manipulation and stupidity, and they'll be innoculating mankind before I know it ... And these lovely simply honest smart men (and women -- a few hot ones, with horn-rimmed glasses!) will be using their antiquated DDT puffer devises to soundly gas the bloodsucking parasites and heinous stinging bastards ...
They'll wait for them by the side of the River Styx, or some such river, and make it clear to them that they'll never be allowed in to heaven, which is probably here on earth after all ...
And heaven should be a place without sociopaths, Killer Bees or plastic surgery, and we'll all sit together by a quiet springtime stream and read aloud from the Bagvhad Gita, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, and Space Case ...
Monday, May 28, 2012
Memories of Coleytown Cafeteria Food
May 29, 2012: Before I talk about the Killer Bees, as I've been promising to do (and the Brady Bunch), let me spend a few heartfelt minutes recounting the marvelous memories of the food they used to serve in the cafeteria of my old elementary school.
In yet another example of what seems to be a never-ending litany of things that were once, in the past, so much better, and now (because of greed and stupidity, and peripherals thereof) have come to suck shit, I can tell you we had awesome cafeteria food at Coleytown Elementary School in Westport, Connecticut, in the mid-1970s.
For starters, we ate on real plates -- unbreakable pink plastic plates that were washed every day by Herb the Janitor. How insane it is now that, with all our environmental overtures about recycling and all that bullshit, we only use the most disposable things we can in cafeterias and each day the custodians cart off a ton of plastic and styrofoam to the dumpster for god-knows-what stupid reason. (I don't even care what the reason is, even if you say the plastic plates put kids' health at risk, because I still maintain it's stupid and I stand by that, and I would much rather gamble on some kids getting a few cases of chemical poisoning than change my mind about it.)
Perhaps the most memorable lunch was Thursday's meatball grinder. "One or two meatballs," the cafeteria lady always asked each student before filling their grinder roll with the best sweet, saucy stuff you could imagine for the 60-cent price of a little red ticket. (I could never imagine why anyone would answer "One," but I guess some fools did.)
Spaghetti and meat sauce was also great, with a tasty salad and a mountain of pasta as good as you'd get in any family restaurant. (All the food seemed to be hearty and homemade, unlike the pre-prepped crap they pawn off today through the food service companies that inadvertently abuse our schools.)
Another awesome day was Wednesdays, when we often had turkey and mashed potatoes. The mashed were served with an ice cream scoop, and still today, it's hard to imagine anything tasting better. The turkey, which was lovely chunks of meat mixed into a sweet, gooey gravy, was delectable, and the spongy, olive-drab canned green beans were out of this world too (even though I usually didn't eat them).
Hamburgers and hot dogs were great days too, although in fifth grade I developed a reputation because I would literally smother these items with the condiments -- literally enough ketchup, mustard and relish to garnish six, heaped on my dog or hamburger. The cafeteria ladies would get mad at me, but I adamantly stood by my rights, like the little shit I was. (On a parallel note, I'm reminded of my best friend Debbie G. -- I think it was her -- and I making the creative discovery/proclamation some time around first grade that, as boys had hot dogs, what girls had must certainly be called hamburgers.)
Want more amazing? When we got to fifth grade we discovered that, since we were the last class eating, we could ask for seconds, and even thirds. The generous cafeteria ladies would heap enormous additional portions on our plates -- tons of turkey, spaghetti, extra french fries, and multiple ice cream scoops of mashed or, even better, delicious white rice prepared so perfectly sticky and tasty, I never ever since have tasted such a magnificent comforting delicacy.
And yet there was even more to experience than just amazing food. There was drama, entertainment, and mystery. I'll never forget the fearful risk one ran of being served by the woman who had no thumb. Usually she handled the desserts at the end of the line, but if it happened to come about that she was serving, it ended up warranting many minutes of discussion afterward. ("I saw it!" we'd exclaim, recounting the horror of how the skin had grown over the remaining knuckle.)
Most memorable, however, was the most surly lunch lady of them all, who, without fail -- day after day, for five straight years of my elementary experience -- would walk out into the large noisy lunchroom, literally holding up a big spoon like a character from Oliver Twist, and every single day, in a vaguely English voice that also sounded just like Fred Flintstone's mother-in-law, she would declare, "One lunch ticket missin'!"
She'd stand there waving the spoon like a pennant for a breath-holding moment while we all fell silent ... and waited, scared to speak ... until some stupid kid finally stood up and ran over to return the little ticket he'd forgotten to drop in the large, stout tin can with the paper pasted around outside. (It was probably the same kid each day, too.)
Day after day -- every day -- she said this, spoon in hand, every day ... And I've never forgotten the one and only time ever, in fifth grade, when she came out and shocked us all by announcing, "Two lunch tickets missin'!" (It's a moment burned in my memory as deeply as someone perhaps remembers where they were when Kennedy was shot.)
It was a delicious time, literally, and the memory is made all that much better by knowing that my new novel Space Case, which really isn't as new as it used to be, is now available in hard copy at Amazon. Get yours today and take a big bite!
In yet another example of what seems to be a never-ending litany of things that were once, in the past, so much better, and now (because of greed and stupidity, and peripherals thereof) have come to suck shit, I can tell you we had awesome cafeteria food at Coleytown Elementary School in Westport, Connecticut, in the mid-1970s.
For starters, we ate on real plates -- unbreakable pink plastic plates that were washed every day by Herb the Janitor. How insane it is now that, with all our environmental overtures about recycling and all that bullshit, we only use the most disposable things we can in cafeterias and each day the custodians cart off a ton of plastic and styrofoam to the dumpster for god-knows-what stupid reason. (I don't even care what the reason is, even if you say the plastic plates put kids' health at risk, because I still maintain it's stupid and I stand by that, and I would much rather gamble on some kids getting a few cases of chemical poisoning than change my mind about it.)
Perhaps the most memorable lunch was Thursday's meatball grinder. "One or two meatballs," the cafeteria lady always asked each student before filling their grinder roll with the best sweet, saucy stuff you could imagine for the 60-cent price of a little red ticket. (I could never imagine why anyone would answer "One," but I guess some fools did.)
Spaghetti and meat sauce was also great, with a tasty salad and a mountain of pasta as good as you'd get in any family restaurant. (All the food seemed to be hearty and homemade, unlike the pre-prepped crap they pawn off today through the food service companies that inadvertently abuse our schools.)
Another awesome day was Wednesdays, when we often had turkey and mashed potatoes. The mashed were served with an ice cream scoop, and still today, it's hard to imagine anything tasting better. The turkey, which was lovely chunks of meat mixed into a sweet, gooey gravy, was delectable, and the spongy, olive-drab canned green beans were out of this world too (even though I usually didn't eat them).
Hamburgers and hot dogs were great days too, although in fifth grade I developed a reputation because I would literally smother these items with the condiments -- literally enough ketchup, mustard and relish to garnish six, heaped on my dog or hamburger. The cafeteria ladies would get mad at me, but I adamantly stood by my rights, like the little shit I was. (On a parallel note, I'm reminded of my best friend Debbie G. -- I think it was her -- and I making the creative discovery/proclamation some time around first grade that, as boys had hot dogs, what girls had must certainly be called hamburgers.)
Want more amazing? When we got to fifth grade we discovered that, since we were the last class eating, we could ask for seconds, and even thirds. The generous cafeteria ladies would heap enormous additional portions on our plates -- tons of turkey, spaghetti, extra french fries, and multiple ice cream scoops of mashed or, even better, delicious white rice prepared so perfectly sticky and tasty, I never ever since have tasted such a magnificent comforting delicacy.
And yet there was even more to experience than just amazing food. There was drama, entertainment, and mystery. I'll never forget the fearful risk one ran of being served by the woman who had no thumb. Usually she handled the desserts at the end of the line, but if it happened to come about that she was serving, it ended up warranting many minutes of discussion afterward. ("I saw it!" we'd exclaim, recounting the horror of how the skin had grown over the remaining knuckle.)
Most memorable, however, was the most surly lunch lady of them all, who, without fail -- day after day, for five straight years of my elementary experience -- would walk out into the large noisy lunchroom, literally holding up a big spoon like a character from Oliver Twist, and every single day, in a vaguely English voice that also sounded just like Fred Flintstone's mother-in-law, she would declare, "One lunch ticket missin'!"
She'd stand there waving the spoon like a pennant for a breath-holding moment while we all fell silent ... and waited, scared to speak ... until some stupid kid finally stood up and ran over to return the little ticket he'd forgotten to drop in the large, stout tin can with the paper pasted around outside. (It was probably the same kid each day, too.)
Day after day -- every day -- she said this, spoon in hand, every day ... And I've never forgotten the one and only time ever, in fifth grade, when she came out and shocked us all by announcing, "Two lunch tickets missin'!" (It's a moment burned in my memory as deeply as someone perhaps remembers where they were when Kennedy was shot.)
It was a delicious time, literally, and the memory is made all that much better by knowing that my new novel Space Case, which really isn't as new as it used to be, is now available in hard copy at Amazon. Get yours today and take a big bite!
Sunday, May 20, 2012
The Brady Bunch & Me (and You ... and SPACE CASE)
May 20, 2012: Where do I begin? I'm acutely aware that my film and entertainment-related posts are clearly the most popular, so going forward I've decided to make every effort to please you. (Yes, I know -- it's so unlike me!) Toward that end, I was finally going to offer the second part of the popular "Very Brady" analysis, which you were promised three years ago. (The fact that I'm finally following through demonstrates something, but I'm not entirely sure what ... especially since, by the time this Blah-ugh! entry is over, I may not have even followed through after all ...) For you see, as Marcia Brady was so famously taught to say by Greg in that brilliant episode where she finally gets the date with quarterback Doug Simpson (Big Man on Campus), and therefore has to break her lame date with nebish Charlie, son of the wallpaper guy, who stupidly ties his smelly shoe to the bench and falls over ... "Something suddenly came up!" (or as Marcia says it, "seddinly")
And what came up was my dinner, although not literally. Actually, I am sitting here in my utter fatness at 10:45, so totally enamored with the meal I just ate, that I can't bring myself to focus on the subtleties of Brady trivia and life lessons, for I just can't stop thinking about what a miraculous meal it was ...
Now, if I were to detail what I ate, you'd probably find it a disappointing reason for my elation. And yet, as I sit here reviewing each bite in my gluttonous mind's eye, the perfection was only partially in the ingredients, and moreso in the very timing and overall coming-together of the meal.
Which brings me to share a little-known fact about myself -- little known and probably even less cared about, but these are the pedantic study thoughts writers have and we write them down because we HAVE to ... In short, I employ a kind of symmetrical system in eating my meals. That is, I somehow manage to eat my meals in such a way -- and my god, I do this EVERY TIME, and without conscious effort -- so that by the time they're just about finished, I always have one last little bite of each item on my plate.
In fact, it's actually a kind of remarkable skill, really, and highlights my spatial intelligence, because I always work it out in the waning minutes of my meal without fail. And even halfway before I'm through, my higher space brain has me taking just the right-size bites to keep everything in some kind of weird balance on my plate, so that the last few rounds of fork-fulls will be even ...
I don't think I've ever recounted any of my grosser obsessive-compulsive tendencies, but they're there, and have certainly been flagrant in the past. But how I ended up with this specific habit of eating, I'll never know. I remember having a related discussion with a friend many years ago, which I think was brought up because he ate (and completed eating) each item on his plate before starting the next (and of course I pointed out that this was wrong) ...
Anyway, it was a great meal, and probably made better by the classic Brady episode I watched while consuming -- "Confessions, Confessions," where Peter breaks mom's favorite vase and the others try to cover it up for him so he can still go on his camping trip. "Mom's favorite vase," Greg moans softly. And Bobby, "She always says, 'Don't play ball in the house.'" (One of the things that made that show great was that they pronounced vase with a long A, and "aunt" as "ant," the way it's supposed to be pronounced by normal Americans.
Yes, there are so many Brady-related items I need to go further into. I don't think I ever even touched on the urban legend of Eve Plumb becoming a porn star, the removal of Maureen McCormick's moles, or the fact that you can see the wire when the wall nearly falls on that little girl in Driscoll's toy store ...
But I've also got SPACE CASE news to report, and lots of it. For starters, my June 6 Westport Library appearance is deucedly imminent, and thanks to kind, talented, brave writers like the great Joe Meyers -- always my favorite critic because he often shares my sensible good taste, AND he liked my first movie, or at least pretended to like it in a very sincere way -- publicity will be forthcoming in the CT Post, or maybe the Stamford Advocate ... News-Times? -- I'm hoping the whole gang, as they now appear to all be under the same yoke. (I don't even know when that happened, but, really, I don't even want to know!) Joe is a legendary good man, and it was an honor being interviewed by him (and now let's see if I keep this nauseating praise up here AFTER he publishes the article!) ...
The point is, SPACE CASE is growing, like a fungus, and if you haven't read it yet, you're a shitheel and no friend of mine! But I'm only saying that to encourage you to buy a copy, because not everyone has a Kindle or a Nook ... and so the really, REALLY great news is that Amazon is now offering -- Yes, I can HARDLY believe it myself -- a HARD COPY of SPACE CASE -- available for everyone, be they black or white or colored, to paraphrase Woody Allen ...
Here is the link: SPACE CASE in hard cover, with new cover ... but I would encourage you to wait 48 hours before ordering, because I'm resubmitting a new file with fewer typos ...
That said, let's remember to talk MORE about the Bradys in the next outing of the Blah-ugh! And I've got to go off about this weird John Wayne movie I stumbled on that's downright creepy -- "Big Jim McClain" ...
And could someone please remind about the Killer Bees? ...
And what came up was my dinner, although not literally. Actually, I am sitting here in my utter fatness at 10:45, so totally enamored with the meal I just ate, that I can't bring myself to focus on the subtleties of Brady trivia and life lessons, for I just can't stop thinking about what a miraculous meal it was ...
Now, if I were to detail what I ate, you'd probably find it a disappointing reason for my elation. And yet, as I sit here reviewing each bite in my gluttonous mind's eye, the perfection was only partially in the ingredients, and moreso in the very timing and overall coming-together of the meal.
Which brings me to share a little-known fact about myself -- little known and probably even less cared about, but these are the pedantic study thoughts writers have and we write them down because we HAVE to ... In short, I employ a kind of symmetrical system in eating my meals. That is, I somehow manage to eat my meals in such a way -- and my god, I do this EVERY TIME, and without conscious effort -- so that by the time they're just about finished, I always have one last little bite of each item on my plate.
In fact, it's actually a kind of remarkable skill, really, and highlights my spatial intelligence, because I always work it out in the waning minutes of my meal without fail. And even halfway before I'm through, my higher space brain has me taking just the right-size bites to keep everything in some kind of weird balance on my plate, so that the last few rounds of fork-fulls will be even ...
I don't think I've ever recounted any of my grosser obsessive-compulsive tendencies, but they're there, and have certainly been flagrant in the past. But how I ended up with this specific habit of eating, I'll never know. I remember having a related discussion with a friend many years ago, which I think was brought up because he ate (and completed eating) each item on his plate before starting the next (and of course I pointed out that this was wrong) ...
Anyway, it was a great meal, and probably made better by the classic Brady episode I watched while consuming -- "Confessions, Confessions," where Peter breaks mom's favorite vase and the others try to cover it up for him so he can still go on his camping trip. "Mom's favorite vase," Greg moans softly. And Bobby, "She always says, 'Don't play ball in the house.'" (One of the things that made that show great was that they pronounced vase with a long A, and "aunt" as "ant," the way it's supposed to be pronounced by normal Americans.
Yes, there are so many Brady-related items I need to go further into. I don't think I ever even touched on the urban legend of Eve Plumb becoming a porn star, the removal of Maureen McCormick's moles, or the fact that you can see the wire when the wall nearly falls on that little girl in Driscoll's toy store ...
But I've also got SPACE CASE news to report, and lots of it. For starters, my June 6 Westport Library appearance is deucedly imminent, and thanks to kind, talented, brave writers like the great Joe Meyers -- always my favorite critic because he often shares my sensible good taste, AND he liked my first movie, or at least pretended to like it in a very sincere way -- publicity will be forthcoming in the CT Post, or maybe the Stamford Advocate ... News-Times? -- I'm hoping the whole gang, as they now appear to all be under the same yoke. (I don't even know when that happened, but, really, I don't even want to know!) Joe is a legendary good man, and it was an honor being interviewed by him (and now let's see if I keep this nauseating praise up here AFTER he publishes the article!) ...
The point is, SPACE CASE is growing, like a fungus, and if you haven't read it yet, you're a shitheel and no friend of mine! But I'm only saying that to encourage you to buy a copy, because not everyone has a Kindle or a Nook ... and so the really, REALLY great news is that Amazon is now offering -- Yes, I can HARDLY believe it myself -- a HARD COPY of SPACE CASE -- available for everyone, be they black or white or colored, to paraphrase Woody Allen ...
Here is the link: SPACE CASE in hard cover, with new cover ... but I would encourage you to wait 48 hours before ordering, because I'm resubmitting a new file with fewer typos ...
That said, let's remember to talk MORE about the Bradys in the next outing of the Blah-ugh! And I've got to go off about this weird John Wayne movie I stumbled on that's downright creepy -- "Big Jim McClain" ...
And could someone please remind about the Killer Bees? ...
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Write Makes Right, and Dan Woog ... and SPACE CASE
May 10, 2012: There are so many things to talk about, I'm afraid the Killer Bees may have to wait another week ... Big news for SPACE CASE fans (and avoiders)! ...
To begin with, when you're doing one of these entries, don't hit the tab button, because your cursor will somehow just disappear and it could be hours before you find it again. This time I was lucky, but next time I may not be ...
I'm very happy to report that my recent Blah-ugh!, which extoled (or extolled -- I'm not sure which it was now) the virtue of trees and chastized the heinous greed-centered practices of Connecticut Light & Power, may have done some little good to spread awareness and motivate change after all. (Please keep in mind that I'm telling you this not so much to brag -- although there is that element -- but to demonstrate my still-remaining potential to eventually show some worth, contrary to what some people -- (people like EJ and my wife) -- might otherwise think.) ...
Now where was I? You see, people think it's easy for me to write those intricate run-on sentences, but it's not, especially late at night, when I'm nauseous from overeating mangos and cream ...
Ah, yes!: The scoundrels at CL&P and Dan Woog ... No, no! Don't lump them together, for Dan is a noble soul -- the brains behind the notorious Westport-based blog called 06880, or Danwoog06880 -- something like that; it seems to keep changing. Anyway, Dan was -- once again -- kind enough to lend his ever-strengthening forum to one of my hissyfits -- this time this tree business. And now, thanks to his exposure (and nerve in even being associated with me on so many occasions), the tides of malicious tree destruction -- which is, after all, such a stupid brand of destruction -- may be getting assuaged, or at least curbed ... And while a good deal of credit should also go to my lovely neighbor, who took the time to rant and call the tree warden -- although not necessarily in that order -- there's a good chance she won't be reading this, so I'll emphasize that it was MY work that really broke things open. (My god, several people even called me the Lorax after Dan's piece was out, while usually they just say, "Hey asshole!")
Which reminds me that I was thinking of this terrific line in the movie Die Hard II, where Bruce Willis tells the great John Amos, "I thought you were an asshole?" and Amos replies, "Oh, I'm an asshole alright, but I'm YOUR KIND of asshole!"
This makes a lot of sense to me. (My god, is there ANYTHING that action/adventures movies CAN'T teach us?!) But now that I think of it, it made a lot more sense earlier, when I had some point in bringing it up relating to this woman who brings her dog to poop in the graveyard down the street from me ...
But I can tell you this: this whole experience has me thinking I should start using my Blah-ugh! forum for good instead of evil. And this in turn gets me to wonder what other wrongs around me I should focus my virulent energies in trying to make right. Probably it would be a campaign aimed at restricting dogs, or dog owners, who generally drive me crazy and let their dogs poop everywhere. I'm not sure Dan would support this effort, but he doesn't know everything. I don't think he has a dog, but for all I know his blog is sponsored by dog-related industries and, therefore, he may shy away from confronting certain dog-related topics because of politics and corruption. I'm surprised at Dan! I've always admired his work, especially when he writes about me, and while he's not quite the clever wordsmith I am -- I'm actually pretty sure at this point that no one is -- he's probably a much better reporter, and so I would hope he could maintain his objectivity where things like dog poop are concerned.
And that's a good transition to mention my novel SPACE CASE, which I believe Dan is reading and wholeheartedly enjoying at this very moment! Believe it or not, it is now available in hard copy at Amazon! (I can't even believe it, and I worked like a dog getting it up, if you'll forgive the awkward dirtiness of that image ...) Of course, I have to kudos my friend Tom Hughes for his tireless work in creating a new cover, and while I supplied the cartoons, he supplied the resentments and it all just melded beautifully ... So there is no longer an excuse for you NOT to read this book, except for the fact that you may despite my work. But if that's the case, you shouldn't even be reading this, and I suggest you go over to Dan's blog and bother him ...
Alright, we'll try and get to those Killer Bees next time ... Meanwhile, think about saving a tree while you're having a hard copy of SPACE CASE shipped to your house. You won't regret it, at least until it arrives ...
To begin with, when you're doing one of these entries, don't hit the tab button, because your cursor will somehow just disappear and it could be hours before you find it again. This time I was lucky, but next time I may not be ...
I'm very happy to report that my recent Blah-ugh!, which extoled (or extolled -- I'm not sure which it was now) the virtue of trees and chastized the heinous greed-centered practices of Connecticut Light & Power, may have done some little good to spread awareness and motivate change after all. (Please keep in mind that I'm telling you this not so much to brag -- although there is that element -- but to demonstrate my still-remaining potential to eventually show some worth, contrary to what some people -- (people like EJ and my wife) -- might otherwise think.) ...
Now where was I? You see, people think it's easy for me to write those intricate run-on sentences, but it's not, especially late at night, when I'm nauseous from overeating mangos and cream ...
Ah, yes!: The scoundrels at CL&P and Dan Woog ... No, no! Don't lump them together, for Dan is a noble soul -- the brains behind the notorious Westport-based blog called 06880, or Danwoog06880 -- something like that; it seems to keep changing. Anyway, Dan was -- once again -- kind enough to lend his ever-strengthening forum to one of my hissyfits -- this time this tree business. And now, thanks to his exposure (and nerve in even being associated with me on so many occasions), the tides of malicious tree destruction -- which is, after all, such a stupid brand of destruction -- may be getting assuaged, or at least curbed ... And while a good deal of credit should also go to my lovely neighbor, who took the time to rant and call the tree warden -- although not necessarily in that order -- there's a good chance she won't be reading this, so I'll emphasize that it was MY work that really broke things open. (My god, several people even called me the Lorax after Dan's piece was out, while usually they just say, "Hey asshole!")
Which reminds me that I was thinking of this terrific line in the movie Die Hard II, where Bruce Willis tells the great John Amos, "I thought you were an asshole?" and Amos replies, "Oh, I'm an asshole alright, but I'm YOUR KIND of asshole!"
This makes a lot of sense to me. (My god, is there ANYTHING that action/adventures movies CAN'T teach us?!) But now that I think of it, it made a lot more sense earlier, when I had some point in bringing it up relating to this woman who brings her dog to poop in the graveyard down the street from me ...
But I can tell you this: this whole experience has me thinking I should start using my Blah-ugh! forum for good instead of evil. And this in turn gets me to wonder what other wrongs around me I should focus my virulent energies in trying to make right. Probably it would be a campaign aimed at restricting dogs, or dog owners, who generally drive me crazy and let their dogs poop everywhere. I'm not sure Dan would support this effort, but he doesn't know everything. I don't think he has a dog, but for all I know his blog is sponsored by dog-related industries and, therefore, he may shy away from confronting certain dog-related topics because of politics and corruption. I'm surprised at Dan! I've always admired his work, especially when he writes about me, and while he's not quite the clever wordsmith I am -- I'm actually pretty sure at this point that no one is -- he's probably a much better reporter, and so I would hope he could maintain his objectivity where things like dog poop are concerned.
And that's a good transition to mention my novel SPACE CASE, which I believe Dan is reading and wholeheartedly enjoying at this very moment! Believe it or not, it is now available in hard copy at Amazon! (I can't even believe it, and I worked like a dog getting it up, if you'll forgive the awkward dirtiness of that image ...) Of course, I have to kudos my friend Tom Hughes for his tireless work in creating a new cover, and while I supplied the cartoons, he supplied the resentments and it all just melded beautifully ... So there is no longer an excuse for you NOT to read this book, except for the fact that you may despite my work. But if that's the case, you shouldn't even be reading this, and I suggest you go over to Dan's blog and bother him ...
Alright, we'll try and get to those Killer Bees next time ... Meanwhile, think about saving a tree while you're having a hard copy of SPACE CASE shipped to your house. You won't regret it, at least until it arrives ...
Saturday, May 5, 2012
The Dead & Me
May 5, 2012: I planned on doing a post about the Killer Bees, but then I saw this dead body on I-95 and I thought it might make a better Blah-ugh! (And yes, Space Case is still available ...)
Apparently this poor wretch jumped off the overpass just minutes before I got there, getting hit by three cars before settling in to his demise. Of course, I'm grateful I didn't hit him -- and would have, had I left a few moments earlier -- but as I zipped along in the left lane, I still almost ran over him, because he was lying half in the edge of the road. (His arm was severely twisted under his body, while his torn shirt showed a smattering of blood ... but I didn't get a terribly close look at him, and I didn't feel like stopping to study.)
The oddest part was seeing a body there with no police lights signifying the event. It was dark and the vehicles -- four of them -- were pulled over yards and yards past him. A few people were standing about there, dumbstruck, talking -- one man appeared to be smiling maniacally -- but no one was going near the guy. It was surreal, almost as if they didn't know he was there, or he were a squirrel ...
Of course, the event brought up memories of the time I found a dead woman on the way to work. She was just lying in her driveway, having had an asthma attack after a brisk walk that freezing morning. Her asthma inhaler was lying on the ground next to her, and her gloves were off and to the side. I was bleary-eyed as I traveled this back road in Redding, Connecticut, and I went yards and yards past the driveway before it fully registered that I'd just passed a woman lying there ...
After pulling over and running back, I found her there seemingly frozen. Her eyes were open and her mouth snarled in that gruesome rictus of death. (I finally have a reason to use the word "rictus" in an essay and I can't remember if I'm spelling it right.) I shook her and said, "Hey, lady!" (I didn't know what the hell else to do; it didn't even occur to me to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation (and probably because I never would have had the nerve anyway!)) Anyway, by the time some other people pulled over, we all agreed she was dead and there was nothing left for us to do ...
My last death-related story -- at least to date -- involves the tour of the dead body I took with my doctor friend, which I recounted sparingly (yet exquisitely) in my now-famous Fray magazine article. I'll hope you enjoy it, if you haven't already ...
On another note, it may be time for me to relocate my Blah-ugh! As every company, business, software program, television show will do, this site -- which has been so good to me, I guess -- has decided to change everything for no good reason. (I'm reminded of the time Hunter Thompson told me, "If it works, don't fix it.") And now I'm struggling to get this stupid thing out and over the airwaves, and I don't feel like struggling.
Unfortunately, if I were to finally decide to create and maintain my own site, it would doubtless require more work, and I just don't know if I'm up to it ... And on still another note (EJ), it may be time for you to finally buy Space Case -- that book I wrote that no one is taking the time to write 20-word reviews for on Amazon (excepting blessed Kathy & Eric -- both of whom have the good taste I expect my Blah-ugh! readers to possess).
NEXT WEEK (or sooner): I really AM going to talk about Killer Bees ...
Apparently this poor wretch jumped off the overpass just minutes before I got there, getting hit by three cars before settling in to his demise. Of course, I'm grateful I didn't hit him -- and would have, had I left a few moments earlier -- but as I zipped along in the left lane, I still almost ran over him, because he was lying half in the edge of the road. (His arm was severely twisted under his body, while his torn shirt showed a smattering of blood ... but I didn't get a terribly close look at him, and I didn't feel like stopping to study.)
The oddest part was seeing a body there with no police lights signifying the event. It was dark and the vehicles -- four of them -- were pulled over yards and yards past him. A few people were standing about there, dumbstruck, talking -- one man appeared to be smiling maniacally -- but no one was going near the guy. It was surreal, almost as if they didn't know he was there, or he were a squirrel ...
Of course, the event brought up memories of the time I found a dead woman on the way to work. She was just lying in her driveway, having had an asthma attack after a brisk walk that freezing morning. Her asthma inhaler was lying on the ground next to her, and her gloves were off and to the side. I was bleary-eyed as I traveled this back road in Redding, Connecticut, and I went yards and yards past the driveway before it fully registered that I'd just passed a woman lying there ...
After pulling over and running back, I found her there seemingly frozen. Her eyes were open and her mouth snarled in that gruesome rictus of death. (I finally have a reason to use the word "rictus" in an essay and I can't remember if I'm spelling it right.) I shook her and said, "Hey, lady!" (I didn't know what the hell else to do; it didn't even occur to me to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation (and probably because I never would have had the nerve anyway!)) Anyway, by the time some other people pulled over, we all agreed she was dead and there was nothing left for us to do ...
My last death-related story -- at least to date -- involves the tour of the dead body I took with my doctor friend, which I recounted sparingly (yet exquisitely) in my now-famous Fray magazine article. I'll hope you enjoy it, if you haven't already ...
On another note, it may be time for me to relocate my Blah-ugh! As every company, business, software program, television show will do, this site -- which has been so good to me, I guess -- has decided to change everything for no good reason. (I'm reminded of the time Hunter Thompson told me, "If it works, don't fix it.") And now I'm struggling to get this stupid thing out and over the airwaves, and I don't feel like struggling.
Unfortunately, if I were to finally decide to create and maintain my own site, it would doubtless require more work, and I just don't know if I'm up to it ... And on still another note (EJ), it may be time for you to finally buy Space Case -- that book I wrote that no one is taking the time to write 20-word reviews for on Amazon (excepting blessed Kathy & Eric -- both of whom have the good taste I expect my Blah-ugh! readers to possess).
NEXT WEEK (or sooner): I really AM going to talk about Killer Bees ...
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