Blah-Ugh! (The Blog & I)

Can't Stop Talking Toilets 2012

2012-02-10T06:43:00.000-08:00

February 10, 2012: If this were your homepage, you'd be home now ... And if you haven't purchased your virtual copy of SPACE CASE by now (Amazon or B&N), I honestly don't know what I'm going to do with you, except fervently resent ...

That all said, with numerous topics vying for selection in my muddled, moribund mind -- my email struggles, Indian food, Hermann Hesse, the dangers of synthetic underwear ... Once again, toilets turned out to take top billing here at the Blah-ugh!, for once again I'm moved to revisit and revial my most favorite of holy subjects.

You'd think by now you'd have learned everything you needed to know from me about toilets from previous posts. (http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2009/08/finding-god-in-my-toilet.html, http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2010/03/still-more-on-toilets.html and http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2010/01/finding-acceptance-in-my-toilet.html are just some examples ...) The fact is, however, that we've only just begun to scratch the surface -- or dive deeper, if you will -- regarding this important and yet sadly overlooked element of our overtly disturbing modern human existence.

Today's entry was prompted by my seeing someone pee on the seat at work today. (No, no! I didn't bear witness -- perish the thought!) But I was the unfortunate victim of some selfish moron's thougthless skullduggery and, at the time of my toilet pigrimage, was unfairly forced to view the result of the disturbing actions of what is in essence a modern-day fiend.

Fortunately (for me ... and we all know this is all about ME), this was one visit where the condition of the seat didn't come into play for MY plans, except for the disgust I had to feel in having to gently lift that soiled seat with my foot while watching those skin-creeping neon-yellow dots of vitamin-enriched urine clinging there like so many June bugs ... And while I relieved myself (if you'll forgive the gruesomeness of THAT image), I got to thinking about my own habits where the seat is concerned.

You see, I've long wondered why men are forever implored to "put the seat down." In this enlightened age of equinimity -- (Is that the right word? If not, please don't tell me; I don't WANT to know) -- shouldn't we all be responsible for our own toilets? In other words, if I'm required to LIFT the seat to do MY dirty business, why should a woman not be required to LOWER the seat to do HERS? And yet, time and again, in my codependent efforts to be polite and be a good citizen and to get people to like me in AND out of the bathroom, I will not only raise the seat at the start, but return it to its resting place when I'm complete.

But this ongoing journey of self-discovery has led me to experiment a bit and -- depending on my mood, level of self-confidence, sense of self-esteem, and memory -- I sometimes will and sometimes WON'T put down the bloody seat.

(To be honest, at home I tend to always put it down, for various reasons. As a rule I think one is much more comfortable handling their OWN toilet seat. Despite all the rumors about urine's sterility and the argument that sexually transmitted diseases can't be thusly tranferred -- and why should we believe THAT anyway? -- handling public seats opens a clean man such as myself up to all kinds of disturbing, disgusting and potentially dangerous possibilities.)

Anyway, what really struck my mind -- and you have to understand, this was all unfolding in that short window I took to pee -- was how hostile a gesture it was to pee on a seat. Leaving the seat up is one thing, but by actually PEEING on the seat, you're sending a clear message of contempt -- and dare I say MISOGYNISTIC contempt -- to anyone and everyone who tries to use that soiled toilet after you. And this is what I REALLY found worrisome -- that there was some dirty, vitamin-fueled misogynist running around my place of work -- peeing at will, like a rabid fox terrier, leaving his supposedly sterile mark on our sacred toilet seats, ruthlessly laughing in the face of everything that's decent about urinating ...

At the end of the day, I'm not a woman -- not in any literal sense -- so it doesn't concern me too much. But again, I'm reminded how we, as a society in the 21st century, must not lose sight of the importance of our toilet culture.

We've come light years as an enlightened and spiritual species. We can't regress now. Let's not forget that kindness, caring, community, and even love begin when we first settle down to not just TAKE our piss, but MAKE IT ...

Toni, Daryl & Me

2012-01-26T17:44:00.000-08:00

January 26, 2012: I'm sick, so it's not going to be easy making you laugh. But my ongoing codependent sense of emotional obligation to you -- my loyal Blah-ugh! readers -- impels me to force myself to get some crap up on this stupid site, on the outside chance that you -- the loyal idiot -- will garner some feeling solace from the inane ramblings of this defective raconteur. (Did I mention SPACE CASE yet? Well, I will ... and soon ...)

So, failing to generate my usual helping of trying wit and vaguely insightful kah-kah, I thought it a good time to wax sentimental and share some of those dear and delightful childish memories -- in particular, those relating to two of my all-time favorites entertainers -- The Captain & Tennille!

Yes, I had a great love of that wonderful duet, which broke open the '70s with their Neil Sedaka standard "Love Will Keep Us Together." I owned their first three albums -- I still have them, in fact, with their second -- "Song of Joy" -- my personal favorite. (The tropical melancholia of "Lonely Nights" is still a favorite feeling felt, and their version of Smokey Robinson's "Shop Around" is grand and catchy.)

I remember reading all about the Captain & Tennille, and I can still recall some key details of their lives -- for instance, they supposedly married for convenience's sake, owing to the great amount of time they spent together on the road. (Now, that always confused ME, and hopefully now it'll confuse you, too!) The Captain -- whose real name is Daryl Dragon -- surely one of the best nonfictional names ever -- wore sunglasses for a congenital eye condition. (And I always knew that fact after having read it, but I'm STILL not clear exactly what that means; I know he had big, dark, rather spooky eyes, and looked kind of like a fruit bat when he wasn't wearing his sunglasses.)

(Point of fact, or so I'd heard: Dragon -- apparently a somewhat gifted and busy studio keyboardist in his day -- is credited with that awesome organ solo in the Beach Boys' standard "Surfin' USA.")

I joined the Captain & Tennille Fan Club around that time as well, (although I think membership was merely the result of a lengthy lugubrious letter I wrote them). I remember how exciting it was to receive the light blue tri-folded newsletter with their funky pop-art logo in the corner, telling all about their latest happenings, etc.

I remember they were on the cover of a new magazine called "People" -- him in that awesome captain's hat (sans glasses, if I remember correctly) and gorgeous, tall Toni, with her straight-bang, honey-colored '70s hair and those enormous white corn-fed teeth -- the quintessence of beauty in 1976. (I may still even have my copy somewhere.)

And then, imagine my breathtaking thrill when I learned they were starting their own variety show! I think it was on ABC, and I remember the intense anticipation I experienced waiting for that premiere ... And I watched each episode with joy and relish until it was unceremoniously yanked from the air after one season or so. I can still vividly recall some of the songs they played "live," including numbers with Toni's two southern sisters. ("My Boyfriend's Back" stands out, along with the animated -- rather Muppet-ated -- "video" for the immortal "Muskrat Love."

As you might imagine -- assuming you're imagining any of this -- I wanted nothing more than to have my own captain's hat. At that time, for me, that was the absolute pinnacle of cool, and I craved to have my shakey, pre-teen identity completed with my very own seaman's chapeau. (Sadly, I was always too embarrassed to ask for one from my parents, and so never realized that dream. Perhaps I'll amend that one day soon, if I can figure out where they're still sold, and whether my awful receding hairline and flash-frozen grey color have enough cool left to support such a grand hat.)

Of course, I harbored still more intense feelings and frustrating dreams dependent on the possibilities of Toni finally coming to her senses and acknowledging that marrying Dragon was a mistake. A much younger man, she'd have to know, would make a much better catch, and I was all too eager and ready to take over the helm of that ship.

Yes, I loved the Captain & Tennille (and always will, despite how disturbingly old they look on their current web site). Things never worked out between Toni and me, of course, but the three of us remain permanently linked -- forever young -- in the grotesque yet gossamer halls of my deranged memory ...

Nothing New to Spew Under the Sun

2012-01-22T15:49:00.000-08:00

January 22, 2012: Short of reminding you that my new e-novel Space Case remains on sale for an unlimited time -- (that story about the alien who finds himself entangled in a dysfunctional relationship with a busybody) -- I don't really have anything new to tell you ... Which is why it's so important I get this entry up and running For Your Information (or, FYI, for those of you in a rush) ...

You see, I'm acutely aware right now of how little any of us have to say that's of any worth. (YOU didn't make me realize this, of course, so don't feel paranoid; it was everyone else!) It suddenly strikes me as absolutely remarkable how, in this unfettered age of communication, where every possible opportunity to express ideas is literally budding from our virtual fingertips, there exists an astounding void of fodder worth formulating, let alone consuming.

The reason is simple -- There never was that much worth consuming to begin with! I finally realized that, here in the so-called Twenty-First Century (and we all know perfectly well it's really the Twenty-Second Century, even though I can't prove that because I sat on my calculator) we're more convinced than ever that there is a "wealth" of new and ever-newer info, facts, data, stories, ideas, opinions, observations and recollections that simply must be recorded, repeated, related and recounted ... But there isn't!

Like most things that fool us, it's an illusion of relativity. Hundreds of years ago -- pick a number, for it's relative anyway -- most everyone's time was taken up in a simple life of actions, spared long spells of trivia consumption and art for the sake of personal distraction. There was much more "living" going on, meaning people by-and-large had the opportunity to stay centered on whatever it was they were really doing -- to be "present" -- and objective intellectual experiences -- reading a book, watching a play, or hearing some gossip, for instance -- were confined to limited moments of novel recreation, which kept it all in its' meaningless place.

People can blame the creation of "leisure time" for the change, wherein more chances to watch, read and relate without participation came about, but I think it's more about the ongoing belief -- for we continue to suffer from it more and more -- that there is an ever-growing amount of things, ideas, etc., that need to be examined, that there are new ideas and new creations coming about vital to our heads ... But of course there aren't! That's the myth, the mistake ...

Modern people grow continually more worried that they'll miss something. New shows, trends, television, Youtube videos, articles, etc., are created and speeding by with such flustering bluster (or is it blustering fluster?), it's a wonder any of us get up and go to work at all. (I, actually, don't, but I'm using that figuratively.) Sadly, we're continually picking through the sparse, dry bones of a kind of cultural/social/intellectual roadkill, like unsatisfied crows, vainly hoping there'll be some stuff worth consuming. And I don't even think any of us are even hungry for anything, really, but driven by some vague fear that we're going to miss the boat if we stop or slow down.

Of course, there are -- always will be -- items, songs, stories, shows, sentences, scenarios -- worth our time -- ones which lend value to our state of being and provide us with an authentic nurturing. (This Blah-ugh! unfortunately isn't one of them, but that's not the point.) The difference is, somehow today in the Twenty-Third century, our ability to discern that value has been perhaps irreparably thwarted by a society replete with people who think they're artists, writers, poets -- idea people with anything new to say -- and there is little left to say that hasn't been said, and still fewer ways to say it with any interesting panache ... and yet everyone keeps shouting and writing and singing out ... Where do we stop? Where do we go? The question becomes, Do I need to know it, hear it, see it, read it ... and remark on it? Why shouldn't I just reread my Bradbury, Dickens and Kerouac, and rewatch my Lucy, Honeymooners, and Muppets?!

Not that they (we) are not entitled to keep shouting it out from the loudspeaker (or Internet) -- my god, if anyone was ever in favor of large bodies of our pliable citizenry shouting loudly and incoherently, it would have to be me! It's just that I don't want anyone thinking there's any pressing need to listen to any of us, any of it (excepting, of course, Space Case, which is available at Amazon and B&N) ... It's all just trivial poo-poo, and the presidents will keep coming and going, and the economy will ebb and flow, and actors will do good and bad, and styles will change and repeat, and confessions will be written and rereleased with different names, and songs will be sung and stung, and the same chords will be used over and over ...

But don't waste your time worrying about hearing them, seeing them, analyzing them, experiencing them ... It's all been done before, and odds are there really isn't much to be added to your mind, reality and emotional well-being ...

And that's why I felt it was so vital to get this Blah-ugh! entry up and active -- so you'd know enough not to bother reading the next one I write ...

Praising Kevin Spacey ... and E.J. (Whoever HE is!)

2012-01-15T16:16:00.000-08:00

January 15, 2012: I'd always loved Kevin Spacey -- that is, I was scared of him and thought that, perhaps if I became a fan, he'd leave me alone. But that all changed after seeing him do his Al Pacino impersonation at an event several years back -- (one of those astutely meaningless praise parties, in which an entertainer is hailed as a hero for his contributions to civilization, which in Pacino's case included birthing children after 60.) That's when Spacey won my heart.

Subsequently, I came to see his versatility -- and great humor -- in several different films. Who would have thought that this dangerous little man who seemed so demented in "Seven," would turn out to be a veritable cheer-pot of good giggles and positive tidings, or so I now like to think. Ultimately, it probably doesn't matter how evil he may really be in his heart, because I'm simply delighted to count him among my many loyal Blah-ugh! fans. (And YOU TOO, assuming you're reading this, and not just PRETENDING to read it so you'll be popular.) A great man, I tell you, is this Mr. Spacey, and his patronage is an affirmation of his good taste, if not his balanced temperament. Kudos, Mr. Spacey -- Kevin -- Kev ... K.S. ... Kissyface! ... Kudos, I say ...

And E.J. What else can we say about you? Nothing. You've had more than your share of attention, so stop pestering me and let Kevin have HIS moment in the sun ...

On another note, I'm beginning to suspect not everyone is being honest with me about their purchasing of SPACE CASE (my new humorous literary sci-fi ebook, available at Amazon and B&N). My numbers aren't reflecting the alleged enthusiasm of the horde, which once again thinks it can pull the wool over my eyes, like it did with that Kennedy assassination business. One woman told me her dog damaged her Kindle during some unnatural act, prohibiting her purchase. Another man claimed Jesus himself actually forbid him from buying SPACE CASE once he learned it was $2.99, which he said was a satanic price, given there were two typos. (If you find them, BTW, I'll send you an autographed picture of me and Kevin Spacey (although he's actually drawn in with a Sharpie marker).)

This, in turn, leads to a question I'm being asked quite a bit at this point -- namely, Who do I see playing Wendy and Rex in the movie version? I'd be lying if I said I hadn't given this a great deal of thought (for I'm prone to both success and self-pleasure fantasies). Still, I haven't settled on any one actor for each role, and I like the idea of keeping my options open. (Like Pacino.) I do know this, however -- if Kevin wants the part of Wendy OR Rex, it's his without auditioning. And if he'd prefer I change the title to SPACEY CASE, so be it.

Pacino, on the other hand, can have the part of the Visnodian chamber leader for the asking, and I'm hoping E.J. will consider a cameo as the 80-year-old incontinent mute gardener.

Jarret's Top 40

2012-01-11T20:07:00.000-08:00

January 11, 2012: Before anything else, let me note that a magazine called Fray finally put their Issue #3 online, including the link to one of my essays -- http://fray.com/issue3/once-around-the-corpse.html -- for those of you who love my work, me, or just real-life stories about dead people and the examination of their innards, check it out … (And Yes, Space Case is still for sale … But for how long? Perhaps you’d better act fast! …)

Now to today’s Blah-ugh! …

A recent discussion plan with a friend of mine—at least I think he’s a friend; who really knows nowadays!—involved doing a list of our top 20 favorite songs. I’d been working hard at it, but then I thought, if I’m going to write all my reasoning out and share my innermost musical thoughts, why just share it with him? (After all, what’s he done for me lately?)

So here it is! My top 40! (Did I say it was 20? Yes. Yes, it was, but as I hashed and rehashed this eclectic selection of stuff I love, I couldn’t help but tag on the next 20 in line, for your information, and mine, and yours, too. (Did I mention you?) I should probably acknowledge the writers in many of these cases, but I’m too lazy and I’m sure most of you don’t care anyway, so let’s just pretend the singers themselves wrote most of them …

#40 “Maggie May” (Rod Stewart): Vintage Rod, and a lovely distinct arrangement. (I don’t care what those rumors were!)

#39 “Make Your Own Kind of Music” (Mama Cass Elliott): Beautiful, magical words, and the awesome voice of one of history great fatso’s.

#38 “Tell Mama” (Janis Joplin): I’m not sure what you call this—blues, speed jazz, or just rock—but it’s an amazing experience to listen to it. Janis just goes, with a beat that demands response. She is Mama!

#37 “Sleigh Ride” (various versions, but esp. The Ronettes): It just makes you wish you had a horse, or at least knew somebody with a horse who you knew wouldn’t be home one weekend when it snowed.

#36 “Hello Trouble” (Buck Owens): So many great Buck songs, but this epitomizes his innocent, carefree character and that beautiful Bakersfield beat. (Remember Hee-Haw BTW? What a shitty show!)

#35 “I’ll Come Running Back to You” (Sam Cooke): And as many Sam Cooke songs as I love, this one hypnotizes me across the board. Dig the smooth snare drum, and classic Inkspot-esque backing vocals. (Love those Inkspots!)

#34 “Fixing A Hole” (Beatles): Ah, Paul, you are a genius after all. It took me way too long to realize it. And I could have put “Live and Let Die” here, or “Hey Jude,” but I often find myself unable to stop singing this impulsive tune.

#33 “Neal & Jack & Me” (King Crimson): A beautiful homage to Kerouac and Cassidy, but even better as just an exciting piece of music by a band of truly brilliant musicians.

#32 “She Said, She Said” (Beatles): A lesser-known gem that will always mean the world to me—ironically, probably much more than it ever meant to the Beatles!

#31 “Heroes & Villains” (Beach Boys): Through this song I came to appreciate the genius of Brian Wilson and the brilliance of the Beach Boys’ music.

#30 “Best of Both Worlds” (Lulu): This song takes my breath away … but part of that may just be that I’m a neurotic.

#29 “Wasn’t Born to Follow” (The Byrds): Regular Blah-ugh! readers will recall my love of this tune, and the previously written explanation thereof. (See past Blah-ugh! … and buy Space Case at Amazon or Barnes & Noble.)

#28 “Norwegian Wood” (Beatles): The first chord, first two notes, and John’s voice are beyond description … If you’ve never appreciated the Beatles—I’m talking to you, you fool! —this would have to change your mind!

#27 “Find A River” (R.E.M.): And if you never liked R.E.M. because you suspected Michael Stipe was gay (and it turns out you were right), this song might change your outlook (about R.E.M., but not necessarily the homosexual).

#26 “Mr. Tambourine Man” (both Dylan’s and The Byrds’): So many reasons …

#25 “Surf’s Up” (Beach Boys): This had long been the song I wanted played at my funeral, assuming we could get the rights. Some of the vocal moments just captivate me, and Van Dyke Parks’ offbeat lyrics are a thing after my heart.

#24 “True Grit” (Glen Campbell): I adore Glen Campbell’s voice, as do I love the arrangements he profited by from Al DeLory. This song—short and sweet—has it all.

#23 “I’ll Be With You in Apple Blossom Time” (The Andrew Sisters): I must have served another life in the 1940s, where I walked safe and innocent springtime streets and heard music like this on the radio … I love the Andrew Sisters!

#22 “Shayla” (Blondie): Close to “Union City Blue,” and the “Eat to the Beat” album, this song just blows me away with an ability to create/capture a moment—some unexplainable feeling I know so well, linked with some memories that may not even be mine and yet are so familiar and important … which is what a great song—a work of art—should do. Chris Stein is an unsung hero.

#21 “Help!” (Beatles): If you’ve never watched the first four minutes of the film “Help!” you really have to, for the classic black-and-white cut of the Beatles doing this makes the song even that much better …

#20—“O Holy Night” (Celine Dion version): The sounds this woman makes singing this song could almost turn me from a mild sinner into a veritable saint. She holds the powerful notes at the end so long, I lose touch that it’s a human voice and not some instrument being played. This is what Christmas should be about—awesome sincere sentimental music (and scented candles and fires and eggnog … ) not all this mumbo-jumbo about Jesus!

#19—“Girl Don’t Tell Me” (Beach Boys): God, I love this song. It’s so simple and somehow feels absolutely “male” to me. Carl Wilson’s voice is just so special in this—that grand California accent, and the casual, sad resolve of these particular vocals—his voice starting so low in the first lines—almost disappearing … My god, the first 5 seconds of this song—the first line—is as special to me as anything ever recorded! Add to this the chorus-affected chords of the lead guitar in the second bridge (which I think were actually played by Glen Campbell in the studio), and the raining, panting drive of the acoustic rhythm guitar throughout … And bells, of all things, toning intermittently … Thank heaven for the Beach Boys and the Wilson brothers.

#18—“Won’t You Try Saturday Afternoon” (Jefferson Airplane): O to be in Frisco … This song takes me right back to those righteous sunlit afternoons in Golden Gate Park circa ’66, and I wasn’t even there! But this is like a rare photograph or historic document, despite the natural spontaneous sloppiness – my God, Paul Kantner even indicates this was practically an outtake in the middle of the song when he says, “Keep going.” I’m so glad they did!

#17—“Peace Frog / Blue Sunday” (The Doors): I had to put in something from my 3rd favorite group of all time. This tune is masterful from the get-go—guitar, bass organ, drums … And those lovely lyrics, coupled with everything else, invoke the holy magic of Jim Morrison and his L.A. On the L.P. (Morrison Hotel) the song drops into “Blue Sunday,” and that’s a magnificent holy sedative to the manic buzz of the former.

#16—“Gentle On My Mind” (John Hartford): This is a quintessential “standard,” and though John’s no singer, his will always be the best version. What a feeling this song has—that country movement; while the Bakersfield sound might make you feel like you’re riding on a train, this is like speeding along in a car down a country road.

#15—“That’s the Way” (Led Zeppelin): Man, this song just wrenches my heart about with its sad, bluesy lyrics and tired, almost struggling, rhythm guitar. Again, a song that not only evokes moods and memories for me, but somehow implants them, like that company in the Arnold Schwarzenegger movie “Total Recall.” This demonstrates why Zeppelin was so much more than just a hard rock band, and how authentic they were compared to the thousand faux bands that tried to follow them.

#14—“See Emily Play” (Pink Floyd): O so wonderful, so off and so different. This feels like—captures—the kind of hallucinogenic experiences I used to have in my younger and more dilapidated days. I can’t even analyze it all. I’m just grateful it exists, and that Syd Barrett managed to get some incredible things together before he dissipated. Wow!

#13—“God Only Knows” (Beach Boys): Everyone who knows this song is probably wondering why it isn’t higher still. I believe I’ve written about it in this Blah-ugh! before in detail, highlighting the end round, the clip-clop & sleigh bell percussion, the French horn … Oh, I could go on. I think Brian said it best when I saw him in concert years ago, and he said in that half-retarded voice of his, “God wrote this song!”

#12—“Midnight Rider” (Allman Brothers): Again, regular Blah-ugh! readers (meaning you, E.J.) will know my feelings here … And as I’ve already gone on for thousands of words (too few of which have referenced buying my new ebook Space Case), I’ll let you go back and figure it out for yourself … The way E.J. had to!

#11—“Lodi” (Creedence Clearwater Revival, a.k.a. John Fogerty): The many hours of joy CCR has given me can’t even begin to be reported here, but this song easily tops them all. The melancholy lyrics—and, Boy, do I love my melancholy music! (if you haven’t noticed up til now)—and John’s sweet, sad country gospel voice … And when the whole key goes up a step for the last verse, it’s just perfect. John also manages to put his Gretsch guitar through the exactly right pedal and amp to make that unique magical CCR sound. As my friend Kristine Newman once said about this song, “It just says it all.”

#10—“Moonlight Serenade” (Glenn Miller): I’ve always adored Big Band music, but this one just takes me out among the stars. I pity anyone who can’t listen to a song like this and just be melted by the clarinets and muted brass. What a ridiculously evocative sound, and just the sweetest moving tune … Beyond that, I have some lovely associations with this song—a retro-band playing it by request for my baby son on the Fairfield village green one summer evening … Just the purest magic! …

#9—“Sitting Still” (R.E.M.): I have to put this here, for all that R.E.M. means to me, especially this very early ditty, which captures their awesome jangly brand of country rock. One of the most all-encompassing musical association experiences I’ve ever had was my friend Tom H. and I driving south some spring in the late 80s (including a night in Athens, Georgia), and listening to the “Murmur” and “Reckoning” albums over and over again on cassette tape (having never even heard R.E.M. before this trip) and simply forming a mysterious, deep connection between those songs and the south itself.

#8—“To Sir, With Love” (Lulu): I want to say that if you’ve heard it, you have to already get it (but I’m not sure I can entirely trust you!) … It’s all Lulu, of course, but she did several versions in 1967, and they get better and better. The movie versions are the ultimate, and I have one from the soundtrack that includes all three verses and opens with the timpani & rimshots, which is penultimate. Of course, the single version offers those incredible violins, which seem to somehow operate at another gut-wrenching tempo, yet still keep it together … And above all, I can’t separate this from the movie, which is among my top 10 favorite films.

#7—“Going To California” (Led Zeppelin): Containing my second all-time favorite song lyric—“Trying to find a woman who’s never, never, never been born”—this tribute to Joni Mitchell is amazing. (In fact, it’s so amazing I won’t try to tell you … in part because you never believe anything I say anyway!) Again, what a grand group!

#6—“Strawberry Fields” (The Beatles): The opening mellotron is, for me, really the best bit of instrumental music EVER RECORDED. And the mysterious world they created—a bit removed from Pink Floyd, but no less important, inviting and magical … Just too wonderful for words … And ironically, I really don’t like the classic ending with the return, with the train sound; I think they should have ended it, and we wouldn’t have had all that silliness about the “I buried Paul” line … (and I don’t care how often they’ve denied it—He f***ing said it and meant it!)

#5—“I Just Wasn’t Made for These Times” (The Beach Boys, a.k.a. Brian Wilson): This song is especially special to me because I do want it played at my funeral (sometime waaaay in the future). I so completely identify with the lyrics, and while it’s got a portion of self-pity and, perhaps, over-self-importance, I don’t care—it’s one of those amazing works of art that makes me feel understood. The three-part vocal blending as the chorus comes to a close is ingenious, as is the rest of it. Once again Brian is masterful …

#4—“Nowhere Man” (The Beatles): Harmony-a-gogo, led by John’s (heck, they’re ALL John, triple-tracked) nasal magic. In fact, this whole song is completely worth its weight just to hear him sing the word “command” at the end of the first bridge. Also, Paul’s bass is utterly amazing—actually two separate recorded bass lines, I now believe—really moving the rhythm, while simultaneously keeping it rooted. (My god, listen to me! Am I a frustrated music critic or what?!) The chord changes are also wonderful, especially the F#m to the Am … and how about falling off the cliff of the first bridge into that soaring solo … Ah, The Beatles!

#3—“Dreary Days & Nights” (performed by Lulu, written by the great Don Black): The U.K. melancholia of this song simply wrenches my soul. (Yes, my soul again, as if you weren’t sick of hearing about it!) This song typifies everything my imagination has ever mustered about ‘60s London, coupled with my personal wintertime visions of England. The minor key, simple guitar-heavy instrumentation (especially the opening oft-repeated line … and of course the hard strength of Lulu’s raspy voice… O, what a voice! This one just takes me to another world. I can rarely hear this song once without repeating it three or four times.

#2—“Ticket to Ride” (The Beatles): At the end of the day, all combined, this is the best Beatles’ tune there is. The haunting guitar riff, the heavenly echo and steady and yet somehow dragging tempo, Ringo’s effortless drumming, replete with subtle rimshots and flawless rolls, John’s amazing ever-somber, ever-nasal circa-’65 voice … But above it all, that McCartney enthusiasm of Paul’s almost-shouted harmonies just give me chills. This is the one! … And follow how, after the bridge, first the lead guitar solos, then the rhythm guitar follows, then the tambourine accelerates it before the drum roll … Finally, there is NOTHING like John’s heady, throwaway “aw” before the last chorus … Merely brilliant!

#1—“D.C.B.A.-25” (by Paul Kantner & Jefferson Airplane): Wow! Two of my three favorite song lines in this one tune, which for me creates the whole picture of 60s San Francisco, and all the amazing, wonderful feelings and fantasies I’ve ever projected onto it. “Too many days I’ve left unstoned,” is just a great, identifiable line, and nothing can ever beat my all-time favorite, “I can but dance behind your smile.” Again, the echoing tone of this song just draws me into a breath-taking expanse of mental pictures. The lead guitar is great, particularly for the effect used, and the solid drumming is highlighted by the most lovely splash cymbal I’ve ever heard. Grace Slick & Paul Kantner mix that perfect, careless out-of-sync J.A. harmony, the bass bubbles and even the tambourine brings it a step above the rest … And in the end, it’s such a startlingly simple song!

Well, there y’go! And if you’ve read this far, you’ll want to read SPACE CASE, available at … Oh, you get it!

Goodnight E.J. and Nancy!

Bewarey of the Elderly

2012-01-07T19:20:00.000-08:00

January 7, 2012: For starters, you'll be happy to know that SPACE CASE is selling like hotcakes. Last week someone bought another copy and doubled my sales. Since then, things have been going up ... UP! ... So don't miss YOUR chance to get a virtual copy of SPACE CASE ... You'll laugh yourself gaseous!

By the way, it may interest you to know that my novel's original title included the article "THE." It was at the beginning, before SPACE. I was going to keep it there, but I decided it would go better in the body of the story itself -- page 64, in fact. Writing is like that -- making difficult choices and daring to be different!

But that's not what I wanted to talk about today. I was thinking about this little old lady I saw at Balducci's market a few weeks back. It was late morning and a surly staff member was just bringing out the pricey hot food -- pan after pan, laying it atop that mysterious steaming bed of shallow hot water adjacent to the salad bar. (It's a good hot food bar, actually, even though I get diarrhea every time I eat there.)

Anyway, this old biddy, like me, stood there checking out the newly arriving viddles, waiting to see, perhaps, if it might be worth investing her Social Security in a hot meal. It had all the makings of a happy moment, really, when suddenly I saw this seemingly normal, civilized old pecker start pinching the roasted chicken with her bare hand!

I couldn't believe my eyes! This old bitch was actually grabbing her bare, grubby fingers right into a fresh tray of public food, digging her dirty, ancient nails right into the folds of that fresh fowl's crisp, coated skin, plucking at a steaming piece of rosemary-stinking chicken ... and then not even eating it, but just moving it to the side, like she'd just come out to see if there still might be a pulse -- to see if it was still worth trying to reanimate that poor beaten bird.

Needless to say, I knew I couldn't let it pass, if only in symbolic deferrence to my Blah-ugh! readers. (You expect me to do something, after all, don't you. You'd be disappointed if I didn't. It's become like my civic duty -- like that time I vandalized that religious leader's pickup truck in order to prove my point about spirituality. It's become my re-spon-si-bil-i-ty!)

But it's hard to know exactly how to handle the elderly, given their frailty and vaguely mysterious odors. I decided it wasn't a good time to take any extreme actions, so I merely shook my finger (and quite violently) at her. She was startled, which made me feel a bit better, but I also thought to add a sizable acidic frown and very contemptuous head shake and glare, even wagging my finger at her with additional vigor.

So, you see, my attention isn't strictly consumed with the marketing of my new e-novel. (SPACE CASE, which is available from Amazon AND Barnes & Noble online for a reasonable $2.99.) I also consider it my ugly duty to keep suspicious tabs on the never-ending despicable actions of the elderly.

2012 ... Who Woulda Thunk It?!

2012-01-02T15:09:00.000-08:00

January 2, 2012: A friend of mine recently commented -- and I'm paraphrasing, of course -- that "It's never been January 2nd, 2012, before." Yet I'm not convinced that's entirely true. I'm reminded of an old Peanuts cartoon, wherein Lucy becomes convinced they've stuck her and her community with a recycled year. The question arises of what authorities they can report it to ...

Which reminds me, SPACE CASE is now available at both Amazon and Barnes & Noble for e-book consumption, so please get yours today, or I'LL report YOU to the authorities for grotesque negligence! (And I can't resist excerpting a lovely email I received today from one of my fans, and I didn't even tell her to write this: "Okay, I have decided that what I like best about your writing is that it is always surprising and unexpected. Never predictable. I keep starting to read portions of Space Case to my husband because I am laughing so hard, and then I have to stop myself because I don't want to spoil the surprise for him. Too much fun to read!!!!") Yes, see, there ARE people out there willing to risk $2.99 on my talents, and they're not all in mental institutions ... at least not yet!

But I was talking 2012 -- a fine year in process. And I don't know why people are worrying about the doom-filled prophecies of the stupid Mayan calendar, mainly because if the Mayans knew anything about anything, they wouldn't have destroyed their civilization with human sacrifice and spicy foods. And if that's not enough to convince you, make note of the fact that 20 minus 12 is 8, which is my favorite number, as well as being divisible by 2, which is of course even and a multiple of 8. I mean, the positive coincidences just go on and on ...

But despite my good hopes for 2012, I'm still struggling to catch up on all the closure requirements for LAST year, including trying to catch up on all my Christmas music. In fact, I'm feeling somewhat guilty right this moment, listening to my "Country Christmas" CD, trying to consume it because I feel I HAVE TO, like leftovers I can't let the garbage have. And in a way, it makes me feel like a pervert, gaining tawdry, guilt-ridden pleasures from sounds that have been made unwholesome by the passage of time. On top of everything, this is even the first holiday in about 15 when I HAVEN'T bought NEW Xmas music to add to my ever-lengthening shackles of seasonal joy, and I feel guilty about THAT (and, of course, not even watching Mr. Magoo this year! ...) Oh, I needed another week of December to get it all done ...

(By the way, following up on my last entry, what does it mean when they sing, "Joy to the world. The Lord is come!" That just doesn't sound right ... Am I hearing it wrong? All the versions seem the same ...)

Anyway, the point is, I will not make this Blah-ugh! a weak excuse to keep advertising my new novel SPACE CASE ... provided you buy it and let me get on to other more important matters here, such as tasteless references to Jesus and the Lord and everyone else in the religious community. As I've often stressed with you people, you have to do YOUR part too, if I can be freed up to do mine ...

Happy New Year!

My Novel On Amazon for Kindle, and other Xmas Thoughts

2011-12-24T11:37:00.000-08:00

December 24, 2011: It's Xmas Eve, as Johnny Mathis sings, and I needed to file this folly before all my holiday insights became irrelevant.

For starters, let's understand that my novel SPACE CASE is now available as an e-book from Amazon. ( http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006N3KJJU ) If you enjoy this Blah-ugh! even in the least, you'll absolutely love SPACE CASE.

Further, I'm counting on you to not only purchase the thing, but let everyone in your contact list know about it ... I'm counting on you, now ... Don't let me down ... And if for some reason you DON'T have a Kindle, I expect you to work twice as hard networking on my behalf. (Ask yourself, what have you done for me lately?)

Either way, please visit the link immediately and read the first few pages for FREE. FREE! Free, I tell you! FREE!!

Now, I had a few points to make regarding my confusion with certain Christmas song lyrics. Of course, I still have no idea what "wassling" is (per my silly old video -- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mEQCMQq4184 ) and I suspect I never will. But there are other references and lines which are equally as baffling, and I wanted to make reference.

In particular, what does "in sin and Arab pining" mean in O Holy Night? Is that a reference to 21st century terrorism, and how could the writer have been so prescient? Is it that the Arabs are sad because of Jesus? Why does Jesus make Arabs sad, anyway, and does that have to do with Allah or Abdul or whoever their Jesus is? Is the reference that Arabs are inheritantly sinful because of their un-Jesus sentiments? ... I'm very confused.

Another thing I don't understand is what Theodore is saying in the song "All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth." It sounds like "Sittin' to the kitten on a thistle," but what does that mean? Again, are we supposed to read something into this. As a chipmunk, is he wishing bad upon the cat, and if so, what are we cat owners supposed to think -- not only about the Chipmunks, but Theodore in particular.

I wanted to explore this topic further, but I also wanted to make mention of how embarrassed and appalled I was by Robert Deniro getting someone pregnant at age 68. I mean, what the hell is that about?! Is there no limit to the selfishness of man -- especially celebrity man -- who doesn't seem capable of looking ahead 10 years to the poor kid he sired who's going to have a 900 year-old father (if even that, gahd f'bid!) ... Ridiculous. And worse are all the sycophants around people like DeNiro who enable his thoughtless behavior, rather than telling him outright, "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you selfish bastard!" ... Well, believe me, I'll tell him the next time I see him ... and you know I will!

Happy Christmas, and for all you Jews and minorities (myself included), Happy Hanukkah! Let's make it a great one (for me, by plugging my ebook SPACE CASE -- http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006N3KJJU ) ...

Me The Contest Winner

2011-11-02T19:50:00.000-07:00

November 2, 2011: I don't know who reads this stupid thing, but the numbers on the clicker keep moving gradually forward, so there must be SOME action. (If not, Winc & Fletch, I appreciate your returning at regular intervals to move my numbers up!)

The point is, those of you who didn't hear, or didn't care enough to hear, or don't care now -- I won a horror writing contest (of all things), and if you haven't, please visit http://everywritersresource.com/ and enjoy my short demented little story, and my even shorter demented little biography. (I'm their lead story, in fact, and while there's no picture of me, just imagine me lolling naked on a lounge chair and you'll get the full effect of real horror!)

Over the years, my fill of official praise has been severely limited to a few editors congratulating me on my spelling, and one former supervisor admiring my shoes. So to be recognized not only in a public forum, but for something that's so important to me -- namely writing -- makes this a new season of the dead in which it feels good to rejoice (or rejoinder -- I'm still not sure which).

The story itself is very short (which some of you may find is part of its strength), but I'm told it's concentratedly disturbing. And while I don't consider myself a horror writer officially, I'm capable of some very horrible writing and so it kind of makes sense that this would be my first area of success. Either way, if you know any horror people who you feel might be able to find me more work -- or if you know Stephen King and he owes you a favor -- please mention my name.

I'm tired now, as I've spent the past hour photographing our jack o'lanterns in the dark. I've done some very wonderful shots, which I'm sure my wife will delete from the memory card come morning. But as my old art teacher Jim Wheeler used to emphasize, it's about the process, not the product. This is good to remember, as it frees me up to continue doing most of my writing in my head ...

Again, Happy Halloween!

Again With Halloween ... III

2011-10-31T08:39:00.000-07:00

October 31, 2011: Ah, so the dark season is once again upon us ... and as I sit here in my devil's costume, enjoying the remnants of snow and sunning weather, I can't help but think of all the strange and superficial things that Halloween (and peripheral autumn) means to me ...

Of course, it's mostly about pumpkins, and the color orange in general. I like orange, even though I was kicked out of Princeton (or at least asked to leave after I visited my friend there and took my shoes off in his eating club). Contrary to popular belief, orange is NOT a combination of red and yellow, but a blend of yellow and blue. (Some people think this is green, but I know better.)

Which brings me to my very favorite seasonal movie of all time -- Halloween III: Season of the Witch. I watched this classic once again last week, and I'm never disappointed. Tom Atkins, who plays the rugged, oft-drinking hero Dr. Dan Chalice, remains my perfect ideal of a film hero, despite how ugly he looks with his shirt off. The story itself is a minor gem, and had it been written by Poe or some Poe derivative, it would continue to be hailed as a classic, and not relegated to the dusty shelves of B-movie accidents. I consider Tommy Lee Wallace, who wrote and directed the film, an unknown gem of a man (See "It" and "Fright Night 2" if you don't believe me!), and while he never responded to my letter back when I was living in L.A., I'll never hold a grudge because for me, he created the quintessential Halloween experience with his delightful story of a mad male Celtic warlock, his demented Halloween mask factory in northern California, and all the shenanigans that ensue.

There's a lot more I have to say, but I'm suddenly realizing I probably said it LAST YEAR, so I urge you to begin rereading my old Blah-ugh! posts ... Tell your friends about them ... Tell ME about them, and maybe I'll stop writing them!

Anyway, the evil Connell Cochran tells Dr. Chalice before he leaves him to suffer the awful pains of wearing that scary skull mask before the twisted television transmission, " ... and Happy Halloween!"

The Scents of Smells

2011-10-13T14:29:00.000-07:00

October 13, 2011: I was just thinking about what an acute sense of smell I have, and how it's both a blessing and a curse. I was also thinking about Angelina Jolie and how she grosses me out, but I'll get to that in a minute.

Specifically, I was thinking about this woman I know who has the most tragically horrendous breath you could ever imagine. It smells like a decaying mouse that was left in the filthy boot of an old Irishman for seven long weeks. I've been in a room with this woman and could smell her breath from 20 feet away, that's how rippingly offensive it is, and perhaps how acute my smell is. (You see, I had to leave the room, while others stayed. Did they not smell this vile stink? Were they immune to the aromatic assault of this unfortunate woman's decaying gob?)

Cigarette stinks, bilious foods, bad breath, and the acrid, sour pew of all the awful aromas plaguing mankind are always quick to find their way up my virulent (and obviously eager) nostrils (despite the ever-increasing forest of thick black hairs that keep growing there). At the same time, however, I'm also blessed with a great ability to pick up on the subtlest scents earmarking sweet beauty -- like spring lilacs from a great distance away, or the grand, pungent smell of my wonderful decaying autumn as it sends it lithe, ancient reek out across October (and November too). You see, it's a blessing and curse and, I guess (like so many things) ... It just is ...

Which brings me to this somewhat weak Angelina Jolie movie I'm in the middle of watching called "The Tourist," featuring the perpetually hard-trying Johnny Depp, whom I like very much, despite his sometimes questionable facial hair.

In all fairness, Jolie is probably a fair actor, but she's apparently been marketed to such an absurd point now that filmmakers (probably because of the marketing departments' insistence) must completely prohibit her performances by encasing her in a series of supposedly stylish (albeit sadly sophomoric) specially staged shots aimed at making her appear alluring and charmingly sexy in some poorly contrived version of Hollywood sexiness.

Now, for starters, she is actually rather bizarre looking, and seems to appear more and more so as time passes -- a kind of botox Barbie, with a vaguely misshapen head, eyes much too big for her ample forehead, and lips that become less and less alluring, and look more synthetic, with each passing frame and hour. It's also become her trademark requirement -- and who knows, this all may be HER doing -- to shine this same supposedly sexy expression in almost every scene, as if it's all a commercial for her magnificent face, or her brand, and it's making the entire film feel like an inadequate apportionment of softcore masturbation fodder for Angelina Jolie fans (who must be a sorry lot, if the truth is to get out).

On top of everything else, I really find her name annoying ...

Meanwhile, Depp, who I've lauded here before, is making a fair effort of a rather weak story (although he's starting to fall back on some of his Jack Sparrow schtick, and probably isn't too proud of it). I wonder how an artist such as he sits through production of such a minor debacle, and whether he finds Jolie's big, bulbous lips somewhat disconcerting after having to look at them close up all those weeks.

To tie this whole Blah-ugh! piece together, we can only imagine what Jolie's breath must smell like, let alone some of her other parts. I'm sure there are fans who will enjoy speculating, but I'm somewhat proud to say that not one of them ...

NEXT TIME in THE BLAH-UGH!: "What wonderful, subtle scents might linger about Kiera Knightley at any given moment?"

Sometimes ...

2011-09-23T18:37:00.000-07:00

September 23, 2011: Sometimes I turn on the computer and just start writing a Blah-ugh! entry ... and sometimes I spend days, or even weeks, contemplating a particular complaint, controversy, consideration or critique ...

Sometimes I wipe with natural dye-free toilet paper that I pay a little bit extra for ... and sometimes I just use whatever's lying around at that time ...

Sometimes I remember myself in present-time awareness, connecting with my breath and the universal omnipresence as I understand and interpret it ... and sometimes I'm thinking about something stupid I said to someone eight or nine years ago, or how I'm going to handle some situation that I fear may come up eight or nine years in the future ...

Sometimes I watch old horror movies late at night, such as John Carpenter's "Prince of Darkness," or the original "Fright Night" with the great Roddy McDowall ... and sometimes I read a fine book at night, like "The Journey to the East," "The Sun Also Rises," or "Dracula" ...

Sometimes I say what's on my mind because I don't give a shit what people think if they might happen to foolishly disagree with me ... and sometimes I just keep my mouth shut because I remember that nothing's really that important after all, plus no one really cares what anyone else has to say anyway ...

Sometimes I think about how conscious changes in our society could result in tremendous postive whole-scale advancements for humanity ... and sometimes I think about how great certain women look naked ...

Sometimes I listen to beautiful songs over and over again while driving in the car, and sometimes I just shut the radio and listen to the jabbering voices in my head ...

Sometimes I like some people and sometimes I don't ...

Sometimes I love humanity and sometimes I think they're just a bunch of idiots ...

Sometimes I write for myself and sometimes I try to write for you ...

But I always, always, always feel a compulsion to use a napkin whenever I eat, thanks to the neurotic conditioning of my once-demented mother ...

The Paving of the Park

2011-09-13T20:31:00.000-07:00

September 13, 2011: Well, I promised I'd post soon, but then I didn't get around to it ... But this evening I was so irritated by seeing this "thing" (as you'll see below), I motivated myself to write an op/ed piece on it, and so I end the evening with both self-worth and copy ... I'm forwarding it on to the papers, etc., but I never have faith that any of them print anything, and if they do there's a good chance they'll omit my commas ... For those of you with Westport, CT, connections, I hope you'll find it interesting and worthwhile, and for the rest, I hope you'll simply enjoy the opportunity to bask in my lovingly crafted work ...

The Paving of the Park

by JARRET LIOTTA

Doesn’t it strike anyone else as odd—-or disturbing—-how the park at the corner of Main Street and the Post Road has been quietly usurped by the businesses that lease the adjacent building?

For the past several months the latest land grabbers have loudly toiled on what was once a pleasant downtown park, with plants and shrubs and wooden benches that had back support. Now, the designers have basically clear-cut the place and left a spread of cement that looks more like a parking lot than anything resembling the open space its supposed to be.

Once upon a time, this was the library park, for the Westport Library occupied the adjacent brick building all the way back to the river. The park was tiny, if not elaborate. It felt set back from the busy road by some pleasantly untended plantings, and was slightly elevated behind a small rustic brick wall in the same style as that running along the library building. The back of the park was a bit of a mishmash of ivy and shrubs, but really it was kind of nice to see a small, uncontrolled speckle of wild open space left in the center of the commercial district—a romantic remnant of a time when we weren’t as afraid of dirt and chemical-free lawns as we seem to be now.

When the library moved in the mid-1980s, a restaurant—it was called Café Christina, if memory serves—took over the better part of the building. Through what was (in my opinion) an entirely despicable zoning variance, they were allowed to construct an enormous cement patio over half that park. Worse, Café Christina—and the clods in Westport’s government who okayed the work—sidestepped reasonable practice by putting up a small, rarely noticed plaque on the right side of the building, which gave notice that this patio was “dedicated open space” and that the public was (still) allowed its use. (I believe the plaque is still there, though it feels like you’d need a microscope to see it.)

Years later, a retail store followed, and the patio became an enormous ramp and staircase. By then they’d also taken away the comfortable wooden-backed benches, like the ones we luckily still have on the river, replacing them with those awful cold stone pews that discourage sitting.

Now, in its most recent and grossest incarnation, this poor “park” has literally become a cement-covered monstrosity, embarrassed by enough concrete to facilitate six new parking spaces. In fact, I’m absolutely surprised these greed-head builders left that magnificent sycamore tree still standing in the middle, for it can’t possibly be profitable to them to have it there. (Fortunately, it’s been rigidly confined within a very small square of dirt, so it doesn’t get any funny ideas!)

Part of being a Westport native involves the recurring digestion of head-slapping zoning decisions, the acceptance of grotesque, mammoth (and tacky) new constructions, and the sad, sometimes senseless destruction of places and properties that offer the most subtle of additions to our town—aesthetics, untended greenery, history, etc. It’s such a constant disappointment to see the pattern unfold again and again, and the sensible citizen merely goes numb and tries to keep their attention centered on the positives, like the Westport Pizzeria, the wooden-backed benches by the river, and the outstanding beauty of the old Y building.

But what a shame it is—-at least for me—-to see this lovely little spot, so centrally located, get stomped out of existence, or at best crushed into an awkward submission to bad taste, overkill, and zoning chicanery. I really, really wish Westport would think these things through.

— 30 —

Promises, and More Promises

2011-09-07T19:23:00.000-07:00

September 7, 2011: This is just a short note to let you know ... (No, not you. You!) ... that I do intend to get back to writing this awful thing at some point soon. I know many of you have been severely hurt by this lengthy hiatus, and many of you have come up to me on the street and in the alleys to express your sadness, contempt and impatience. (There was even one woman who chased me with bottle, but that may have something to do with my singing.)

The point is -- and isn't there ALWAYS a point, after all -- that I don't want you to think I've been shirking my duties, or ignoring them. At the same time, I don't want to imply I've even been THINKING about them, because I haven't. There are few tasks I despise as much as this eternal commitment (and see, I'm not even sure how to spell the word!) to comic stream-of-consciousness. For one thing I'm not conscious enough (as I'm sure my wife would attest), and also I've been very consumed with work, pornography, and Christopher Lee/Peter Cushing movies ...

But seriously folks, consider this my pledge to get back to the Blah-ugh! tasks at some point soon. There are certainly many of you -- are four "many"? I like to think so! -- who get something out of reading my vitriolic vitriol, and for you (or them, depending on which direction I'm facing ... and it actually happens to be northeast this moment) I will try to start churning these psychic updates out more frequently ...

Alright, I have to go now. There's a Ron Jeremy movie starting ...

Who's Running The Store?!

2011-07-18T19:54:00.000-07:00

July 18, 2011: I should be working, but I'm thinking of you instead ... Well, some of you. The rest of you I'm trying to block out, like the heat, which is turning my little attic roost into a steambath. And if that's not enough, there's a whopping thunderstorm sounding down upon my roof like god playing really loud records, and it's making me sure that the next lightning bolt could permanently fuse my fragile fingers to this god-awful keyboard for good ...

Something I've been meaning to mention for a long time -- and I don't think I've mentioned it, but who knows, because I don't have the stomach to go back and read these ridiculous entries -- involves organic food. It just occurred to me, (that is, about 10 months ago), that I have no way of knowing whether or not food is organic. Has that ever occurred to you, you who perhaps even care? And if so, why didn't YOU write about it instead of making ME do it?! (I'm talking to you, Liz!)

(For you regular Blah-ugh! readers -- meaning the five of you -- does this sound familiar? I hope I'm not regurgitating a past entry, because we both know I'm better than that. At the same time, don't all artists basically remake the same story or song or painting over and over again? You see my point, right? And if you don't, don't worry, because I'll just be regurgitating it soon enough anyway ...)

But my point (meaning my OTHER point) is that I (meaning ME) don't know what the hell is going on on any organic farm in Tallahassee or noble Northwest corridor (or anywhere, for that matter). Just because Stop & Shop or Trader Joe's puts some stupid label on it that says it's organic (or anything else -- not made on peanut-fueled equipment, or whatever), how the hell do I ever really know it's true?!

Of course, we all like to think that there are government agencies overseeing this sort of thing, and consumer-advocate groups, etc. Unfortunately, I've reached that cold age where I have absolutely no faith in any of this, and so I've started wondering just what we're faced with here (and not just in our apples -- I'm talking about broccoli, pears -- everything). I mean, let's be honest, do any of us really have the time to do anything but watch television in our spare hours, let alone monitor the organic standards of apple companies in Mexico, or the graft passing between wheat executives in Kearney, Nebraska, or whether or not some corn picker in Duluth is rubbing each ear on his private parts before shipping it south?

And why should I trust Trader Joe's, of all things? They just discontinued my precious rice noodles without giving me any notice, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I won't be able to find my microwavable mashed potatoes in the freezer section anymore, following my securing of the last bag this evening. (O, what a morbid post-apocalyptic short story that could make -- "The Last Mashed Potato Bag" ...)

And Stop & Shop I certainly don't trust, nor any of their "Nature's Promise" labels. And I don't trust our government, even starting locally. And I'm pretty disappointed in my police department as well these days, not to mention some of the weirdos at the dump. Hell, I'm not even sure which neighbors I can count on not to leave their dog excrement in my yard. My god, is there no going back to safer, more trustworthy times?!

Well, in the end we're so breathtakingly powerless that all we can do is eat the f***ing apples and hope we don't come down with anything that can't be cured without good insurance. I'm sure you all agree that this is a wonderful time we live in, with all its communication advances and flavors of herbal tea and different kinds of White-Out.

I'm just not sure, then, why everyone's so depressed and allergic and autistic and cancer-prone and ADHD and taking so many supplements but still on the verge of gluten death ...

Someone should write about this stuff and tell the people. Me, I'm getting back to my last-night John Carpenter DVD fest ...

The Name Game

2011-07-12T18:36:00.000-07:00

July 12, 2011: I see now that my heartfelt Blah-ugh! entries don't generate half the interest that my scathing rants do, so I'll revert (or evolve, depending on your point of view) back to addressing only those issues and topics that I feel can generate the most angst and venom, or humor -- whichever comes first ...

That said, I've pretty thoroughly criticized everyone based on looks, their ethnicity, their stupid religions, and even the way they walk (I'm talking to you, you duck walkers!), but I don't think I've ever taken the time to really gnaw on the silliness of people's names.

Names are interesting and intriguing, and can even tell a lot about an individual based on their epistomology (I think that's the word, or it might be "wordography," but I think you get my meaning.) Everyone knows MY name translates to "one with mighty spear," which of course says all that needs to be said about me. But what about the rest of you?

I turned to my daughter's name book to explore a few definitions, consider a few inconsistencies, and generally squeeze for material with which to make fun of others, which is, after all, at the heart of what I do.

Before I go any farther, can you believe that this version (called "100,000+ Baby Names") actually condones the name "Anfernee," calling it a version of Anthony. I've long known this was a name only an illiterate could generate, and despite the popularity of its' sole recipient (of basketball fame, of course), it's always been a weird reminder to me of how an eternally guilt-festered society will let some people get away with anything. That said, WHY NOT Anfernee, for where do new names come from anyway, if not illiterates? (Who the hell thought to turn "Ann" into "Anne" after all?) Why not Infernee? or Assfurry? It's a debate I want no part of, but I just want you to consider all the facts before you jump to conclusions ... E.J.!

Thumbing through this thorough volume, I'm delighted and repelled by the quaint variety and dashingly stupid selection. "Curipan" is a Mapuche name for a boy, meaning "stinging nettle." Now who the hell would name their child Curipan, or even Pan for that matter. (Ironically, Pan doesn't even show up in this book -- probably the only name in the known universe that doesn't, because they have "Panini," believe it or not, which doesn't actually mean "sandwich"!) Further, what or where is Mapuche, and should we recognize anything that comes out of what must certainly be a devilishly weird region, and probably a dangerous one!? ...

Turning to the girls, there are a wide variety of "Sha" names, which are all American in origin, if you can believe such a thing. "Shalisa" is (and I quote) "a combination of the prefix Sha + Lisa," while "Shalita" is "a combination of the prefix Sha + Lita. If we're going to use prefixes, perhaps we can get more creative -- or more traditional. Why not use "Pre" as a prefix, for, say, "Prelisa" ... or "Prementrual." Could we not call a girl "Antibellum" or Antilita," meaning someone who is against being Lita ... or Lacklita ... or Lackluster ... (Did I mention MY name means "one with an enormous and dangerously sharp spear"?)

Other names bring strange meanings directly to life, like "Brieanne" (sorry Brianne & Brianna!) which literally combines "a type of cheese" with "gracious," or to simplify it -- "gracious cheese!" "Ottah" means "thin baby," while "Oya" means "speaking of the jacksnipe," (and we all know how often we speak of jacksnipes, especially in the privacy of our homes).

Some names make perfect sense. For instance "Akbar" means "great," and we all know what a great comic Akbar & Jeff is. "Alacrino" means "alive & outgoing," and who's ever been to a party where the center of life didn't flow from all the Alacrinos there ...

And did I mention MY name, which means "ye with enormous and crafty spear"? ...

The Real Boys of Summer

2011-07-02T20:03:00.000-07:00

July 2, 2011: I've got some pretty good Blah-ugh! ideas bouncing around my brain right now, but they've all been summarily trumped by my Beach Boys. I'm sitting here listening to their quintessential "Best of" LP -- "Endless Summer" -- and I'm more flabbergasted than ever by their genius ... Brian Wilson's genius ... (and the others, who lent their parts, as well) ... Wow!

I pity the fool who off-handedly dismisses them as churlish "surf" music. (Jimi Hendrix embarrassed himself on several occasions by doing so, including his sophomoric statement on stage at Monterey Pop.) The quality of so many of their songs, even the early ones, is really kind of startling. And if you understand anything about music, about arrangements, harmonies and such, you really come away slightly agog at what young Wilson -- deaf in one ear and self-taught on piano with no musical training -- accomplished in only the first few years of his twenties. (He not only arranged all the music and produced the albums, but he wrote almost everything and would, literally, sing or play each other Beach Boy their vocal part.)

But what makes music good? (Well, MY opinion, for one thing!) But it's also about the spirit that inhabits -- literally -- the creation, like with any piece of artwork. When the spirit is there -- when it's authentically embedded during the process of creation, and especially when it's done with a pure heart and soul -- it permeates that work and gives it (sometimes, in the best cases) immeasurable depth. And as our consciousness shifts, the work reveals hidden depths and layers. As we grow, so too will brilliant artwork taking on new meaning and magic.

How often have I outgrown one work of creation or another? (I mean, I like M.C. Hammer's "Can't Touch This," but is it art?!) But you don't outgrow the Beatles, or a brilliant movie like "It's a Wonderful Life," or an outstanding novel like "The Great Gatsby." The Beach Boys' music -- certainly a great deal of it -- is like that.

Where do I begin? You can hardly put the magic of music into words. For me the magic goes deep. In fact, from around age nine, I wanted few things as badly as to move to California and become a surfer. One of my great regrets was that I wasn't named Carl, or Troy, and that I couldn't live the life created for me in all those magical songs of summer. (For instance, why couldn't I have a school to be true to, instead of one I merely tolerated? When would I be able to shut someone down in a drag race, or have fun, fun, fun with the girl of my choice?)

Through some of those songs I formed my ideals of love, friendship, passion and more. Some of those ballads are forever twisted ivy around my heart's growing pains, accentuated by Brian's other-worldly soprano, and those mesmerizing harmonies ... and such thoughts shared -- "In My Room" ... "Don't Worry Baby" ... "The Warmth of the Sun" ... "Girl Don't Tell Me" ... "Let Him Run Wild" ...

Then one day, years later, after I'd outgrown them, I somehow stumbled on the song "Heroes & Villains," and was completely blown away -- for the first conscious time -- by what these people had accomplished musically. A close look at "Pet Sounds" eventually followed -- the historic LP on which the Beatles modeled so many ideas for "Sgt. Pepper." Hell, on the strength of "God Only Knows" alone, we could devote an entire series of Blah-ugh! episodes. Carl Wilson's lead vocal (as in "Good Vibrations") is just stupendous. And how do we ever survive the grinding, tweaking, lovely gut-wrenching pain of the round at the end, featuring the french horn ...

By the way, a reminder to anyone who might be there, I want "I Just Wasn't Made for These Times" played at my funeral, (which I hope is particularly elaborate, well-attended and gets some significant press, after all my trouble).

So, if you haven't taken the time, I insist that you get yourself a Beach Boys album or two (although the catalogue starts to thin out after the Smile era, and is sketchy for the first couple of albums) and open yourself up to a whole world of brilliant art. (I'm talking to you, E.J.! Put down that avocado and get cracking! And the rest of you, whose lovely FB comments I'm always too lazy to respond to!)

You shan't regret it!

Visions of Desi

2011-06-28T09:27:00.000-07:00

June 15, 2011: I've often tried to gauge how successful a recording artist Desi Arnaz (a.k.a. Ricky Ricardo) was in his heyday. Given the wealth of material he presented on "I Love Lucy" alone, I have to guess and hope he was a tremendous musical force throughout the first half of the 1950s.

To begin with, no one could question the magic of "Babaloo," which was presented in several versions and, of course, recurred as Ricky's theme song. (In the last season, the Tropicana even became "Club Babaloo" after all.) But what are some of the other, lesser-known-but-no-less-magical songs Arnaz brought to life, as least in the guise of Ricardo?

My first favorite would have to be "The Lady in Red," which actually appeared in three separate episodes, including the famous second season show in which Lucy finally gives birth. (I think it's that one ... It may be the one where she tells Ricky she's "enciente," (whatever that means) but now I'm getting confused ... I should check, but we both know I won't!) My favorite version ends with Ricky's playful, "You'd better write her number down, you fool," but each version has its unique offerings (including the one with that sexy dancer). (Also note, the "We're Having a Baby" number is splendid, made all the more joyous by Lucille Ball's authentic hormonal tears throughout the scene.)

Another favorite of mine -- what Ricky himself calls "De mos' beautiful In'ian number ever wri'en," is "The Waters of the Minnetonga," (or something close to that). It's the one where the beautiful Indian girl -- (she may be a Native American girl, but I can't be sure one way or another, although I actually think she's just non-ethnic altogether) -- stands in front of the moon, and it's got that great flute line -- the song I mean, not the moon. That one's pretty hard to beat. Interestingly, it's got a similar timbre and flow to Ricky famous "Sie Mi Low," which we all love, but with much more heart, more emotion.

Others worth noting include "Acapulco," which offers that jaunty tropical happiness you might find with the Andrew Sisters singing tropical songs in a 1940's Abbott & Costello movie -- unforgettably awesome, comfortingly kitsch and innocent ... And of course I have to mention the saucy "Breakin' My Back Putting Up a Front for You," which is a delight ... And how could I ever leave out "Cuban Pete," which may be the consummate Lucy/Desi number, and served as the test balloon for the whole show.

I could expound for many sentences about the band as well (or "orchestra," as they liked to be known, led by the invisible Wilbur Hatch when Desi was out in the spotlight). Two great instrumentals we're treated to on the show are the fabulous "Stompin' at the Savoy" and, of course, "Twelfth Street Rag." Doubling as extras, the members were also always fine in their performances, excepting of course Marco, the piano player, who never stopped grinning and blew the one line he had in the entire run of the show, delivering to Ricky like a fool as they part ways, "Okay Dez." But how can you hold it against that grinning monkey?! He was, after all, "Marco."

Of course, there are some weak numbers in Ricky's repertoire, including a muddled version of "Guadelahara," and an annoying "Big Straw Hat," which is mostly annoying because of that old cleaning woman who does the dancing with him. But you forgive a bountiful songmaker such things, the way we forgive Ringo for "Octopus's Garden."

As is my curse, I'm sure I'm omitting much worth mentioning, but my back is killing me and I can only type lying on the floor for so long, as I do. At the end of the day, it's all perhaps best summarized in the lyrics to the theme itself -- "I love Lucy and she loves me ..." And we, of course, love Desi, despite his philandering and sometimes domineering means as an executive. And long will we love the lovable music of Ricky Ricardo.

On Avocados

2011-06-09T19:53:00.001-07:00

June 9, 2011: I really like avocados. It's not something I talk a lot about, but it's true. I mean, I really love them, actually.

To begin, you may or may not know that my favorite color is green. (You may or may not care, but it's important I establish that, given how green avocados really are.) Avocados offer a range of greens to them also, not just one, like some produce -- (oranges, for instance, in my estimation, don't try hard enough; it's like they just live on their reputation, while avocados are always giving it their all). That's one of the things I love about avocados -- their greenness. There's the initial skin, which is often brown actually, and I have nothing against brown, per se, but it doesn't satisfy me at the level that green does. Anyway, they're also green inside, and it's such a lovely green (and I know greens, believe me!).

More interesting, they also kind of roll in color inside from that deep, gritty green into soft yellow, and I just love that. It reminds me of a pistachio nut, which I really love for their color range, which will have that green to yellow transition (and a nice red shell in many cases), and pistachio nuts remind me of autumn leaves in the earlier part of the season, in particular the maples. Or perhaps more accurately the maples, especially the sugar maples, remind me of pistachio nuts, which in turn remind me of avocados, but not quite as much, but you see how it all comes full circle, and I haven't even gotten to the fourth paragraph yet.

I also really love the consistency of avocados -- that firm yet mushy quality that holds its form so well, and yet can be mashed at those times when a mashing is in order. It might be worth noting here (and why not here, for who knows for how long I can keep going on about a vegetable, after all) that I have a very great way of peeling avocados simply and quickly and cleanly ... but I won't tell it to you here and you'll have to write me directly if you want to know it.

I like how avocados taste, too. It's a nutty taste, though not quite pistachio-ian in nature. I love guacamole too, but an avocado alone still lights up my train whistle. I hate it when they start turning, however, and some crappy restaurants will try and serve you avocado with those awful grey-black patches of disgust. Shame on them, the dirty, mealy bastards! Avocados are often put on hamburgers in California, which was one of the things that really attracted me to the idea of moving there years ago. (Now you can get avocado on burgers in Connecticut, so why leave the state?!)

Another great thing about the avocado is that enormous seed. I mean, how can you not love that seed. It's not even a seed, or at least to call it a seed seems insubstantial. It should be called a pod, or a goiter or something. And I have an especial fondness for those seeds because, for some strange reason, my mother used to always try growing them when I was a kid. Yes, she had some weird book -- I remember it was green -- not avocado green, but more of a lime green -- and just such a 1969 artifact (back when they made books of irregular size and length, and on unique topics like growing avocados). And so my mom would stick toothpicks in these seeds and put them in a glass of water and hide them in a dark cabinet ... and there they'd start growing roots, like those pods in "Invasion of the Body Snatchers," and the water would turn brown and when they got big enough, I guess, she'd plant them and they never grew. But it was always a nice kind of thing, really, these nice avocado goiters sprouting in our dark cabinets, like alien symbiotes.

I haven't touched on many other aspects of the avocado, but perhaps I can revisit the topic later in the summer. I'm remembering fondly the one and only time I ever actually saw an avocado tree, which was a few years ago when I was living in Santa Monica, and I just randomly happened to walk by one in front of someone's lawn -- this little leafy plant with a whole mess of these things hanging off of it. It was awesome. "Hey!" I said outloud, even though I was alone (and you see, it was okay, because this was California), and I said, "That's an avocado tree!"

And it was!

More on Hitler, Roosevelt, Pearl Harbor, the Big Lies & Such

2011-06-05T09:51:00.000-07:00

June 5, 2011: Having enjoyed my own insights on Hitler so much in my last entry -- my god, someone has to pour praise on me if you won't -- I'm excited to be following up with more Nazi-related ramblings. Actually, I don't know if I have anything to say about Nazis right now, but it was by absolute chance that I found myself reading a book on World War II this week, and there were a few things I found interesting enough to include here in this Blah-ugh! (where things are generally never that interesting after all).

To begin, I hadn't known that only one member of Congress voted against going to war with Japan after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. According to this book, which may or may not have any idea what it's talking about -- (I'm old and wise enough now that I don't defend anyone or anything with any vehemence) -- she was not only a "pacifist," but she didn't believe that the harbor had actually even been bombed. (Women! Sheesh!)

But this opens a fascinating can of worms, because now that I think of it, how do we know what happens and what doesn't, or more exactingly, how something might be happening, or under whose authority. It's pretty clear to many people at this point that 9/11 did not unfold the way the government claims it did (and we've seen the same thing with other events, like the Kennedy assasination, which we're simply prone to take on face value). I've long heard that Roosevelt knew in advance that Japan was going to bomb Pearl Harbor, so think about it -- it could have been anything that let him succomb to it, or perhaps even motivate it!

Why do we assume Roosevelt was so sound? Just because he smiled a lot, and used a cigarette holder? He might have owed money to some Hawaiian he wanted out of the way, or maybe he had a bet with one of those Japanese diplomats he was spending so much time at the end of November, 1941. (What does a human life mean to these power brokers anway, so removed from the pulse and the dirt and filth that makes up us little people ... especially the filth!) Or, as is a more likely Japan-related scenario, Roosevelt had an "ohn" on him, or under him, or above him -- somewhere -- probably relating to some affair he'd had, because we all know that Mrs. Roosevelt looked like a poached tree frog.)

This doesn't mean I'm claiming that it didn't happen, or that the Japanese -- a crafty bunch, as I'm sure anyone who's tried to make sushi at home will tell you -- weren't somehow involved. (Apparently they were doing something to the Chinese beforehand, but I'm not sure what it was, because I've been reading the book (which has a lot of pictures) backwards for some reason.)

My point is really, Who the hell knows what happened (or happens) or what goes on -- certainly not Fox News!

This brings me to the story of Lieutenant Audie Murphy, a tiny Texan who looked like the love child of Michael J. Fox & Conan O'Brien. He got more medals than God for his dramatic antics on the battlefield, and it's odd, but even reading his story last night, I was disappointed, for I'd assumed he'd done something a little better than he did to earn all that decoration, and frankly I almost found it hard to believe it really happened anyway. This, of course, led me to think that it might not have happened, and probably didn't. He ended up giving up all his medals to children of relatives in later years (which pissed people off), and led a subsequently dissatisfying life carrying the yoke of fame (or so I garnered from the paragraph about him). Wouldn't it be logical to surmise that he was guilt-ridden, like the astronauts who never really did anything and yet still get goaded to appear at comicbook conventions? ... Yes. (I'm glad you agree.)

This has me thinking about the close connection between Hollywood and Washington, and not just because of Reagan and Schwarzneggar and Oprah, but because of the magical smoke screen involved with each pursuit, and how similar they are in what they offer (or try to offer) the public -- comforting fantasy in one form or another.

And while I'm thinking about it, it all comes full-circle, and I realize I'm thinking way too much for a Sunday afternoon. Whether it happened or not, there isn't a damn thing I can do about it after all. The reality is that I'm merely trying to get through my ever-precarious days with a vague sinus headache and cramps from the Indian food I ate last night at one in the morning.

That's my reality, and there's little I could ever do to convince you how terrifying and confusing it really is ...

Dreams of Hitler

2011-05-23T15:54:00.000-07:00

May 23, 2011: I had a long, detailed dream about Hitler last night. It was quite vivid, and just a bit odd, because I've never dreamed about Hitler before.

Like with most dreams, now that I'm trying to recount it, the sequence and many of the details are sketchy. I can tell you that Hitler was riding on a bus, seated at the back. It was modern times -- at least modern dream times, because Hitler was an old man, though I guess reasonably not so old as he would be were he still alive now, so perhaps it was circa 1975 (which kind of makes sense, because as many of you regular Blah-ugh! readers know, I've been watching a lot of "All In The Family" episodes lately, and I think the better part of my mind is staying rooted in that period.)

(NOTE: 1975 is, in fact, a very interesting year, and I believe may well date the demise of modern civilization, but I don't have time to talk about that right now, so you'll just have to take my word for it.)

Anyway, back to Hitler. So it came to light, somehow, that I knew he would be riding on this bus -- it was some sort of tour or something, and while he had a kind of celebrity status in the dream, I think his being there was more recreational. I think it was taking place in Germany, or certainly Europe, and his presence was known, but overall I don't think anyone was making a big deal of it. But I decided that a good friend of mine, who's a big World War II buff (and a bit of a minor anti-Semite, actually) would really love to have his autograph (Hitler being an important figure in that war, as some of you know), so I thought I'd try to get him one. (What's interesting, I realize as I'm writing this, is that I actually got this same friend an autograph from Mina Souvari (sp?) when I lived out in L.A. -- having run into her at Whole Foods in Santa Monica -- so it's kind of a natural dream extension, if you think about it, though I don't mean to equate Souvari to Hitler, for in fact she was very nice, and obviously Hitler wasn't.)

In the dream I struggled to decide what it might be best to have Hitler sign, for I had paper, but I also thought a book might make the autograph more valuable, and as it was a dream, I suddenly had limitless volumes at my disposal. (Again, as I'm writing this, I realize my son and I were over at a memorabelia shop this week, and spent some time looking at how much certain celebrity signatures sold for.) Anyway, I considered asking him to sign a favorite Hermann Hesse volume -- two, in fact, because I was considering that his signature might be worth something one day -- but then I realized that, even though Hesse was German, he was something of a liberal thinker, and I didn't want to offend Hitler. (How's that for some weird, radical story title: "Offending Hitler"; I could see a film starring Michael Caine and Courtney Love.) And isn't it just hysterical how I'm concerned with offending Hitler in my dream. I mean, am I the pathetic product of a celebrity-awed nation or what?!!

Anyway, anyway, the dream gets sketchy after that -- as it it weren't sketchy enough already -- and I don't think I actually got the autograph (although I feel like we spent a few moments on the bus together). But what's interesting to me was the realization in the dream -- a quite vivid realization -- that I saw that Hitler would be forgiven everything if he had a chance to publish his memoirs and, perhaps, go on television, and in the dream I started hoping he would die before he got a chance to have his book published.

And it's true, isn't it! It's G. Gordon Liddy revisited, and Nixon, who we put on a stamp after all the embarrassing atrocities of his presidency, because he got older and we're a stupid culture with the damaged attention span of acidheads.

But this is HITLER, I hear you saying, and I can't/shouldn't be making such comparisons. (Hey! Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do ... Matt!)

No! In fact, the comparisons are completely justified, and despite the breathtaking extremity of such a prediction, I think it's absolutely true. Were Hitler still alive today, he'd write an apologetic autobiography, make appearances on the Fox TV talk circuit, become a born-again Christian while serving his three years in prison, and then very well could end up running for governor in some midwest state. Therein lies the weird, profoundly prophetic, perhaps twisted but, owing to the madness of post-1975 modern times, completely believable fact of our reality -- Hitler -- despite being the pinnacle of the evil man, could find that skin-deep redemption in our backward times.

Quentin Crisp called it so eloquently (as a gay man will) in his second book, "How To Become A Virgin." "Just go on television," he said, and all will be forgiven!

I saw it in my dream so clearly -- the sour, silly-mustached fanatic no longer as threatening as he was in the WWII newsreels, demurely replaced by an aging, timid vision of contrition, just riding a bus, trying to get along, aware of his shortcomings, like a Watergate burglar, or an arms-dealing Reaganite, or a philandering U.S. senator, or a girl-drowning Kennedy, and on and on ...

And what would the name of his book be? Perhaps, "After The Furnace Fires," or maybe, "I'll Forgive Jew, If Jew'll Forgive Me." Who knows?!

Oy!! As Margaret Hamilton said in her most famous role, "What a world, what a world!" I just hope I sleep better tonight!

Playing Catch Up ...

2011-05-18T18:36:00.000-07:00

May 18, 2011: Oh, ho-oh! ... Where does the time go?

What I want to know is why I still only have 20 Followers when I know there are at least 23 of you out there reading this thing. Are you uncomfortable being labeled a "Follower?" Would you feel better if it said "Supplicant?"

There's so much to speak of, and yet it's so hard for me to move beyond talking about television. And I'm not even talking about new television, which I guess is what most people want to talk about -- reality shows and the like. I'm talking about "All In The Family," and the first 3 seasons I just got on DVD. My god, but that show is brilliant. And it's been exciting having the chance to introduce it to my children, except I have to explain a lot of the racist jokes. ("Why's that so funny?" my son will ask. "Well," I explain, "the Polish people have traditionally blah-blah-blah ...") I consider myself fortunate to have grown up in a time when we were taught that all these stereotypes are wrong, and yet we were still exposed to them in great excess. Pity my poor children -- and yours -- who are growing up without a solid foundation in these precarious treasures troves of comedy, like bigotry, racism, homophobia, and mysogyny (which I can NEVER spell).

Speaking of comedy, I heard something at work today -- Thanks Gwen! -- about this Arnold Schwarznegger situation (and I guess I'm spelling that as well as it needs to be spelled for our purposes). I recall meeting him briefly in L.A. a few years back, and I was struck both by how short he was (certainly compared to the goliath heights he'd achieved in my imagination) and by how old he looked -- his hair looking so poorly dyed up-close, his rock-quarry features caving in on themselves amidst raucous wrinkles and -- I know now -- the derailing stress of dual fatherhood (or is it duel fatherhood). Anyway, he was at least polite, and now looking back I have to wonder if he didn't simply want to get me in bed too. Well, say what you might about his philandering shenanigans, I still think he made many great movies, starting with Last Action Hero, Sixth Day, Total Recall, and perhaps culminating with Predator, although they weren't even made in that order. As an actor he consistently showed a level of versatility that you wouldn't ordinarily find in an Austrian, certainly not since the Great War.

It's been raining a lot this week, and that's another topic worth exploring. I have a theory that certain factions of our totalitarian world government are hard at work trying to control the weather. Obviously they're not having any success, but I'm glad, because I love the rain, and if it were up to those people it would only rain at night, and we don't even need it then. I think you see my point. But if you don't, I don't care, unless you're one of my Supplicants ... I mean Followers.

Monster Model Memories & My Love of Horror Films

2011-05-09T19:31:00.000-07:00

May 9, 2011: I've been thinking a lot about my old Aurora models lately, in particular the monster collection. These were a brilliant catalogue I used to get at a long-time local store called Klein's on Westport, CT's Main Street, which had everything -- an extensive record department, cameras and film development, books galore, jigsaw puzzles, and, of course, models. (Ironically, years later, I even got my wife there!)

Some of my best memories -- damn, perhaps my very best -- are of sitting in our little kitchen on Saturday nights watching Creature Features on channel 5 (which ran some of the best horror movies ever) on our little black-and-white portable Sony TV. I remember the Wolfman was my first model, and when it was finally together, I broke out that glorious set of Testor paints we had, in those little tiny glass bottles, and perfected my very favorite movie monster with a most carefully complimented melange of colors.

I think I got Frankenstein next, then the Mummy. There were 12 in all, including Dracula, Dr. Jekyll, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, the Phantom of the Opera, the Hunchback, Godzilla, King Kong, a Witch, and the Forgotten Prisoner (which featured a very unhappy skeleton chained up in a dungeon). There may have been an Invisible Man set, but that might have been made later. Anyway, I didn't know about it at that time, and would certainly have bought it if I did!

There are few times in my life I can recall with such vivid awareness as when I used to construct those models, always using the silver and green tube of Duco Cement. The newspapers would be spread over my demented mother's precious tan and white formica counter. (Fortunately by then she'd have retired to an early intoxicated slumber.) The smell of the sticky cement mixed with the fresh cardboard scent of the opened boxes, which were like priceless treasures. Each model also came with glow-in-the-dark pieces, which I never used, but still saved for some poor reason.

It's hard now for people to understand (beginning with my own children) why I've such a monumental affinity for horror movies, why I draw such luscious comfort from that vast collection of camp and classic flicks, such as the Universal pics of pre-World War II, and the Hammer Films, and 1950s Sci-Fi ... Among the titles that take me to that glorious place of peace and serenity -- "The Blob," "Killer Shrews," "Horror Express," "Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman," "Halloween III," "The Invisible Man," "Salem's Lot," "Invaders From Mars" ... and on and on ... And each year the list expands by a few select titles -- tasteful fantasy films that offer the right combination of subtle camp and unrealism.

One must draw comfort from whence one can, my dears. It's a diabolically cold and confusing world out there ... sometimes, so take it where you can get it!

Just thought I'd expound on one of my favorite topics ... Sorry for such a boring Blah-ugh! ... But, oh, those wonderful, wonderful monster models ...

Amos, Blane and I (a.k.a. Osama Bin Laden)

2011-05-04T13:29:00.000-07:00

May 4, 2011: If you rearrange the letters in Osama Bin Laden, it spells out "Amos, Blane and I." I'm not yet completely sure what this means, but I feel it might be important, and I'm slowly developing some very viable theories ...

I was surprised to learn last night that Osama Bin Laden was dead. Perhaps you've already heard about it, but my source just phoned me to share some startling details.

For starters, apparently it was some of our own (meaning the U.S.; my apologies to our international readers) armed forces who discovered him lurking in some Asian country. (It may have been either Pakistan or Afghanistan, but I'm definitely sure it ended with a "stan.") He was apparently living there out in the open, or dressing up like a woman -- my friend wasn't sure which -- and he was going to get a falafel sandwich (although it may have been chicken schwarma) when he was gunned down (or it may have been shot).

Apparently they took him out to sea and wrapped him in a white cloth for some reason, and I'm still somewhat confused why they wrapped him up so carefully if they'd already shot him. (Normally, you don't invest a lot of time primping the people you've shot, unless you're a lunatic, like in "Silence of the Lambs" and you're planning on dancing around in their skin or something.) Also, there was some confusion about whether the body was his, or whether they could prove the body was his, or something, so they took either some DNA (whatever that is; I mean, do any of us really know?), or they might have actually taken a whole hand, or a foot.

Now I don't want to start any controversy -- that's not my style -- but I'm confused why, if 9/11 was a covert NSC/CIA operation to begin with, we were still so focused on this character. He was obviously something of a creep, but was he that much creepier than a lot of people? (There's this guy who lives down the block from me who lets his dog crap everywhere. I mean, would you vouch for him!?) There are also a wealth of well-known ties between the Bush family and the Osama family (or is it the Laden family? I get summarily confused with Asian names, because they reverse everything, like the Jews. In fact, I'm not entirely sure you don't pronounce his name Nedal Nib Amaso, which actually sounds a lot less threatening.) But if he's friends with the Bushes, or the Bushes are friends with him, or do business dealings with him, or something, aren't one of them not quite so bad or something ... or am I confused here ...

Anyway, the point is he's dead, and I'm not, so my day's going that much better. And what I really started out to speak to in this Blah-ugh! entry was the fact that his being dead shouldn't be publicized as much as it's being. Aren't we just begging his family to write a tell-all book and make a fortune for his estate? Is that what we want? Wouldn't it have been better to shoot him quietly, or perhaps simply smother him with a white cloth, thereby more logically explaining the reason behind the cloth in the first place?

And what about that guy who lives down the block? When are some troops gonna land here and make him clean up that feces?!

You Won't Have Jarret To Kick Around, Etc.

2011-05-01T19:04:00.000-07:00

May 1, 2011: So this is what I get for trying to help -- some weird anonymous ninny whom I've never heard of backhandedly criticizing my Blah-ugh! (and me!), and none of my so-called loyal followers -- friends ... Ha! -- even raising one typing finger to come to my pitiful defense ...

So there you go! All I wanted to do was make you laugh, and perhaps more importantly express the inexpressible by raising my voice so you wouldn't have to ... Say the things you wanted to say, but may have been too scared or too uncomfortable to. This Blah-ugh! exists merely to spare you the embarrassment of having to make fun of the Prince, or racial stereotype, or say nasty things about your mother. I'm willing to put myself on the line and call your mother's bluff, so you won't have to.

And have I done it within the cowardice of anonymity (although that might have been smarter in the long run), like the oblique "Follower" who festers within my archives? No, I stand behind my words with that fetching picture, meaning what I say and saying what I mean, like the phone company, who said they'd shut off our service and did ... And sometimes I'm even said it mean, when I felt it was worth the balance of wit and wisdom and the potential hurt feelings of the filthy rich, famous and ultimately uninterested ... See, such risks I take, and not for me ... For you!

But where are you, dear reader, through all of this?! Have you taken the time to phone around for an agent for me? Have you contacted magazine editors you know, or book publishers, urging them to bring attention to my woebegone talents and tenacity? Have you spread the word about this Blah-ugh! or worked to drum up publicity for the publication of my first novel, which currently sits sadly on the shelf waiting for you to do something about it?!

Nein. Instead you've sat idly by and let such weird philosophers as you'll see somewhere below write long (and rather dull) answers to my probing questions and commentary. You've let them humiliate me, you see, and right here on my own Blah-ugh! Shame, shame, I say, for you may have not thought about it recently, but I don't get paid to grind out this crap. I do it to make you happy. Yes, you!

I can only hope that the next time you see your favorite writer (and I mean me, and you know I mean me, and you know it's true, so don't pretend!) being belittled (directly and indirectly) by anonymous scoundrels like this perpetrator, I hope you'll come to his defense and not make him devote an entire (rather flat) entry to figuratively spanking you!

As for that dodo who wrote that needling fatuous fluff in response to my sharp-witted bile -- I suggest you stop reading this Blah-ugh! altogether and spend your time watching Fox News, for which your cold, clouded sense of humor is far better suited. I mean it. This Blah-ugh! is not for the feint of heart, and if you can't stand the heat, I don't want you in my kitchen!

As for the rest you, you'd better pick up your support, and fast. Otherwise you won't have Jarret L. to kick around anymore!

April Means Never Having To Make A Cogent Point

2011-04-29T14:41:00.001-07:00

April 29, 2011: I thought it would be chipper of me to wrap up April with one last Blah-ugh! entry. And while I could wait until tomorrow, I know many of you are chomping at the bit to learn the latest intellectual developments in the mind of the man New Yorker magazine once called "that guy who sends those trite queries."

Yes, in fact, many things are on my mind today, starting with the pork loin I'm burning atop my stove as we speak ... So hold on a minute ... (FYI, it's progressing nicely, thanks largely to the thick slabs of butter I have augmenting the process. For a time I always simmered my pork loins in chicken broth until they became pullable, {if you'll excuse the grotesque imagery}, but today I wanted something different, despite the fact that it's just going to end up shredded over nachos for the next four or five nights.)

I'd be remiss in my reportage if I failed to make fun of the new Prince, or King, or whatever he is. To be perfectly honest, I'm so regularly out of touch with the "news" -- and smarter because of it, mind you -- this whole royal wedding came upon me quite unexpectedly. I did, however, take the trouble to watch the key three minutes of video on the Internet (owing to my being cabley impotent, as you know), and while I couldn't understand the bride -- I'm not sure what her name is -- because she spoke so softly, I did get the chance to observe how unattractive the groom is. Let's be honest, were William -- and I'm pretty sure his name is William, or it might be Edward, but I think it's William -- were he just an ordinary mortal, he'd never have a chance with a woman of her pretty stature. (Although who knows what she looks like out of her clothes; there could be all sorts of nasty surprises going on.) I only hope -- again, as I don't follow the media, I don't know what's been reported -- that people have been sure to point out the imbalance in the union, owing to their respective looks. He actually looks like a young John Elway, and that's not a compliment. It's funny how unattractive pure WASP features become -- little circular mouths that never seem to close all the way, overweight faces and over-dimpled chins. Thank god he has that great British accent, otherwise all he'd have going for him is his money, fame and unlimited power.

Speaking of royal, I'm rereading "Casino Royale" for the sixth or seventh time. There's nothing like a Bond book for a welcome breath of mysogenistic (sp?) anti-Soviet spellbinding. This was the first book, as you know, I think 1951, and Ian Fleming is in top form, despite monotonously excessive over-description of Vesper's evening wear.

And speaking of evening wear, I'm distraught to find myself lying here in shorts at 6:30, because this means the hot weather has arrived. I hate hot weather, except sometimes, and even then I pretend I don't like it so people feel sorry for me.

One final thought: why do the pork loins always smell so awful after they're cooked (and before, too, but that's a question I can answer)?

Music & Me

2011-04-18T08:01:00.000-07:00

April 18, 2011: Well, another week has gone by and I'm still not famous. Part of me wants to publicly blame you for this, and yet what good would that do, (so I'll just keep blaming you privately). I had to eat another agent rejection this morning -- a dirty little cad whose name I'll spare you, even though it's a silly name -- and now I'm bitter ... more bitter than usual, if you can imagine such a thing ...

But that's not why I logged you in today, or on. In fact, I had more blissful topics to explore, beginning with music. This weekend I was pleasantly reintroduced to an old personal "best of" CD compilation I'd made back yonder. I hadn't heard a lot of these exquisite songs in quite sometime, and I was wholly drawn in to each as they spun (with only a modicum of skipping) so blithely upon (or within) my auto's CD spinning machine. And as each song played, I decided it was absolutely the best song ever recorded, bar none, if I had to name one, and for those three minutes I probably would have bet my life (or certainly your life) on the possibility that said song was a bona fide miracle of creation (or evolution, depending on which side you're on).

For starters, if you don't know the Creedence Clearwater Revival song "Lodi," I feel sorry for you, because it's got to be the most heart-wrenching, pathos-drawing, and yet rhythmically intoxicating tune ever created. I remember my friend Kristine Newman once commenting, "It just says it all," and it does! Great kudos to my friend John Fogerty, who set a standard for music and plaid shirts.

But then came the Allman Brothers' "Midnight Rider," which is beyond words. When the bridge (and bass) fall into that simple, almost two-note guitar solo, it's a heart-stopping moment for me -- rainy windshield on a Georgia highway, sucked along by that lordly voice of Gregg (or as his friends call him, Greg). And those harmonies ... Egad! as Matt would say (and he's from Georgia!).

And also from Georgia comes R.E.M., and while they have so many good songs (at least up until their drummer Bill Berry, with his enormous single eyebrow, left the band), "Sitting Still" just has to be (at least for me) the quintessential early '80s melancholy underground dance hall jangling Rickenbacker tune of it all. (On a personal note, I don't think Matt can understand this one, as he tried to run Bill Berry over with his car ... or maybe Berry tried to run him over; I always get confused about the story.)

You've heard me speak of Lulu's "Dreary Days & Nights," of course -- just breathtaking -- but a similar period piece (which I know Matt loves) is Pink Floyd's "See Emily Play." What an amazing arrangement, and scintillating use of effects ... It's really a song that takes creation to the next level. I love later Pink Floyd, of course, but this early piece has to be about their best to me.

And in that vain (or vein -- I'm not sure which), The Doors did something similar with several pieces, and one great (and lesser known) example is "Unhappy Girl" -- great lyrics (and I've never been an over-the-top Jim Morrisson fan, in part because I think most poetry is just silly), a fetching liquid tune, and again, special effects that just work brilliantly. Of course, there aren't many bad Doors songs.

Finally -- and believe me, I could go on and on ... I haven't even touched on the Beatles or Beach Boys, but each deserve their own entry at least -- but finally, what has to be (for me ... yes, remember this is all about ME!) the quintessential song of the 60s -- Jefferson Airplane's "D.C.B.A. - 25," which appears almost invisibily on the second side of the classic "Surrealistic Pillow" album. That song just sounds like Golden Gate Park on a late afternoon in summer -- a subtle echo, and heavy hit of sparkling noise. The Airplane was never a tight band, not a slick band, like the Beatles or Byrds, but a kind of sloppy dissonant chord. Yet Paul Kantner and company work wonders on this song, the throwaway title of which is merely the four chords they use, with the LSD joke tagged on. (God, listen to me making liner notes!) It also includes two of my favorite lines of any song -- "Too many days I've left unstoned" ... and perhaps my favorite, "I can but dance behind your smile." Wow! Now that's poetry!

Well, many more songs could I praise, but time is short and I have to get my pants on. Most importantly, it made me forget ... y'know ... and while I'll have to go back and reread this for typos, I'll look forward to getting out to my car again and escaping into auditory oblivion ...

Once Upon a Walk

2011-04-11T18:19:00.000-07:00

April 11, 2011: Greetings! I'm glad you could join me again. I have so many things planned to share with you ... and yet I'll probably fail to get to most of them, so adjust your expectations accordingly.

To begin, I enjoyed a marvelous walk last afternoon -- and in fact covered 6.75 miles, which I hope impresses those of you who see me only as a brilliant intellect, and not the strapping physical specimen others of you know me to be. (You know who you are! Don't pretend!) The details I'll spare you, as they mostly involve trees and no one wants to hear about them unless they fall over. However, early on, I had an interesting (well, not really) experience at the bank machine that got me to thinking, as bank machine experiences are wont to do.

You see, as I set out from town, I needed to make a stop to deposit a check I was carrying for $4.96. (I get a lot of these little checks, actually, though most of them aren't for amounts even that large -- usually under a dollar. If you want to know the details, please write me and I'll tell you more, but I'd rather not have to right now, as I'm very busy.)

Anyway, as I walked up to the door, a guy came out and declared, "If you're gonna make a deposit, don't, 'cause it just ate my money." He was distraught, and briefly detailed that he'd just called his wife (although I'm still not clear why), and they were leaving on vacation to Florida in the morning and he'd needed to put the $600 in the account, but the machine (as machines will do, left to their own devices) had simply eaten the money and then denied any involvement, and he was bumming.

I offered my sympathies and suggested it would all work out, as they'd have to see there was an unaccounted $600 in the coiffers the next morning (hopefully, unless the machine had somehow funneled it to the Contras or the Tea Party representatives or something). He was amenable to the thought, and almost good-humoredly declared it a mere annoyance after all. He somehow alluded to his wife again, which was starting to get on my nerves. Then, at the same time, interestingly, we both said that he should best simply "breathe" and it would all work out swimmingly.

The point of this whole story, which really unfolded after I walked away (certainly not willing to chance losing my $4.96 check) is one of Racial Awareness (or R.A., as I've coined it merely for the purposes of this entry, and will subsequently forget coining by the time I get to the next paragraph). Regular Blah-ugh! readers will recall several insightful essays I've shared involving how, despite my far-liberal social leanings, I sometimes can't help being the product of a race-conscious upbringing (or a race-conscious something. Maybe it wasn't my upbringing. Perhaps it was my downfalling. Who really knows?)

The point is, I began to speculate on whether his being black was going to impact his chances at getting his money back. (See, I hadn't mentioned that he was black. And how many of you Whiteys out there thoughtlessly drew a picture of a white man at the ATM, and were -- even for an instant -- surprised by this disappointed customer's blackness? ... Come now. Be honest. (You racist scum! You're even worse than I am!))

Yes, I was thinking his credibility could be called into serious jeopardy by the sight of his skintone at the ATM camera. ("Hmmm," I could hear the corporation heads concurring. "He could be a liar. He is, after all, pretty black.")

This, in turn, got me to wonder whether a white man was necessarily a better risk where such an event was concerned. Certainly not an Italian (like myself, and I'm not even one of your swarthier ones!), although the Irish may not fair any better, especially the ones with red hair ... It seems an Asian might be a good bet, as they're a notoriously hard-working and honest people (although they can be very loud when you're riding on the subway) ... Better still to be Jewish (also like myself), for they're just fat with money (although I'm one of the rare exceptions) and they're reputedly honest (although very loud, in many cases).

This led me to decide that it might be a good idea to start wearing a yarmulke every time I use the ATM, just in case the machine backfires. I can keep one in my car, and while they never seem to fit me right, I don't think the quality of those cameras is that fine.

It's wonderful the range of fulfillment one discovers on a typical late-afternoon walk!

NEXT WEEK: More sophistry and perhaps less punctuation.

More About Eyebrows -- MY Eyebrows

2011-04-06T14:23:00.000-07:00

April 6, 2011: If you're like me -- and let's hope, in the name of God, that you're not -- you're ridiculously consumed with your appearance. That's not to say you (or I) necessarily have a good appearance, but just that you're consumed with it.

I'm not sure from where it stems -- my mother, perhaps (whom I hold responsible for everything from my undying love of Glen Campbell, to my unnatural aversion toward women who knit) ... or maybe my father, (whose parental love often expresses itself through pedantic assessments of my hair, weight, and skin quality) ... or maybe it's just growing up in affluent Westport, Connecticut, with the beautiful people (or at least some of the beautiful people, because a lot of the residents here look like Lord of the Rings characters) ...

Whatever the reason, the fact is that I am, as a rule, quite concerned with my appearance. (And you well may ask, if I care so much about how I look, then why don't I bathe more often, or wash my socks? Well, that's none of your business, and if my wife put you up to asking that, I'm going to ask you right now to withdraw your membership at this site and go back to studying Internet pornography with your pants down.) And, see, now you made me lose my place ... AGAIN!

But, ah, yes, The Point: Simply, the reason I'm bringing this up is a new, growing concern I have about my eyebrows, which have drastically changed over the last few years. You see, once upon a time I prided these soft -- dare I say caterpillar-like -- eyebrows, solely composed of supple, down-like hairs, all flowing effortlessly across their assigned spots, like the swaying wheat stalks of a Kansas afternoon, set upon by the fragrant prairie winds of Willa Cather summer. (I mean, can you tell how much I liked these eyebrows?!) But over the past several years, much to my shock and dismay, I've watched those innocent childhood hairs shed away like the failing fibers on some hostile vagrant's decaying lapel. And, instead, over the past few months especially, I've seen a sinister new crop of these awful, harsh, thick, ugly, black hairs grow in threatening strides across my very forehead, like ... I don't know what! (And I'm a writer, so imagine how hard it is for me to duck out on a potential metaphor!)

I'm not sure where this will end, but I'm very disturbed to see how these new hairs have started turning up a bit at the end, too, giving me a sort of leprechaun appearance, like Samuel Beckett or that horrendous clown in that old French movie. Needless to say, I've plucked several, despite the excruciating pain (and my philosophical disapproval, as you regular Blah-ugh! readers know, of anyone altering their eyebrows through butchery or chicanery). A few others I've even had to trim, and that was no small task, given I had to use a toenail clipper to do it.

I'm not sure where I was going with this, but I think it's important we all understand that looks are everything (as my mother often emphasized), and if you're like me, and have gotten by -- to this high station in life -- by your remarkable looks alone, it's only imaginable to see what a disillusioning disappointment it can be to suddenly find your fine features, face and finery put into such precarious jeopardy through the insidious vine-like growth of some very unstable eyebrow hairs ...

And I never thought it could happen to me ... And it did! Be warned!!

Seasons of Der Alchemist

2011-04-01T19:26:00.000-07:00

April 1, 2011: Guten tag! Vie geht es einen? ... No. No, there's nothing wrong with your computer. I'm merely welcoming you to my ephemeral (meaning Cybernetting) Blah-ugh! world in my native German (or Deutsch, as it was once known, until someone finally realized how close that was to the word "douche").

It's been a challenging day for me -- and yet isn't it always, with my myriad responsibilities, the absence of any real respect or authentic admiration, and this terrible itch I have on the bottom of my foot. (I think it means that guests are coming, but I'll still refuse to put my shoes on!)

Inspired by the cool, rainy weather, I've taken the liberty of constructing a fire (and my family was pleased to see that I did it in the fireplace this time). Fire is a fascinating thing -- much more vibrant than water, and not as showy or consumed with itself. (Water just thinks it's such a much!) I like fires in the winter, and even though it's spring, the fireplace doesn't know that, and so continues to burn without argument.

You might be interested to hear about a recent discovery of mine, which I guess is alchemy related (although it might merely be based on foolishness, which is a more modern version of alchemy, if you think about it). As I'm so enamored with fires, I came to the conclusion that they must be serving some kind of psychic purpose for me, and that spending time in front of the fire in winter months soothes my soul and heals my heart, (as well as drying out my skin).

This, in turn, led me to connect the importance of spending time in the water during summer months for quite the same reasons. Nothing centers my twisted soul in late July like a late afternoon dip in greenish-brown Long Island Sound, and while I still find it hard to actually swim more than 20 feet without taking on water, I can manage to at least paddle frantically in place for extended periods, and this basically gets the job done.

In my disturbingly inquisitive way, I then speculated on what alchemistic element the autumn demanded, and of course I now understand it's earth. Fall is the time when all good men (and even the ornery ones) must find a suitable solace in the tree-laden sanctuaries most replete with sour, smelly soil. The autumn is the time of earth, and I'm not just saying that so I can sound like Pocahontas.

And spring, it turns out, is when a young man's fancy must be put on hold in order for that individual to seek open vistas of big sky. Spring is a time of spiritual expansion -- (Oh brother, now I sound like a line from the junk mail catalogue that Whole Foods keeps sending us!) -- a time when we best find the great teachings of the sky, and learn those sky lessons, and all the sky facts, and study the sky syllabus (or the syllabi ... or the skylabi ... Can you tell how tired I am?!)

Anyway, a better understanding of basic seasonal alchemy, I feel, will help even the stupidest man (and sexiest woman) experience the joys and subtle intricacies of life in these gas-bag times in which we live. And if it doesn't do that, one can at least get in some swimming ... or have fire now and again.

That reminds me -- it's time to poke it!

Five Things No One Cares About

2011-03-29T17:52:00.001-07:00

March 29, 2011: I was toying with the idea of putting this Blah-ugh! on hiatus, given my utter revulsion with having to update it so frequently. But then I thought of all the people I'd be disappointing -- all the working stiffs and sad singles and miserable married and restless young and smelly old ... I just couldn't bring myself to let any of you down. I just hope you're all satisfied now that you've ruined yet another evening I could have better spent eating hazelnut gelato and watching adult films.

And what to talk about? I keep thinking about Mel Brooks for some reason, but that's not a topic. (I had the opportunity to meet him once in L.A. at a Hanukkah celebration, of all things, at a synagogue; I found it a unique thrill to hear him scream out "dreidel" when the rabbi was trying to goad the many kids in the room to answer the question.)

I'm also ruminating rather anxiously on the sad state of technological affairs, wherein people drive down the road typing messages in their phones, leave their lanes and accelerate in irritating fits and starts, and demented parents play DVDs in the backs of their minivans to keep their kids medicated and still, and half the people I know can't be present for a conversation without keeping one eye on their portable email device while they're feigning attention, and on and on ...

But besides myself (and possibly the one known only as Mordant Glee) no one even cares. No one sees how demented it all is, how we're robbing a whole new generation of creative thought and silence, and slowly steaming the brains of this generation, which no longer values silence or solitude, but just constantly craves distraction through a thousand forms of trivia. Like drug addicts, they're scared to sit still and feel a feeling. It's depressing and pathetic, but mostly maddening because nobody seems to see how wrong it is ... And so I won't talk about that.

Instead, I'll mention I finally watched the new Wall Street movie, and it was pretty good, and Michael Douglas didn't look at all as bad as I thought he would (which I feared would be kind of like an Aztec mummy, and instead he just looked like this mummy they had on a Twilight Zone episode, which wasn't quite as shocking). As I said, it was a pretty good movie, though I couldn't understand most of what they were talking about -- all this weird business/money-speak, which is as foreign to me as an automobile engine. But I recognized the romance and excitement, in part because the music cued me to do so.

And speaking of the Twilight Zone, I was ecstatic to find my local library recently purchased the entire catalogue, and with shameless relish, I've begun introducing my children to the most brilliant episodes, starting with "The Masks" and "Five Characters in Search of an Exit." Rod Serling was a rare genius, not unlike Charles Dickens or myself.

Now why is this different, you ask, then the parent who stifles their brats in the backseat with automotive video, my forcing my poor dumb children to ingest great quantities of vintage sci-fi brilliance? Well ... it just is, so leave me alone.

Which reminds me, I hear the kids watching the Brady Bunch downstairs -- the one where Jim Bachus buys the Bradys a pool table -- so I've got to run ...

Jarret's Frank Film Forum (FFF) -- A General Review

2011-03-22T18:15:00.000-07:00

March 22, 2011: So many movies -- so little time!

If you're like me, you want to do whatever you can to keep at bay the maddening voices that pollute your head, and quell the tumultuous mix of turbulent emotions that constantly bombard your spirit and tea-stained psyche. Toward this end, nothing gets the job done (short of heroin and pornography) like the always-captivating enticement of the big blue screen.

(NOTE: In my case it's a relatively little screen, but it is blue, which is the important thing. It's also mesmerizingly heavy, consisting of ancient tubes and, I suspect, giant hunks of metal that simply weigh it down in the event of great windstorms.)

Anyway, since my youngest days, I've found great solace and security in the hypnotic intoxication of television and all its holy offerings. And while we don't currently even have cable owing to my humiliating inability to earn a decent income, thanks to our expansive DVD collection -- (and our wonderful local library's considerable catalogue) -- I still manage to secure ongoing comfort, constructive therapy and the emotional medication I so sorely need on a daily basis.

That said, I wanted to share some of my more profitable viewing experiences of late, starting with a very satisfying vampire movie called "Blade." Yes, this is the one with the great Wesley Snipes as the Daywalker, abetted by the great Kris Kristofferson as the cigarette-smoking, tattooed stereotype he so aptly embodies. What a marvelous array of effects and action this classic offers, including several scenes where Snipes grins maniacally at the oddest of moments, promising more strange turns and dashing images of vampiric execution. All told, I highly recommend this 1998 classic, which features a standout performance by Stephen Dorff (what an awful name ... almost as bad as co-star "N'Bushe" Wright!) as a very nasty vampire, and a weird performance by Udo Kier, whom I suspect may actually be a real vampire after all.

Another keg of fulfillment has been found in the first two "Pirates of the Caribbean" movies, which I'd never seen before now, but have proven to be very joyous romps all told. Johnny Depp, of course, is generally grand, and while his wonderful Captain Jack Sparrow is much more Hunter Thompson than Keith Richards (as he claimed), how can one possibly tire of Depp's Thompson, and so I'm simply looking forward to the next two installments in the series to see more of it. Orlando Bloom is all chin, but that may be why we like Depp all the more and keep rooting for Bloom to be skewered in each sword fighting scene. And Keira Knightley ... is ... soooo .... f***ing ... gorgeous!

Finally, I've just been re-watching a slick David Mamet flick called "Spartan." (The nice thing about having brain damage is you can watch movies once and then forget everything about them a couple of years later.) It's quite a solid suspense/action film, and while I like to think I would have done a better job playing Jim Morrison in "The Doors" movie, Val Kilmer was acceptable there and really does a very fine job with this role. Mamet is a pretty solid film maker and writer -- and I don't praise many, actually -- despite what I hear are some strange personal behaviors. (He actually wrote a solid book on acting, as well, which I found enlightening; yay Mamet, you old legend you!)

So that's all I've got tonight, except now I can't stop thinking about Keira and her chin. I'm going to finish this "Spartan" movie and hope it carries me comfortably toward my bedtime with a minimal of distractions -- thoughts, feelings, ideas, imposing images of the future, the past, the present ... Y'know!

How Green Is My Toilet

2011-03-17T18:57:00.000-07:00

March 17, 2011: Aloha and begorah to all you Irish folk; may all your vomit be green vomit.

Remembering that I've adequately bashed this and other revered iconic March moments in past Blah-ugh! entries, I thought tonight I'd (once again) focus on something much nearer and dearer to my heart -- the sanctity of toilets. Toward that end -- (and I must have used that silly double-entendre before!) -- I thought I'd present you with a most poetic moment that I experienced just tonight.

You see, I was feeling somewhat despondent earlier owing to several factors -- among them, humanity's failure to recognize my greatness, my Blah-ugh! readers' failure to recognize my greatness, my failure (thus far) to find a literary agent, my Blah-ugh! readers' failure to help me find a literary agent ... All in all it was a frustrating night, in which I was focused on humanity's numerous shortcomings, as well as the one or two that I can claim. Most of all, I couldn't shake that too-often recurring sense of my not being understood, of my not being accepted as I am, and not being loved simply because I'm (after all) so infectiously lovable.

So it was that I found myself in the downstairs toilet of my local library; not for any particular reason, except I had to urinate, and what better place for a literary man like myself to do so. And as I approached the urinal, I was overcome with that singular inspiration one only finds in Muse-addled moments of bathroom clarity, and the first lines of an inspired poem formed effortlessly in my pee-focused mind ... I took out my pen and wrote:

"Hello Toilet.
You still accept me, despite my shortcomings.
I can always come to you
Open and honest
And share
My innermost secrets"

Yes, once again, the answers were presenting themselves in porcelain, and all I had to do was show up. All at once my angst and frustration were softened by the satisfaction of being understood, as well as the elation of creative birthing. (I knew I was on to something big, and envisioned the veritable epic I would write as both tribute and analysis of the role the toilet has played in my life.)

Then suddenly this guy came in and hurried into the adjacent stall. This, in itself, wouldn't have bothered me, but he began talking over the wall. "Do you use the toilet on the second floor that often?" he said. And believe me, I froze, because I'm not one to talk to strangers in a toilet, let alone close friends. For a minute, I thought I must have imagined it, or perhaps he'd brought a phone with him or ... something. Let me tell you, it was very disconcerting.

"Somebody tore the toilet paper dispenser right off the wall," he said, louder now. "Brand new it was!" Again, I didn't respond, but raced to wash my hands and flee before he came out and identified me. (I was probably in my car before he even had a chance to flush.)

Looking back, after I jotted down his dialogue to get it verbatim, it seemed a kind of interesting coincidence that this weirdo would intrude on my toilet solace to express his own (dare I say) loving insights and experiences relating to the sacrosanct library toilets. And who was I, but a self-centered urinator bent on using the toilet to meet my own needs and not open to sharing the communal nature of this particular pee parlor.

Anyway, it gave me pause, if not humility. Tonight I was able to recognize our shared humanity, replete with the fallibility, need to be accepted, and -- when all is said and done -- deep, deep affection for, and gratitude toward, the many toilets in our lives.

Being Hip To Time

2011-03-13T22:15:00.000-07:00

March 14, 2011: I'm a bit confused why no one told me they were spinning the clocks forward today -- not angry, just confused. Had I been in possession of that information, I like to think I would have warned the people around me -- close friends and family at least -- that life as we know it was about to change, and they had damn well better get prepared.

Of course, none of this helps me now. It's 1:15 in the morning and I'm wide awake. I've got no one to thank but myself for taking that two-hour nap this afternoon, but had I known I'd slept in to 10:30 and not 9:30, as my clock had claimed, I might not have devoted additional hours to finding my bliss (or at least more of my bliss) in dreamland.

Still, if anyone's equipped to handle the precarious, hallucinogen-like experience of a lonely sleepless night, it's me. I have a long history with late nights, and not because I've led some sort of romantic life of early-hour parties and spell-binding sunrises. Ever since an early age I was drawn to staying up late. I remember always wondering what it was like later and later into the night -- what it felt like and what went on in those mysterious small hours that one was strictly forbidden to visit. I think I was seven when I somehow ended up awake until 3:15 on a weird night of television and childish antics. By junior high I'd done my first all-nighter, and had found it uniquely invigorating for some stupid reason I still can't explain. In high school, I developed this strange compulsion of staying up all night on a regular basis and cleaning my room. I led such a disorganized life, it seemed that every couple of months I needed to stay up all night and reassemble everything (as if it really ever helped!). This, in turn, led to some confusing beliefs that I may have been meant to live by the moon cycle, which still kind of makes sense to me because the moon rises about 50 minutes later each night, and so one logically sleeps in another 50 minutes each morning until they work their way around the clock in 29 days ...

Which leads me to comment on the churlish construct of our whole narrow-minded conformist world, which requires (or seems to require) that we keep our timetable in strict alignment with Washington and the World Bank and all the other Right Wing institutions. (That's why they even have Daylight Savings Time; it's merely a method of testing our obedience to the arbitrary whims of the Power Elite (or P.E., as they're known).

It's unnatural is what it is, and when I finally realize some significant income from my book, cartoons and clown paintings, I'll start living right, smash my alarm clock (or my wife's alarm clock, since mine isn't even plugged in) and get back to the natural cycles as the Universe (or at least the moon) intended them.

Meanwhile, I'm happy to have killed a good 25 minutes on this entry -- now being that much closer to sleep, as well as my death. Ironically, the experience vividly reminds me of that great Peter Fonda line, as heard in that sketchily constructed classic movie "Easy Rider" -- "I'm hip to time."

Remember, all you readeres who thought you could escape that gruesome image and idea -- Naked Peter Fondas! We're all just Naked Peter Fondas trying to stay on schedule ...

27 (Or So) Things About Me That May Surprise You

2011-03-10T20:42:00.000-08:00

March 10, 2011: I recently came across what I assume was a stupid regular column in some magazine. (The column was, in fact, stupid, but it's only my assumption that it was a regular column.) The title was something like "27 Things About Me That May Surprise You," and it was written by Martha Stewart, about whom I knew next to nothing, despite having cut her lawn one summer. I can say I still don't know much about her, and even that's enough (although I found it somewhat interesting that she likes to bring her own lemons on planes).

Anyway, I thought it might of some value -- to me, of course, and not you -- to share some of the lesser known facts about myself -- so I present: "27 (if I can think of that many) Things About Me That May Surprise (or even Shock!) You" (although in actuality there's a good chance they may not even interest you).

--For starters, did you have any ideas how much I hate when men wear loafers without socks. I think I reference it in both of my novels. I really just find it incredibly irritating and I'm convinced that we, as a society, will never really start unraveling all the problems that face mankind until people stop doing that.

--I can't ever remember how to count in Spanish. Not that I ever took Spanish, but you'd think after all this time living in America -- and being able to count in Russian, German and French -- I'd have it down. Yet whenever I'm faced with the challenge, it always baffles me.

--As well as being convinced that both the two Kennedy assasinations and 9/11 were government conspiracies, I don't believe the moon landing ever took place. Saying that outright sounds somewhat funny in itself, but the evidence is ridiculously clear and I'm baffled that more people don't see it. (Our government is also responsible for both Lyme Disease and West Nile Virus, by the way, but that's a whole other story.)

--At age three I fell in Paul Newman's pool. (That's another whole other story.)

--While I originally wanted to be a professional baseball player, by fourth grade I wanted to be an actor, and then by junior high I thought seriously of being a writer ... Interestingly, at age 21 I gave some serious thought to trying to play minor league ball. Also interestingly, I'm still thinking seriously about being a writer ...

--My official favorite food is eggplant parmegian (but I can never spell it), and my favorite dessert is cold pumpkin pie with whipped cream.

--I don't drink, although I still have a fondness for sex and gambling.

--I don't technically have a middle name, although I have two first names, the second of which I almost never share with anyone. (My wife thinks it's Bernard, but it's not!)

--I had my first grey hair in sixth grade. (I remember Andy Cameron lovingly plucking it out at recess; he recently died and now I'm feeling guilty.)

--I literally enjoy the company of my two children more than anyone else in the world. They accept me just as I am, (not like you people).

--I've spent time in every continental U.S. state except North Dakota. Despite the urging of one friend, I'm not dying to go ...

--Though I've never received a journalism award, both Walter Cronkite and Nat Hentoff have shared with me their individual admiration for something I'd written.

--I struggle with tea constantly staining my teeth. I've never worn braces, but pride very straight choppers, which have literally been admired by strange orthodontists who've crossed my path.

--I once found a dead body.

--I can play banjo, along with guitar, piano, drums and xylophone. (I bought my banjo in a pawn shop in Spokane, Washington, which is actually known as the Lilac City (as least out there).)

--One of my great regrets in life is that I wasn't born in England. I love the weather there, as well as the accents and fish. I'm hoping someday someone will invite me to come and live in London ... or Manchester (ahem!)

--I hate computers, and find the Internet a colossal time-waster. Despite the handiness of having an online Blah-ugh! I'd much prefer a newspaper column, or a hard-copy newsletter ... or perhaps a TV show!

--I still like to collect comicbooks, and while I stupidly sold my once-vast collection years ago, I continue to pick them up here and there. (I've always loved collecting things and have, at one time or another, collected coins, stamps, beer cans, bottle tops, baseball cards, books and rocks.)

--I'm long-winded. Despite my considerable skills as an attentive listener, I love nothing better than to talk. (My wife, who used to listen to me, will concur.) A large part of why I write is because I just can't shut up.

--I greatly prefer rainy days, and will often go for long walks. I find my meditative bliss on walks, but prefer quiet suburban streets to isolated wilderness.

--I used to love dogs, but now they mostly annoy me. Our cat annoys me too, especially at night, but I don't drown her in the bathtub because it would hurt the kids. (Perhaps when they're older and would understand.)

--I like to stay up late and sleep late into the day. I often do my best writing late at night, and sometimes I just write crappy Blah-ugh! posts about eggplant, England and strangling cats.

Next time I'll tell you more about Martha Stewart and her lawn!

Jarret's Frank Film Forum (FFF) -- A Review of "Easy Rider"

2011-03-07T16:16:00.000-08:00

March 7, 2011: This is getting more and more confusing ...

Those of you who've passionately followed my Blah-ugh! -- (meaning the two of you sitting toward the back) -- will, of course, remember the FFF -- a popular (and copywritten) featurette we've sadly neglected revisiting for far too long. For the rest of you (meaning you other three), I thought it might be enjoyable to spill a sampling of my astute (albeit churlish) observations where the magic of movies is concerned and watch as you once again find yourself marveling (perhaps even aloud), "Why do I read this stupid thing?!"

Actually, my inspiration to talk about Easy Rider comes from a Byrds' song I was just listening to over and over again in my car this afternoon (which actually appears twice in the movie -- the song, I mean, not my car) called "Wasn't Born To Follow," which I knew wasn't written by Roger McGuinn (whose original name wasn't Roger but Jim ((and, for all we know, might very well not really be named McGuinn either))), but instead was written by Carol King (of all people) and Gerry Goffin (whoever the hell he is). I simply think the song is brilliant, at least performed by the Byrds. (Who knows what kind of mess Carol might have made of it with that warbly voice of hers.) But part of what made it so brilliant to me was this lovely, genius last line, which ends, "... She will argue with her logic, and mention all the things I've learned that really have no value; in the end she will surely know I wasn't born to follow." ... BUT, when I researched the song to find out the writers (like the fair, unbiased Blah-ugh! reporter I am) I was shocked, depressed disillusioned and just plain annoyed to discover that the line is "mention all the things I'D LOSE." Now doesn't that suck!? How am I supposed to find inspiration in that song NOW, knowing that instead of being a righteous 1960s anthem extolling otherness and the drug-induced Buddha mind (and I'm sure I'll be hearing from Mr. Heinz on that one!), the song's just another love sick-inspired example of Carol King's anger toward men ...

But in the end, that's neither here nor there, for the movie was what I wanted to spew about -- that classic bit of cult cinema directed (and starring) the late Dennis Hopper, showcasing the cross-country travels (and travails) of a couple of hippie/druggies, and also starring the lovingly benign Peter Fonda, who delivers some of the most magical cinematic lines in history, including "I'm hip to time" and "It gives you a whole new way of looking at the day."

Never has a film so perfectly captured the remarkably distinct fear of a quintessential bad-vibe pot moment as when Hopper and Fonda sit smoking with the great Luke Askew around the campfire in the desert night:

Hopper: Hey, man. Where ya from?
Askew: A city ...
Hopper: I just wanna know where yer from, man.

And never has the south been so accurately portrayed as when the rednecks start shooting the L.A. hippies. It's poigniant (though I can never spell that) and almost documentriacal (I think I spelled that right). (You southerners out there know what I'm talking about ... Be honest!)

And the use of the Byrds' music is brilliant, and that very song appears twice -- once when they pick up Askew hitchhiking, then later when they go swimming with the girls.

Unfortunately, as wonderful a movie as it is -- though not necessarily a particularly good one, because really it's awfully cheesy and kind of pretentious and vaguely incoherent all at once -- that swimming scene is most startling because you see how Peter Fonda's power is completely taken away when he's stripped of his Captain America jacket and you have to view him perched up on that stone wall, naked, with his sunken druggie's eyes and mad mutton chops. That's the most acute moment of commentary on the 60s drug culture -- despite the romance of cross-country cruising and American flag regalia, at the end of the druggie day, illicit consumption makes all of us -- men and women -- look like naked Peter Fondas!

My Pot Problem

2011-03-04T18:42:00.000-08:00

March 4, 2011: It may disturb many of you to hear this, but over the past 14 years the most remarkable series of circumstances has apparently coalesced and brings to light the shocking discovery of a very serious pot problem that I'm now facing.

It all started yesterday afternoon, when I was washing the dishes. We have this well-worn stainless steel 1.4 liter Dansk pot that's been in the family these past 14 years, serving us well, particularly for making glop (a dish that I created in the early 1980s) and for boiling water (as I don't allow a teapot in the house for reasons I'll have to explain another time).

Well, I was washing away with a kind of Buddhist fervor -- drawing my dirty blue sponge in a counter-clockwise motion about the supple rim of our Scandinavian cookware -- when all of a sudden a startling sharp cut ripped across my innocent left thumb, like a knife blade, or the biting words of an angry Scandinavian. For a moment I thought it might have been caused by the pot itself, but I didn't see how that was possible ... So, owing to my notorious inability to trust my own feelings (at least where physical pain is concerned) I chalked it up to some strange minor nerve damage due in large part to fluctuating water temperatures ...

But imagine my shock when, an hour later, I saw the gash across my traumatized thumb. It was a blade cut! There was no doubt about it. And I knew at once that it was this little Danish pot -- the one that had posed itself as a dear part of our family for so many years -- that was responsible.

Quickly -- for I have children, you see -- I found that pot, drying so innocently in the dish rack, like it was just another normal day -- and I wasted no time examining its rim. Imagine my further shock when I discovered that a section around the edge -- about four inches of that very rim -- had somehow been honed to a razor sharpness over these 14 years, and was now no less than a potentially deadly weapon.

I went to work immediately -- for I have children, you see, and also a terribly careless wife -- and got my hammer. (Actually, it's not my hammer, for it's borrowed, but for the purposes of this story, just accept it as mine.) I assumed that if a sharpening stone could shear a blade, why couldn't a hammer dull it, so I began pounding the pot ... but to little effect. In fact, I think I somehow made it sharper ...

Alert to the potential danger, I informed my son not to wash that pot anymore, and also made a mental note to warn for my daughter. I also phoned my wife, but she didn't pick up, so I got resentful and decided to just let her cut herself, but then I decided to be big about it and shared the story last evening. (She didn't have much of a response, but I suspect she took it seriously; who wouldn't, after all?!)

Since yesterday I've been contemplating just why the rim has been reduced to that razor sharpness on one side. The logical theory, of course, was that 14 years of boiling water in that pot -- in particular, pouring that water into cups and bowls -- slowly ate away that top edge of the pot, like running water would smooth a stone over time ... However, there's one little problem with that theory: everyone in my family is right-handed, and therefore always pours the water to the left of the handle ... but it's the edge on the right that has become sharp!

I'm not entirely sure what the next step will be. I want that pot out of this house immediately, but wife (for some disturbingly curious reason I can't yet deduce, and believe me, my suspicion grows!) insists that we wait and don't do anything hasty ... Interestingly, I'm beginning to realize she's always been attached to that particular pot ... Very attached!

Meanwhile, that Nordic pot sits still, silently, in my dishrack at this very moment ... purporting to be innocent ... stealthily secluded 'neath the seemingly benign clutter of ceramic saucers and glass ... and waiting ... waiting ...

Russell Brand Is Sooooo Ugly!

2011-02-27T20:34:00.000-08:00

February 27, 2011: Well, judging by that colossal non-response to my last Blah-ugh! entry, I'm guessing I'll need to get up for work tomorrow morning. (Thanks for nothing, you @**#*/!'s ...) But that's okay. I'll be, if not a better man, certainly a bitter one, and this can only help with my bitter Blah-ugh! ramblings, which I heartily enjoy, even if you don't!

And on that note, my god, Russell Brand is sooooo ugly! I'm not sure who he is -- I guess some actor. (Please don't expect me to keep up with these things, for it's hard enough doing a Blah-ugh! entry every three days and my laundry every week, let alone following pointless current events!) But I just went to the IMDB website to see if Mr. Spielberg was making any progress on Jurassic Park IV, and that Frankensteinian face of his jumped out at me like a fright mask. (I literally had to duck away from my computer screen in fear.) Apparently he was at the Oscars, lurking about and grinning like a Jack O'Lantern. What's going on in America, I want to know, when we can let such an ugly man stalk the red carpet, looking like an underfed hatchet murderer in a tuxedo.

Speaking of bizarre looks, I was also dumbfounded to learn that Anne Hathaway hosted the awards. By what logic was she chosen for this? And while perhaps her "hosting" abilities may be somewhat stronger than her benign acting skills -- a benign feat itself, believe me -- it's hard to believe they couldn't have come up with at least 400 other more engaging personalities for that honor, even starting with Russell Brand (whoever he is).

Speaking of looks -- and please understand, I am certainly that shallow, as many of you know -- why can't more people look like Halle Berry -- men and women ... I almost wonder if she isn't some kind of android, as she seems to keep getting better looking each year (unlike Russell Brand, who'll probably go from Steven Tyler ugly to Crypt Keeper ugly by the end of this decade).

(NOTE: In an effort to keep these posts accurate and timely, I just now took the trouble of looking up Russell Brand -- (and I'll bet you didn't know he was a Gemini!) Apparently he's some kind of actor, although he must be of that character variety made popular by people like Peter Lorre and that ugly guy with the crooked teeth who was in Ghost, and always plays a homely man. I'll add that I was pleased to find him English, and could almost forgive him everything for that, but I fear ultimately -- and I hate to harp on it -- he's got to be one of the scariest looking individuals in our hemisphere.

Which is not to say I find Anne Hathaway much more attractive. In fact, she sort of looks like a CGI outtake -- wobbly, blown out features ... or perhaps like someone you'd see on a Pink Floyd album cover ...

Of course, even with her physical miscues, she's no Russell Brand ... God, that guy is sooooo ugly!

What Have You Done for Me (Jarret Liotta) Lately?!

2011-02-25T00:42:00.000-08:00

February 25, 2011: It's late February, and the time has again come to ask yourself, "What have I done for Jarret lately?"

No, it's not my birthday, nor do I presume to pay some kind of weird homage to Finnish actor Leo Golowin, who as you know was born on this day in 1903. Instead, I merely think that, owing to the uncanny wealth of wonderfully engaging words with which I selflessly provide you on an ongoing basis through this Blah-ugh! (and for free, mind you), it just seems (if you have any heart, or at least a modicum of shame) you might feel a festering motivation to help further the questionable cause of my sordid career by consciously spreading the word about ... well, me!

As you know, I'm still on the lookout for the right agent (meaning any agent) to represent my first novel, which currently waits in the vaults unfondled, and leaves the world without that opportunity to see just what sort of meandering madness I can squeeze out of my brain, given the space (and a clean spot to stand). Beyond that -- meaning beyond your forcefully pursuing any avenue available to you to get me in touch with some fool willing to champion my book -- I'd hope that (like E.J. and Shannon ... and possibly Matt, though I'm beginning to have my doubts about him) you're making some effort to spread the word about this wonderful (and free, mind you) Blah-ugh! you find populating your happier moments (and, let's be honest, where you find yourself identifying with many of mankind's grungiest thoughts and basest feelings as only I can recount them).

Please understand, I don't want you to feel that you're not doing enough for me simply by being a loyal reader, but I'd hope you would exhibit just a little guilt -- not a lot, but a little -- enough to motivate you to move this thing along toward its ultimate conclusion.

Well, I've said my piece. I can't promise not to talk about myself next time, but I'll certainly talk far less about you.

But once again, my darlings, thank you for lurking here ...

On Eyebrows and Butter

2011-02-22T03:27:00.000-08:00

February 22, 2011: I awoke this early morn with two ideas competing for my attention (and No, E.J., you weren't one of them ... this time!) -- 1) How the consumption of butter is greatly misunderstood and the population misguided on its value, and 2) How (and why) women mutilate their eyebrows.

I've long wondered why the waxing of eyebrows has been pushed to such a weird extreme. By and large, I think most women are much more attractive with eyebrows, and even large, full ones. Instead, it's become common practice for self-conscious girls to wax the shit out of their lids, and far too often it leaves them looking like swollen boxers who stayed too long in the ring.

I marvel at the waxing shops (or whatever they're called) and all the business they make mutilating in the name of fashion. And I marvel at how so many women (sadly) compete to look like other women who aren't that attractive to begin with, and only end up looking worse in the process.

I think my fascination with America's demented eyebrow treatment began with the mysterious popularity of Pamela Sue Anderson, who I long thought had the most awful eyebrows -- veritable pencil lines -- and who, if you take an objective look, actually bears a remarkably disturbing resemblance to the late female impersonator Divine. The slope has slipped since then. Today's beauty sell is asking too much, in my opinion. I want you girls to stop this immediately. I like my chicks to have eyebrows, and not look like Jake LaMotta.

Now, on the issue of butter, like you -- like the league of ladies that's been fooled into believing they need to butcher their eyebrows -- I've habitually taken for granted all the propaganda about clogged arteries and heart stoppage and such. But I'm here to say now -- right here! ... No, over here! ... That it's all lies (at least for me, and I'm no different than you, except my eyebrows may be thicker).

For starters, I've long been a proponent of -- (or is it correct to say "I've long proponentized"?) -- consuming foods according to your cravings (assuming you're eating more than just creampuffs and coffee). I think another great misconception we as a society suffer under (and believe me, when I see some of that awful eyebrow architecture, I do suffer) is a forced belief that some stringent common diet should be adhered to by everyone. Instead, diet should be as individual as our spiritual beliefs, and many of the most notorious food substances need not be shunned like women with bushy eyebrows.

Case in point, I've upped my butter consumption considerably over the past six months and I've never felt better. Ironically, my weight has stablized at a nice number and, even though I had some weird chest pains yesterday when I went walking in the snow, overall I feel terrific.

More importantly, food tastes light years better when substantial amounts of butter are added. My potatoes, pancakes, and cinnamon toast, for instance, all bring me much greater joy when drenched in beautiful butter, as do my eggs, grilled cheese sandwiches, and even my bacon.

In closing, I would like to say that the opinions expressed here were strictly those of the person who gave them. If you found any of this even remotely funny, please contact your local newspaper immediately and insist that they offer me a column, or at least a job in delivery. Otherwise, I hope you learned something of value, namely that every moment you waste reading this stupid Blah-ugh! is time that could be better spent rubbing butter on your eyebrows ... E.J.!

(Still More) Pointless Ruminations

2011-02-19T15:51:00.000-08:00

February 19, 2011: It's one of those ambivalent Blah-ugh! moments, wherein I don't know what to write about first -- should I bash movies, celebrities, bad drivers, my children ... The options seem endless, and therefore the impetus to focus on any one is that much more precarious.

Meanwhile, it's terrifically windy out, and cold. My moonlight beach walk was hastily aborted not an hour ago, in part because there was no full moon that I could see -- (not to say it wasn't there, but I live in a very exclusive town and you can't take anything for granted ... and I'm not even sure what that means, but there's got to be a joke in there somewhere!) -- but the weather, the whipping ice wind and such, sent me running back to my car before I could find the meditative solice I so sorely craved on this early Saturday evening.

Now I'm back at the soul-sucking blue screen, waxing clever (or at least waxing). My daughter's downstairs yelling like a little girl, and my wife is playing these strange happy folk songs on her computer radio, and somehow, from up here, they sound like some weird means of psychological torture -- bouncy songs about "freedom" and "old hats," they creep under my skin like the cold humidity of thawing February.

Weather is, by the way, a great topic to write about, and I keep meaning to address a number of important related items. I happen to be someone -- it often seems like the only someone -- who loves winter. My soul thrives in the solitude it presents, and I relish snow and nighttime fires, and reading Dickens (even though that always sounds dirty to me). But now's not the time for that; too many other things wrestling for my attention.

That brings me to the George Clooney movie I watched half of last night -- "The American." I was kind of enjoying it, though it seemed a bit heavy handed, until Clooney had to bear his naked butt and ruin everything. After that I felt like I was watching some kind of bonus softcore pornography footage you get for joining the George Clooney fan club, and I was riddled with discomfort and fear ... then later, George Clooney fantasies ...

Anyway, the point is, when are people going to stop telling me I look like George Clooney, and start telling him that he looks like me? And when is the thaw going to be complete, with its promises of spring and clover and drunken Irish. And when the Dickens is my wife going to stop blasting those weird moribund songs and put my Astrud Gilberto record back on?

Jarret's Practical Parenting Tips

2011-02-13T12:23:00.000-08:00

February 13, 2011: People -- stupid people -- often ask my advice on parenting issues. (Really stupid people ask me about fixing cars, but that's not too often.) Of course, having written a successful syndicated column on education and parenting issues for several years -- ("The Education Consumer." You may have missed it, but it's too late now!) -- I feel I'm ultimately as qualified as the next person to offer my opinions and insights on this topic (provided the next person is Harpo Marx).

To begin, I don't believe in hitting children, primarily because they can hit back. I find it's much better to do something sneaky and assault them when they're not looking. For example, my son was recently refusing to clean the cat's litter box, so rather than smack him outright, I waited until he was tying his shoe, then I threw the cat on his back. This got a reaction, you see, and he was able to make the connection that neglecting the cat can equate to pain. (At least I hope he made that connection; he can be so thick sometimes!)

I also find deprevation can serve a handy purpose, especially when it relates directly to the lesson a parent is trying to impart. For instance, my daughter was neglecting her violin practice in order to read some book. My clever solution -- in order to foster discipline and simultaneously spare us the resinous screech of horse hair on wire -- was to force her to watch television. She didn't want to watch, but after three or four shows, she got into the spirit, and I was able to get back to my nap time.

It's not easy being a parent, as most parents know, but the rewards are boundless. There are tax credits, for one thing, and if you like sweets, you can collect enough booty on one Halloween night to carry you through the winter months. Children also provide laughter, although this can be grating, especially when you're trying to read. I like to encourage my children to laugh, however, but mostly when they're at school or in the religious institution of one's choosing.

To summarize, there is no license needed to be a parent, but anyone who has a television screen in the back of their minivan should have theirs revoked. I like to consider my children my friends, and have even borrowed money from them on several occasions. A well-oiled house can be like a machine, provided there is discipline and cogs and wheels and, perhaps, a conveyor belt.

Remember, if you teach your children well, their parents' hell will be slow ... and sometimes painful.

Racitry vs. Bigotism: Which Makes Me Look Worse?

2011-02-07T05:53:00.000-08:00

February 7, 2011: A lot of people don't know this about me, but I have no use for African art. In these awkward modern times we live in, of course, I hesitate to mention it because one will automatically assume I'm being racist, but here at the Blah-ugh! we strive for honesty, and though there is no bigotry in operation -- for God's sake, some of my best friends are (or at least have been) black -- I hope my intelligent, liberal-minded and breathtakingly virile readers won't misinterpret my artwork opinions for broad hatred.

This, of course, begs the question of what exactly constitutes racism. (And I could even add a question mark there, but I'm choosing not to.) Is racial awareness -- noticing differences that are race-related -- racism? Obviously there's a dictionary definition out there to settle such a question, but I'm not really in the mood to look it up right now (and, frankly, I don't see you getting off your ass to do it!).

In "The Autobiography of Malcolm X" (which I actually read twice to prove I wasn't a racist -- once wearing a Pendleton shirt) the author (and, see, while it's billed as an "autobiography," it's kind of a pretend one, if we're going to be technical; I just don't want to later be accused of bending over backwards to appear non-racist by omitting such a detail, you see!) ... Hmmm. Now where was I? ... Oh yes! The author points out a very interesting second tier of racism, wherein the White Man (if you'll forgive the expression) constantly differentiates between the races, i.e., "My black friend" or "There's this black guy in my reading club," but for no other descriptive purpose. It's an interesting distinction, for really, in a perfect world, shouldn't we not even notice if people are a different color, like on Star Trek?

It goes farther, of course, because many people aren't even aware of doing it. I've long marveled at the politicians and Right-wing liberals (yes, I've just created such an anomalie) who extole the virtues of colored folk with references to their being so "articulate" (as if it's some marvel) and "dignified" (as if it's a surprise), and of course the capper -- forever referring to a black guy as being a "gentleman" (I guess because it's patronizingly safe) ...

But, hell, I'm no better (except in most other ways). I'm can't deny that the differences stand out to me. Sometimes I wish they didn't, but then I wouldn't have as much material to write about.

(Of course there's the opposite side to this coin, wherein if one more black guy calls me "Sir" -- which I always feel is sarcastic -- I'm gonna start smashing my Sam Cooke records ... No, I'd never do that!)

Anyway, I think you get my point. And interestingly, I really have no use for Native American art either, although I like their casinos.

Another Negative Critique

2011-02-04T20:45:00.000-08:00

February 4, 2011: Now that my readership is increasing exponentially -- and I don't say that to brag; in fact, I'm more embarrassed about it than anyone -- my duty to produce (Did I say "produce," when I meant "grind out?") ongoing installments in this intellectual and moral morass I call my Blah-ugh! increases exponentially as well. (I know you people don't mean to pressure me, but clearly you do, and for that, I simultaneously love and despise you {which is not to say I wouldn't help you change a tire if it came down to that}.)

Anyway, I'm reminded how much easier it is to write about things that are bothering me, versus things I'm happy about. I may have once, perhaps a year ago, done an installment on the things I was grateful for, but I don't think it got me any new readers, nor a literary agent, nor any dates ... (In fact, the more I think of it, it might be prudent to go back and delete that entry and steer my full attention toward this bilious course that combines churlish criticisms and petty hostility; it seems to be what the public wants -- (at least my public -- this gaggle of jellybeans which seems to grow like a festering goiter).

But here, look at all these tangents I'm creating (as evidenced by my almost foolhardy use of excessive parentheses). I'd hoped to keep my point focused, like a dart, or an Englishman's nose, and instead I'm dissipating without even the tawdry pleasure of consuming alcohol.

What I wanted to discuss was how much easier -- more pleasurable and bountiful -- it is to write negatively. And don't we experience that in all aspects of our daily lives -- the joy of waxing negative? How often do we wander across an acquaintance at work, and before long there seems nothing else to talk about but something negative; if it's not criticizing an incompetent coworker or bemoaning our squalid working conditions, we bash the weather for all the wrongs its doing to us. We roil and rejoice in our roiling, like so many sick salamanders, or a Christian missionary.

But it seems to keep working, so I won't be the one to start criticizing it. Hell, I'm just happy to see my numbers increase. Maybe one day all this silly complaining will result in meaning (for me, I mean).

At the end of the day -- and please take this in the fond communal spirit in which it's intended -- it's really just all about me!

Welcome To My World (Far From Egypt)

2011-02-01T18:55:00.000-08:00

February 1, 2011: Is something happening in Egypt? Honestly, I don't know ... Nor do I want to.

You see, I learned -- taught myself, perhaps -- after the awful anxiety that stirred after 9/11 -- that I had nothing to gain by following the news. It's ironic, because at the time I was writing the news. Still, it made no sense to let my fragile, feather-like emotions (and please understand, they are feather-like) be swayed and slapped and sometimes throttled by the roller coaster rides that are -- at least for me -- prompted by current events.

Today at work -- (Yes, I work! Why is that so funny?! Not all of us have George Clooney's money, even if we're blessed with his brand of dashing good looks) -- a woman was innocently (and honestly) professing to know nothing about what was happening there (in Egypt), but certainly alarmed by all the media attention. She kept looking at me, as if I had some answer, and even the woman who soundly, succinctly summarized the situation for her, then looked to me and said, "Is that about right?" (I merely shrugged and tried to look more like George Clooney; then I spent the rest of the time ruminating on what awful traits I project that make people think I'm authoritative.)

To my credit, I listened to her intelligent explanation and I still don't know what's going on. Nor do I see any good in finding out. When all is said and done, my only real concerns (at least insofar as news information can provide relief or guidance) involve swarms of Arabs (or Egyptians -- honestly, I'm not even sure anymore if they're the same thing!) mounting some kind of offensive that targets my house. If this is the case -- if a large group (or even a small group, really) of Egyptians come riding up my street on Arabian horses wielding those big Ali Baba-type of cutlasses, then I want to know before it happens -- hopefully at least an hour before -- and then I'll take action (which will mostly involve fleeing, with perhaps a bit of screaming).

People will -- and probably often do, behind my back (My god, they do everything behind my back) -- say that I'm neglecting my responsibilities, or ignoring "reality" (and see, I put it in quotes, to emphasize its subjective nature), ... but the truth is I'm merely keeping myself happy, and rest assured, that is no small task, as anyone who's modestly acquainted with me can attest. You see, my fragile psyche is already overstuffed with terrible thoughts and terrors that constantly compete to get the upper hand in depressing me or working me into one lather or another. I don't need any outside help to make the situation (meaning my brain) more turbulent. It does just fine without media input.

Finally, on a related note, from no direct connection I don't think, several times this week I've found myself singing "Walk Like An Egyptian" in the shower. And I sound great, really. I'm even doing the back-up vocals at the same time, and that's not easy.

So don't tell me I'm not involved with world affairs.

Good Grief! Still More on Toilets

2011-01-30T16:07:00.000-08:00

January 30, 2011: Blah-ugh! ideas can either fall from the sky, or crawl wretchedly from the shallow depths of one's toilet. You judge where the Muse really dwells ...

Tonight, moved to get another one of these rambling posts into the ether (or out upon the microwaves ... Whatever it is; I'm not Al Gore!), I was pleasantly surprised to get a welcome dose of that muse-manipulated magic to guide me right. For, you see, as I climbed my stairs -- literally moments before I would get to my keyboard -- my no-good son Max bellowed out that he'd fatuously dropped the toenail clipper into the toilet bowl.

Eureka! I thought. This is divine inspiration!

You see, as many new people are drawn to my Blah-ugh!, like so many mealy little European cockroaches attracted to a low-class German bakery (and I don't mean that in any derogatory way, I hope you understand), I'm compelled -- I feel it's my duty, really -- to start repeating myself in order to enlighten all the newcomers to the divine novelty of my meaningless insights and opinions. I only have so many, after all (for as I mentioned, I'm not Al Gore), but these few are important and well worth regurgitating.

So this is -- or at least would have been -- the ideal intro to talk at length about my toilet-related theories, experiences and ideas ...

But, y'know, I'm really, really hungry, and while I've explained in past Blah-ughs! how vital physical hunger can be to the creative process, there's only so much I'm willing to do to please you people. (Selfish cads!) So expect the rest of this finished soon ... or pretty soon. I just -- having paused in my prose -- mashed a large pot of potatoes, and they grow cold as I write ...

So stay tuned ... and, as always, thanks for reading!

By The Way ...

2011-01-28T18:55:00.000-08:00

January 28, 2011: There are many things competing for attention in my brain this frosty evening -- favorite Lulu songs, Freecell, Lord Voldemort, Chinese food, images of nude women ... -- and yet, at the end of the day, isn't it always about the nude women!?

Actually, I'm being glib, because that's what I do. You see, I'm trying to make you laugh, and that's why I'm so unsuccessful at it. I try too hard. But then why shouldn't I? You aren't trying at all.

You see, my point is a subtle one, meaning I'm not even sure what it is. I mean, I know there's a point in there somewhere, but couldn't it just as well be a line, or a ray, or perhaps some three-dimensional geometric shape too complicated to name.

And speaking of names, when was the last time you wrote your mother? When was the last time you wrote my mother, or even phoned her. (And she's dead, by the way, so I hope you reversed the charges.)

And speaking of my mother, what of Lord Voldemort? For one thing, he doesn't have a nose, which is part of why it's so hard for him to get dates. Of course, having a nose, I'm not sure why it's so hard for me to get dates, except I'm married, and a lot of women consider that a red flag about committment.

And speaking of committment, am I ever going to figure out how to spell it correctly? No, probably not. If I were serious about committment, I'd look it up, but I'm too lazy. Which is why if the Dark Lord ever comes back, don't count on me to be much help.

And speaking of help, it's amazing how nice some people are about the excessive snowfalls, while others are veritable monsters. My neighbor across the street is a saint, and actually helped clear my driveway last week. Much to my consternation, he failed to clear it yesterday, so I knocked over his mailbox. But what was worse, some guy came along with a power blower and asked for $30 to clear my driveway, and after I'd already shoveled most of it. I told him to shove off, and thought of that poigniant (I know I misspelled it!) line from H.G. Wells, wherein he references a gross mingling of panic-filled disaster and profit. (I intended to point this out to the gentleman, but by then he was four houses down telling my neighbor what a cheapskate I was.)

Dear Jarret ...

2011-01-24T19:56:00.000-08:00

January 24, 2011: A large part of my experience as a columnist involves the myriad letters I receive from fans (and the periodic foe). While many are mere complimentary lauds (with the occasional offer to create a baby), some include very real and serious cries for help in the form of patronly advice, guidance, and intolerant criticism. Those are the ones that strike most soundly against the harpsichord of my heart.

In an effort to share experience, strength and hope, though not necessarily in that order, I thought it might be of value to include a few of the more choice letters here, along with some of my own homespun advice, for everyone's benefit, (although certainly not mine) ...

Dear Jarret:

I am in love with a woman, but she doesn't seem to know I exist. What should I do?

Signed, Scoliosis

Dear Scoliosis,

You DON'T exist, so stop trying to pretend that you do!

Dear Jarret,

Recently I've started experiencing significant pains in my joints, as well as swelling and inflammation. I've also found my equilibrium seriously impaired. Do you have any idea what's wrong with me?

Worried

Dear Worried,

You probably have Lyme Disease, and I can't help you. You can thank the government for it, and in the future, please don't send me anything that hasn't been properly sanitized.

Dear Mr. Liotta:

I've often long thought myself to be quite a good writer, not unlike yourself. What, in your humble opinions, are the best ways for me to proceed myself by in fact actually trying to become such a writer as yourself has turned out to be.

Sincerely, Dr. Longfellow

Dear Dr. Longfellow,

You obviously don't need MY help, so leave me alone.

Dear Mr. Liotta,

I've been struggling with finding a job since the economy turned belly-up. Any advice on how I should proceed?

Unemployed

Dear Unemployed,

Just try and get a job. I mean, I don't know how to make it any simpler.

Dear Jarret,

I'm feeling hopeless and despondent. I guess my self-esteem is so low that I feel, in order for my boyfriend to like me, I have to subject myself to degrading sexual acts to please him. What should I do?

Signed, Anything For Love

Dear Anything,

I think we need to meet in person so I can give your situation a much closer look. Please be sure to wear a skirt and no underwear ...

"Walking Through (the) Illusion" of Otter Writers

2011-01-16T11:26:00.000-08:00

January 16, 2011: I'm hungry ... Which is in fact my best time to write. I invariably find that once I eat, the manic energy that serves me so well in the creative/craft process is soundly stilled once I eat, like the orange hot coals I pour water on late at night when it's time to kill the fire ...

So here I write, and on a vague whim, I thought I would finally give this Betsy Otter Thompson person a book review I said I might consider doing.

Now, for starters, you loyal readers know all-too-well that mine is not the kind of Blah-ugh! that reviews books, or does anything with any leaning toward seriousness, or anything to aid the community, or others. All in all, let's face it, it's really a shitty waste of time -- time that would be better spent by all of us picking up litter. So imagine my surprise when this madwoman sends me an email asking that I review her stupid book "Walking Through Illusion." I was at once flattered and incredibly annoyed. You see, as many of you know, I not only dread and fear my public -- Can you blame me? -- but I HATE (and here, see, I'm capitalizing the letters to emphasize my hate-ness) hate hate hate to be asked to read anything. I can't really explain why, but I just do. While I love to read overall, somehow anytime anyone specifically asks me to read something, it immediately becomes this awful, painful impossible-to-overcome burden. Perhaps it's a holdover from grammar school, where I was never a very motivated reader and basically experienced all reading as a reprehensible chore ...

So, that said, to Thompson's book ...

First off, you should know that I haven't read it, but I don't see where that doesn't qualify me to do a sound review -- probably one of more value than you'd find in any of those hack publications, like The NY Times. The crux of the book (or should I say calix, or crucifix, or some other quasi-religious pun I haven't the energy to create) is a Q & A with Jesus. (Yes, Jesus! Hay-sus Christy, as he's often referred to by some, and the Dark Lord, by others!) Anyway, this Thompson person has creatively concocted a sort of interview with the Big Cheese. (Well, then why don't you ask HIM to review it, huh honey?) It's broken into practical chapters that address spiritual topics, like Truth and Confusion. And it's got a lovely cover with a sort of orangey-yellow explosion.

The best thing I could say about this book, I'm sure, is that it's relatively short, and seemingly concise. If I know Jesus, he's a man of simple ideas, despite his long-windedness, and in her interviews Thompson seems to have kept his (or should I say His? Well, I won't!) inane rambling to a minimum. (Everyone knows Jesus tends to go off on tangents when he's interviewed.) All told, if you're even vaguely interested in things like Jesus and spiritual crap, this may be the book for you, but certainly don't blame me if it isn't; after all, I got my copy for free!

On a serious note (yeah, right), I must commend Thompson for even writing a book. Most of us just sit around on our asses sending text messages and masturbating to reality shows. But those brave, committed few -- meaning people like me -- devote their time to trying to make the world a better place through their writing. And while Thompson can't write anything like I can -- who, after all, could come close? -- I send her kudos in the form of this review.

Meanwhile, speaking of writing, you all should know that my second novel is complete. It's called "The Space Case," and it's the humorous story of a tweeked 30-something whose biological clock is winding down, and the outer space alien with whom she begins a very unusual relationship ... No. No, I'm not kidding!

Now, who the hell's going to review MY book?!!

Who Cuts The Hair of the Right Wing?

2011-01-10T19:13:00.000-08:00

January 10, 2011: Yes, happy new year, and another entry to stir your imagination, fire your cauldron, ease your temperament, and temper your easement.

The fact is, I'm disheartened with America right now. And who can blame me?! Doesn't the behavior of fascistic Right Wing fanatics simply make you want to scream. (If I were a fascistic Right Winger, of course, the line would have included something about going on a rampage and shooting them, but you see, we artist-types aren't like that, and that's why we're so much better! Yes, soooooooooo much better!!!)

Anyway, as this is a satirical column, despite my trouble with the spelling of words like satirical, I wanted to focus on the levity. And what could possibly be of stronger humor than the haircuts and hairstyles of those very Right Wingers we so detest and fear and yet tolerate (largely because we fear they'll start shooting if we don't try and appease them). No joke -- (and you see here I get very, very serious) -- why do Right Wing Republicans (or whatever the hell they are!) have just the worst hairstyles in America. The men all look like traveling tent preachers, or college football coaches, or 1970s country singers, and the women all look like Middle American Waffle House waitresses, or 1930s telephone operators, or 1970s country singers ...

You'd think the brain trusters who create their cantankerous (and you see, here I can't spell that either) and vitriolic (I think that one's right) media blitzes would devote at least a portion of their think-tanking to hair. Don't these people know how ridiculous they look? And that's how they're so easy to spot! One doesn't have to be subjected to their churlish brand of fear-based hysterics to know that this or that person in that element is a bona fide lunatic. All you have to do is see that hair!

Sunday's Monday Charlie Brown

2010-12-19T19:41:00.001-08:00

December 19, 2010: This is probably a good time to create an entry, as I've spent nearly the whole day lying at my computer and can use any new reason to keep from getting up. You see, I've been sick all weekend, and while I've found some solace in listening to football on the radio and playing at least 40 games of Freecell, my neck is starting to hurt and my body is telling me, "Arise, you fool. Arise and walk tonight!" (My body often speaks in the romantic jingo of an 18th century gentleman.)

Perhaps the first thing I should clarify is that my computer is on the ground, where I like it. I write lying down and, perhaps more often these days, I play Freecell lying down. I discovered the joy of this arrangement several years ago while in L.A., though it has nothing to do with L.A., except it sounds like it would, like it was something my cult leader recommended or something. Actually, it was ongoing back pain that motivated the innovation, and while my back is in much better shape these days, I still enjoy settling onto my stomach for some concentrated writing work, Freecell, or online pornography exploration. When I'm not out walking, scolding my children or reading Peanuts books in bed, this is where you'll find me.

Now, without going into too much detail, I am sick, and I can honestly say my mind isn't working as keenly as it often does. Further, a woman at work told me I looked "green," and while it's my favorite color, somehow it doesn't look good as my skin color. I can't exactly say what's wrong -- in fact, I really, really hate being asked what's wrong, i.e., "Do you have the flu?" I mean, how the f*** should I know. I don't go to doctors, because they'll just tell you anything to keep you quiet. I much prefer to suffer through my horrendous symptoms to spite them. I've got my pride, after all, and if I'm going to be sick, I intend to do it on my terms.

That aside, I want to be clear that I hate the New England Patriots -- a reprehensible team with a dour maggot of a coach and a dirty no-good liar for an owner. I'm also one of the few who remembers Boston's history of athletic racism, and being Sicilian I don't intend to forget it. Nor do I forgive the Irish for all the wrongs they've done us, despite how attractive I find their women, although the men all look like leprechauns. I'm not sure what my point was, except I think we need to remain wary about the whole New England region, which contains many Protestants, as well as people who drive pickup trucks.

By the way, did you know I hate Sunday, almost as much as I hate the Patriots. It depresses me immensely for reasons I won't bother recounting here. I just know Sunday will always be the same old Monday of sorts, but Monday is really more invigorating to me and happier than Sunday could ever be. That's part of why I'm depressed, but only part.

The bottom line is I can't decide what else I can eat tonight to try and fill my gaping God-shaped hole of emptiness, which is merely deepened by it being Sunday, by the Patriots' failure to lose more often, by the ongoing use of those annoying accents near Boston way, by my wretched neck and vague incontinence ... and more.

But I didn't want to make this a negative entry. Christmas is coming, after all, and the goose is indeed getting fat. Let's try and remember that ...

More on Christmas Music

2010-11-27T15:07:00.001-08:00

November 27, 2010: Gosh, there are so many things I want to talk about, but right now all I can think of is this amazing version of "Go Tell It On The Mountain" I just heard Jim Nabors singing ...

It's odd, for I've heard it many, many times, but I never knew it was him. I thought it was some old baritone black guy, in fact -- "Old Man River" kind of thing. But, no, this was Gomer Pyle. My God! I'm flabbergasted ...

On that note, it's great to have my Christmas music going once again. Johnny Mathis, of course, remains my favorite, but others continue to grow in importance -- the Beach Boys, for instance, and now Jim Nabors! (Actually, the Jim Nabors is off of this old Columbia House two-record album I've carried around since my childhood -- "The Best-Loved Music of Christmas" -- and am now happily playing again and again with that great turntable I got at Target. (You dedicated readers may remember something about this turntable from past entries; I hope you do, because I don't, but I know I said something -- probably something angry.) The records are all scorched and scratched, but that's not stopping me from playing them over and over. (Several of the tracks skip so much, they only last about six seconds, but it's all lovely music to my season-starved ears.)

Isn't it nice to know what you like, and what makes you happy? More accurately, isn't it nice that I know?!

I think I also praised Celine Dion last year as well, although that might have just been in an email to Lindsay. She somehow looks like her to me, although I only wish she had her money, then we'd be closer friends. But I digress. And Lindsay, as you're one of the only people who ever reads this, it won't do me good to offend you, certainly not before Christmas! (I won't make any promises for what I may or may not do after the new year.)

On a parallel note, I can't for the life of me understand why it's so hard for me to memorize Christmas lyrics. I'm something of a musician/singer after all, as many of you know, and fewer of you care. Certainly the catalogue of my brain contains literally hundreds of songs that I know the words to, backwards and forwards ... But despite my annual over-indulgence in holiday tunes, I can't ever seem to retain but the most rudimentary parts of most of the songs. Why, I even go to Midnight Mass some years just to sing along, but I never know the words. Instead, I often have to phonetically fake them, like the singers in Abba, or Celine Dion.

Did you know that every year (for at least the past 20) I buy at least one new X-mas album? (For that matter, did you know I keep my underwear in the vegetable crisper?) This year I have my sites set on finding a good Robert Goulet compilation. There are two of his numbers on this record, and he's just a champ. He does this one called "Penis Angelicus" that's just remarkable, and not at all dirty, as the title might suggest.

Last year ... or was it the year before ... I went to see a whole choral production of the Hallelujah Choir. (It's called something -- the whole piece -- but I can't remember what. The Epistle? The Stovepipe? Something-or-other! I think it's by Handel ... or Handle, who came centuries later ... ) Anyway, they had this castrato singing, and it was remarkably embarrassing! He was beyond woman's-voice high, he was like a chipmunk, and we all had to sit there trying not to laugh, and if you closed your eyes he sounded like Ethel Merman hitting high notes ... But I just can't remember what that thing was called ... The Mendelsohn! Something like that ...

Anyway, I like Christmas music, even though I'm Jewish. That's the good thing about being the kind of Jew I am -- I don't take Hanukkah all seriously, like Sammy Davis Jr.

Thing One & Thing Two

2010-10-30T09:21:00.000-07:00

October 30, 2010: Two things are on my mind this morning, and so in an effort to clear my mind and get back to something important (like fantasizing about naked women), I want to dump them here and move on with my life.

The first involves the dictionary, or at least the stupid "pocket" paperback dictionary I have. Per se, there's nothing wrong with it -- American Heritage is a fine company, I'm sure, and it has more than served my purpose for the 10 years or so I've owned it. What I find so terribly annoying, however, is the fact that they include so many strange and irrelevant entries, but leave out so many others -- in particular people.

For starters, who the fuck is Margeret Bourke-White? Does anyone know, and do those who know really care? Yet this weird little dictionary feels compelled to include a picture of her and everything. James Boswell gets an entry on the same page, although sans picture. What makes him so special? He never won a Super Bowl. (And by the way, couldn't they have done us all a favor and left out Joyce Carol Oates' picture instead; she looks like a disturbed owl who snuck into the medicine cabinet.)

Saint Theresa also gets a picture, but there's no entry for Deepak Chopra, or Sid Barrett for that matter! I can see Winston Churchill making the cut, but why James Baldwin? Is it just because he's black? Then where's John Amos?? Or Sinbad?? Or even Harry Belafonte, who's both white and black. Equality is one thing, but I call that an embarrassing double standard? (Yes, Lena Horne is there, but her picture makes her look like a Jack O'Lantern.)

Toni Morrison is there too. (How many black writers do we need to equal equity? And I even like her!) Yet there's no entry for Truman Capote or Jack Kerouac. I mean, What the fuck?!! And I don't mean to harp on race. It's just that it's a great source of comic material.

On the whiter side, who the hell (except perhaps Lindsay) cares about Thomas Cranmer, the English Archbishop of Canterbury from 1533 to 1553. Seriously, isn't this just a tad ridiculous??!! (I mean, come on Lindsay!)

Locations are another mystery. Who the hell needs to know, especially in this limited paperback edition, that Swansea is a borough of South Wales, or that Bursa is a city in northwest Turkey?

Anyway, you get the point I hope. (Don't make me drum it into your head, like I would if you were a panda bear.) Instead, let me move on to the second item, which involves knowing what the world is up to.

I'll need to explain this in detail, but you see I've become exhausted, and so can't. I'll have to try another time, because it's important ... but I guess not that important ...

Well, okay, to be perfectly honest, none of this is really that important, is it ...

Thanks for listening!

At The Theater ... (or was it a "Theatre"?)

2010-10-21T19:27:00.000-07:00

October 21, 2010: Seeing my friend Terry tonight -- and I hope you understand that my only friends are the people who've already subscribed to this Blah-ugh!, so don't try and get in my good graces now, you other bastards -- moved me to drum up the energy to do another entry. (Yeah, yeah. Big deal!)

Anyway, I wanted to tell you about my experience last Saturday going to the theater. It was a fair production of the Diary of Anne Frank, and I commend the set designer, director and actors for a good job before what I found to be an embarassing (I never remember how to spell that word!) audience of morons. (I say this because I was amazed at the large number of people who were secretly snacking and drinking from water bottles throughout the show. It was appalling and depressing to see yet another example of thoughtless, self-centered Americans in action.)

But I digress. What I really wanted to comment on was how much I hate the theater. It's taken me some time to realize this, but I finally have decided that the anxiety I experience in watching a live show is simply too much for me to endure, and why I ever put myself in the position of having to sit in a seat for two-and-a-half hours staring at a bunch of people making spectacles of themselves, I just can't tell you.

The main reason for my discontent ties directly to my core issues. You see, I'm literally unable to watch a show without constantly worrying whether the actor is going to blow his line, or whether she's going to lose her character in the middle of a moment, or whether someone in the audience is going to be so disruptive that the actor turns their head, or whether the whole set is just going to fall down, or whether one actor is going to drop a prop, or another step on someone's foot, or snag his shoe on the curtain ...

Can you imagine, it's so absolutely impossible for me to relax and be entertained when I'm perpetually charged with the terrible responsibility of having to keep the whole world together in one piece through my mental and emotional body English.

You can imagine how depressing the Anne Frank play was to begin with -- I mean, who needs to go and sit through that?! It would have been far more enriching to masturbate myself into a coma-like sleep for two hours. But not only was I forced to suffer the sympathetic pains of Nazi Germany, I had to sit there with the further worries of whether or not this play would come off without a hitch.

(And now, as if things aren't bad enough for this poor suffering soul, I think I just inhaled a bug as I was typing furiously. Terrific!)

Now excuse me, as I've got to go and cough for an hour to try and expel this thing ...

I'll Jog Tomorrow

2010-10-14T14:35:00.000-07:00

October 14, 2010: Well, I've just come back from an invigorating jog around town, and even though I'll probably develop a rash if I don't shower presently, I wanted to take a moment to file my latest report.

You see, as I jogged by the river and became aware of the Christmas lights they keep in the trees year-round, it suddenly occurred to me that Jews should really get more into the spirit of Christmas.

Now you understand, I'm half Jewish, so I'm very comfortable bashing the whole race and stereotyping. (You'll also remember how vigorously I worked to try and ban the Nazi flag in Connecticut -- an effort I abandoned when I saw how the least amount of support came from the Jewish community, including the Anti-Defamation League (lousy Jews!).

No, but I jest. I jest because I love. And I also know that my tiny Blah-ugh! readership is solely composed of three anti-Semites, so it really doesn't matter what I write.

The point is, however, that these lovely white lights are just that, and while all the associations for me stem from picturesque homespun Christmas celebrations in my youth -- (Who am I kidding? My parents were drunk half the time!) -- I don't really see what difference it makes what religious holiday we're celebrating, as long as the lights are pretty. I myself could care less about Jesus (if that is his real name!). He means little to me, except he always looks so depressed in those church pictures. Mind you, I have nothing against him as Messiahs go, I only think he gets too much superfluous media attention, especially around the holidays.

All of this reminds me that Halloween is coming, and as you know I vehemently subscribe to the belief that it's really our most social holiday. (See last year's entry if you don't believe me ... you lousy skeptics!) People are even getting into the spirit with orange lights in recent years, and who can say anything bad about that. And the leaves are changing, as do the seasons, and so do I, and you need not wonder why.

I'm starting to itch now, so I've got to go. Try to keep an open mind as Halloween approaches this year, especially if you're Jewish or some extreme Christian who poo-poos the lessons demon worship can teach you.

Call to Yarns

2010-09-27T07:25:00.000-07:00

September 27, 2010: It's been a dreadful summer, but I'm not one to complain ... Well, actually I complain a lot, but I'm well aware that no one listens. And you see, that's what makes me wise.

Which is why I've devoted so little time to this silly Blah-ugh! I do most of my complaining in the shower now, and I listen intently. (I try not to comment or give advice, but I nod a lot while I'm speaking and go, "Mmm." It's not always the most satisfying venue for sharing my pains, disillusionment and discoveries, but at worst I end up with cleaner hair.)

The point is -- if ever there was one -- I've actually had the nerve to mention this failed (or forever failing) venture to two different people this week (mainly as a means of bragging and sounding technologically advanced), so I felt obligated -- remember, this has always been about you all, and not my pathological need to be heard -- to offer some new spins on life and all that it means to me today ... just today ... for tomorrow I'm back to spending my time watching television.

That said, I'm again at a loss. All I can think about at the moment is that some dumb bunny in my house bought one of those ridiculous soap dispensers that squirts the soap out. And lo and behold, it did just that all over my working clothes when I raced home just now to use the bathroom. And it couldn't have been targeted more inappropriately at the front of my pants -- let me say no more! And I'm still fretting, crouched at a computer console, over whether it will ever dry before I encounter anyone walking in the hall and they look at me in shocked disbelief ... And to top it all off, the cream-colored crap that splattered me doesn't even smell like anjou pear, as the bottle claimed, but more like sour apples! Bastards!

So, anyway, with that going on, how I can free any concentration to address the myriad social and political issues plaguing mankind at this moment?! I can't, and that's why, if it serves as nothing else, this entry should be yet another reminder that there's nothing to gain by investing your time reading this glib tripe. Your hours will be better spent focusing on how you can safely and practically dispense soap in your home. That's important! My sharp, witty rambling -- cute, coy and cloying as they may be -- are not ...

But keep reading anyway!

Jarret's Frank Film Forum: The Godfather(s)

2010-06-21T10:59:00.000-07:00

June 21, 2010: I'm nearly through the three Godfather movies ... again ... and I'm alive (or awash) with lots of clever -- No, correct that! -- a handful of observations. (I don't want to promise anything I can't deliver.)

For starters, what I think most people fail to realize, or perhaps accept, is that the script itself is not that good. Well, certainly it has its moments, its clever lines, etc. And mind you, I love the films (certainly the first two). But I've watched that first movie 20 times at least, and for the life of me I still can't see any difference between Barzini and Tatalia, and I can't figure out what it is they do, or who double-crosses who, nor can I even pick them out from amongst the cast in the film. It's really weird, but so much drama seems to rest on it, and when Vito finally says, while driving in the car, that it was "Barzini all along," and the music dips dramatic, again and again I find myself befuddled by what it is that I'm supposed to care about.

That said, what really makes these movies, in my estimation, is the cinematography, which is brilliant and powerful, and I'll quickly add that the set designing (and costumes) are close behind. Cheers to Gordon Willis, who really demonstrates how important that art is to film, and credit to Coppola for being smart enough to work with him.

The acting, of course, is pretty good too, except I've come to have less and less respect for the craft of acting, because I think it's a lot easier to do it well than people realize, especially on film. There's a great quote from Richard Dreyfuss, which I love so much, I actually bothered to look it up and include here: He said, "I don't think film acting is necessarily a triumph of technique. Film stardom is a friendship that happens between an audience and a performer. It's like you meet someone and you click with that person for whatever reason." Brilliant, and refreshingly honest. (And Dreyfuss rules, of course!) Of course, we love all the principals in this cast, and that's that. I know I'm willing to forgive Brando for using cue cards, Duvall for being bald, etc.

But God, I'm being so drearily serious about this. I really thought this would be a great opportunity to rip into Godfather III and garner some great laughs at the expense of Sophia Coppola. (My God, that girl is unattractive, and I'm sorry to have to say it, but somebody needs to. And to watch her in love scenes with the dashing Andy Garcia is not far from the bizarre juxtaposed spectacle of seeing a handsome male guest star flirting with Miss Piggy on the Muppet Show.

I saw Godfather III only once before, and I was amazed at how awful it was. Much to my surprise, this time I'm enjoying it much more and even see some merit there (although not much, I'm afraid, for the better part of it is residual ... But see how much I've grown in my acceptance and tolerance.)

But the director's daughter aside -- and she's really not that bad an actor, if I'm to be fair -- the film has some moments that are such painful parodies of the first two movies, it's ridiculous. Clearly Francis and company have read too much historic material on the first two movies, and included a lot of embarrassing regurgitations, references and such. ("Never tell anyone what you're thinking," Michael tells Vinnie, paraphrasing (or should I say mis-paraphrasing his father from the first film, and just sounding stupid in the process). Oh Please Francis!

And Pacino, who had such a personality in the first two movies, dreadfully falls back on his later-life acting method (complete with the raspy Devil's Advocate delivery), and chews the scenery beyond all recognition when he has his diabetes-induced attack in the kitchen. I found myself laughing outloud in hysterics at this "dramatic" scene.

And what the hell's with Connie. My god, she looks like the winner of an Anne Rice lookalike contest. And how about Joe (The Simpsons' Fat Tony) Montagne, and his wooden, over-articulated play at Joey Zsaza (or is it Zahzah? ... or Zaa Zaa?) Oh Please Please!! (Duvall was no fool to miss #3.)

But at the end of the day, the package is so terrific -- nine hours of the family we love! Such fun and voyeuristic feasting. One only wishes they'd made it into a TV series when the cast was still young. Kudos to all of them. Yay Mario Puzo, you fat guinea hack! My people will be forever grateful to you! Ciao!

Political Notebook #1 (Why Do So Many Republicans Look Like Nazis?)

2010-06-04T05:09:00.000-07:00

June 4, 2010: As many of you know -- well, I'd hope that all of you knew -- I've refrained from sharing my varied opinions on political matters. It's not that I don't have them, you have to understand, but I just feel that religion, sex and politics are too sensitive to explore in this vaguely impersonal medium. And while I like to write constantly about sex and religion, bashing both of course, heretofore my political observations have been suspiciously absent.

But a news article I saw on the GOP candidate for Connecticut's 4th District congressional seat -- "Dan" Debicella of Shelton -- prompted me to say something. Now please understand, I didn't really read the article, but I read enough of it to become thoroughly annoyed. (Three paragraphs, actually, and this is more newspaper reading than I usually do in a week!) Also, there was a picture of "Dan," and this alone was enough to prompt a whole essay speaking out against him. (Why do so many Republicans look like Nazis?)

The point is -- you see, I don't want to just make fun of his picture, because that would be too easy -- he describes himself as "being in the mold of President Ronald Reagan," according to the article. Now I came of age in the Reagan era, and through the 1980s I was a fervent student of American politics and government. Back then I devoured newspapers and news magazines, and could name you all the players in the Reagan administration and what their most detestable traits and crimes against humanity were. I also followed with shock and depression all the awful things that that administration orchestrated, the negative ripples of which are still felt to this day. And when the Iran-Contra scandal broke -- and isn't it AMAZING how many people have forgotten about that, or never even thought about George Bush's role in it -- I sat and watched with awe as this madman (Reagan) wasn't impeached for his crimes. (No, instead they named an airport after him, put him on a stamp, and continue to hail him as some great leader of white men.)

To me, Debicella's association is not much better than saying he's modeled his politics after Nixon's, or George Wallace's, and to see his dark-eyed kisser in the paper, his mouth agape in Republican wonder, it simply weirds me out. I thought the country had outgrown these kind of people. I thought we were on a road to enlightenment, where the public could not longer be fooled by vague, meaningless mottos lauding "less government," and I thought as such a supposedly educated nation, history would have given us the clarity to see what the Reagan administration was about, why it was evil, and why the Republican party truly is the party of greed, denial, short-sightedness and ... well, stupidity.

Now I'm not saying the Democrats don't have their faults. Incumbent U.S. Rep. Jim Himes seems like a nice man -- he's had the opportunity to chat with me and appeared to really enjoy himself, which obviously says alot about him -- but who knows what ugly skeletons he keeps hidden in his closets. (I think we're all pretty sure that his former company, Goldman Sachs, is its own evil empire, and of course I'm always wary of so-called "nice" people, because they often either want to borrow money or saw you sit on something dirty, like gum, and are gaining pleasure at your unwitting expense.) I don't mean to infer that Himes is the type of candidate who'd actually put gum on your seat, but who really knows? Still, when it's a case of the lesser of two evils, how can you chose someone who looks (and perhaps even thinks) like a Nazi over someone who's nice and probably likes animals.

My point is that those who don't remember the past elected idiots are condemned to screw the rest of us up by electing more of the same. Please, on behalf of thinking men and women everywhere, STOP THAT!

The Fear Is Real

2010-05-20T02:46:00.000-07:00

May 20, 2010: Let's start, while I remember, to note that those little shit heel manipulators at Haagen-Daz have done their part to help mind screw us all, just like the Chapstick people I so eloquently blasted in a previous entry. (If I wasn't so tired, I'd bother to look up the date and title, and reference it, but I'm hoping you'll help a little with this effort by looking for it yourself.)

You probably haven't noticed that, what was once their standard "pint" of ice cream is no longer that. Without any word, that sneaky little bunch of Scandanavian bastards markedly reduced the size of their ice creams containers, roughly from 475 fluid ounces to 410. Now you weren't likely to notice this because, OF COURSE, the price wasn't reduced. Luckily a sensitive consumer (meaning ME) who periodically devotes long, thoughtful moments to studying the Haagen-Daz and Ben & Jerry's offerings at the local market, caught this, and has since vowed to never buy their shitty ice cream again. I strongly suggest you do the same, because as good as it may be, especially late at night when you're depressed and thinking about how awful your life is, it's not so much better than any other brand -- certainly not so much better that we should put up with their petty, greedy little mind F'ing. There are enough strange, mind-mutating pins being stuck in our collective psyches without having to get another from your bloody ice cream man. (Dirty heart-breaking F's!) And who else would report this? No one! And that's why I even write this stupid Blag, and so if for no other reason than respect for my ... Oh, never mind. You people never listen to me anyway!

This brings me to the other side of my mind, which is willowing with fear as we speak (or as I write ... and I don't even know if "willowing" is a word -- that's how debilitated I am!). You see, I've been up all night coughing with the remnants of my awful sickness. Not only that, my stupid cat (who I wouldn't be surprised to learn is in league with Haagen-Daz) has been carrying out all her ridiculous middle-of-the-night cat acrobatics, which mainly consist of making as much noise as possible and then racing around the house like a rocket when I try to throw things at her (little shit). Worse than all that, I distinctly heard a buzzing around 5 a.m., and as I just killed TWO SEPARATE WASPS IN THE HOUSE this week (can you imagine!), I'm sure there's another one somewhere about. (This is why I hate summer, AND Easton.) Worse, worse, I can't find him anywhere, but I keep thinking he's on my back, just sort of hanging there in that cold-weather dumbfounded way stinging insects have when they're not mad with heat orgy, but still languidly alive, thinking up their next awful plan.

So, you can imagine what a terrible morning I'm having. Thoughts of 1984-style ice cream methods, and now a deadly venomous insect clutching to my pajama top. And my hearing is so hallucinatorily acute, I keep thinking I hear the buzz again, but I can't be sure. You wouldn't believe the things I'm hearing. It's awful and disconcerting, and vaguely fascinating too. The problem is I'm so terribly tired, and still rather sick, so I can't even enjoy being all disoriented, I just have to sit here in this gut-wrenching fear and fight off the powerful feeling that I may die at any instant, or worse, be angrily stung by some stupid hornet. I hate bugs, and especially the angry ones that cling to your clothes. Just the thought makes me feel like I've bugs all over me ... and the really awful, awful thing is I can't be sure I don't!

I don't know what else to say, except I urge you to join my flat boycott of Haagen-Daz (despicable wretches). They should be ashamed, and if you eat their ice cream after reading this revelation, you should be ashamed too, and I sincerely hope you get stung by bees.

Mother's Day

2010-05-09T14:25:00.000-07:00

May 9, 2010: Before we begin, let us, of course, welcome our newest member to the clatch -- Mr. Musician's Only (a.k.a. Analog Tom). His arrival here serves not only as a vindication of my subtle pestering, but as a veritable honor to those of us who believe our destiny lies hidden somewhere in the cantankerous beats of a metronome ...

Ah, so Mother's Day is back upon us. Those of us who've had mothers know how lovely the experience can be, especially after they're gone.

Now, I don't mean to sound facetious, but my mother kicked the bucket a few years back, and while she had her good qualities when she was alive -- I mean, being human, she must have -- her legend and legacy today continue to grow in girth, like our cat, who just can't stay away from the foodbowl. (Did you know that "girth" was spelled with an "i" by the way, and not an "e"?) What I'm saying is, her death only made her greater (my mother's, not the cat's).

You must understand, my mother was somehow larger than life. (A few of you -- meaning Matt -- remember her, so you know what I'm talking about.) My mother was more id than ego, or perhaps more Narcissus than Goldmund. (Forgive me, I'm struggling with the proper analogy.) She was bold, outspoken -- some would say rude. She was honest and insightful, but controlled all the tact of a West Nile mosquito. She was frighteningly blunt, self-centered, and mythically strange, and yet people loved her, especially people who didn't know her well.

It took some time to pass before I came to appreciate this woman for all her great qualities -- many of which I gratefully inherited, which made me the writer I am today (meaning a grossly underpaid one who has to blurt his noxious opinions into this ether for that minor modicum of creative satisfaction). She gave me -- probably without meaning to, because she was notoriously selfish -- the wide eyes with which I criticize, the insight to see everything that's wrong with everyone but me, the hard nose with which to call a spade a spade (at the risk of sounding racist), and the lovely, sometimes melancholy, sometimes grandiose, appreciation of art, beauty, and those things that are too strange for most people to appreciate, and yet are sometimes the most beautiful of all.

No, she was a good egg -- a rotten mother, but a good egg. And here, I'm being facetious, for she did the best she could with what she had, and I wouldn't have had another, despite all the weird suffering I incurred (including having to eat her chili). My god, who would want to trade the excitement in adult life of having to guess at what being normal is?! Who would want to be just like everyone else?

So, to all you mother lovers out there, I bid you have a happy day of celebration, and know that somewhere, at some time, some woman willingly spread her legs for you!

May & Me

2010-05-05T19:41:00.001-07:00

May 5, 2010: It's May and I'm still annoyed. Not really annoyed in any harsh way, but I continue to be fed up that people across America, and the world, don't do things MY way (the fools!).

I'm reminded of an early book by the famous poet Ronald Walter Ludley entitled, "Why Don't You Listen?" A wise work that was, and still nobody listens.

But here I find myself ready to rant, and believe it or not, I can't remember any of the 15,000 issues I wanted to rant about. That's sad, because it's obviously a reflection of my decaying mind, coupled with the fact that I don't find anything I have to say of that much interest.

Let's move on ... I'm watching "Magnum Force" as we speak. (It's actually paused, but it's out there in the living room, waiting for my return; I merely stopped to get some peanut butter cookies, and then got distracted.) The point is, it's a grand movie. Not at the level of the original "Dirty Harry," which was brilliantly directed by the great Don Siegel (and which I watched LAST night, and during which I ate many more peanut butter cookies), but it's still very enjoyable. Hal Halbrooke is smashing, as is the young David Soul. Of course, what makes the movie great -- aside from our beloved Mr. Eastwood -- is the exquisite Lalo Shifrin music. (Am I spelling that right? Fucking Yugoslavians!) Nothing beats that man's work, except maybe mine. Let's be honest. Who writes a better blog? (Certainly not Shannon!) And I'm humble enough to admit that what makes it good has nothing to do with me -- remember, I don't actually have much of interest to say. It's what you, dear reader, bring to it. You see, there would be no Mona Lisa were it not for the perception of the Mona Lisa. Now follow me. In a very real sense, I don't even exist, which is why it's so hard for me to get a credit card.

But I digress. And why not? It's May, and all my favorite flowers have already bloomed and decayed, but the first tart, noxious smells of summer foliage are stinking the air, like the overhead sun of L.A. Which reminds me, when are we all going to openly acknowledge that Ashley Tisdale is a great actress. (Has anyone else seen "High School Musical II"? It rocks! Especially the "Fabulous" number!)

But enough about movies, enough about me ... and enough about May. You see, the fact is I despise the hot weather -- I simply despise it beyond belief -- and so I'm literally waiting impatiently for autumn to return ... And then I'll finally be happy and satisfied and pleasant to be around ... Probably ...

Ode To Shannon (Woolfe) & Spring

2010-04-25T19:47:00.000-07:00

April 25, 2010: I don't know why I like Shannon Woolfe so much, but I do. Perhaps I feel she's one of the few people who understands me (although a lot of that's probably just my imagination). Perhaps I just like her name, (despite the flagrant misspelling), or the recurring image I have of her staggering angrily out onto her porch in the middle of the night to scare away rednecks by bellowing, "Can I help you?!" in a real yocal dialect.

Whatever it is, I wanted to take a moment to celebrate her, and acknowledge her worth ...

Okay, good. Now let's move on. I also wanted to talk about spring flowers, in particular the lilacs I pirated this evening. They're currently filling my bedroom with their lofty sweet scent, and believe me, my bedroom never smells this good.

Spring flowers like these are just good enough to eat, and in fact almost look edible when I'm in the right mood. I've never tried them, of course. I'm not some kind of weirdo. But is it wrong for a writer to fantasize about such things? (Many of you would say Yes, and that's why I withhold Blah-ugh entries (or are they really entrails?).

Anyway, the point is, spring is here, and women are in heat. (I see it all over, though I try to politely pretend I don't.) Men apparently go into heat in the fall, when the autumn temperatures cool their testicles. (I'm not making this up!) But spring is when all our feminine sides comes blossoming out, like so much lavendar in a smelly sash. Isn't that why we have spring? Be honest. You ladies know more about this than I do!

I could go on, because like Bobby Troop, my heart is full of spring. But I'm thinking that I have to shower and shave, too, and I want to watch the end of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" -- the masterpiece one with Donald Sutherland, which I've seen 10 times but still never tire of.

Someone remind me to write a review of it soon. (Shannon, if you remember.) I've got to go and put my balls on ice.

Journalism Tips (and an Ode to Caitlyn)

2010-04-22T17:13:00.000-07:00

April 22, 2010: Let me start by saying this entry is dedicated to Caitlyn Hentenaar, whoever she is. She just joined as my 18th official blog follower, and while I'm thankful, it was a complete surprise, since I haven't done an entry in a month (and nobody else seems to care). Yet she took the time to subscribe (or whatever the hell it is you people do), and this loving gesture is prompting me to share more of my potent insights, interesting experiences and acute anger.

And yes, this is one of those angry entries because I'm so annoyed with the people I have to deal with in my journalism work. It's remarkable to me how out-of-control some people are, and since I have accumulated close to 25 years of experience doing that sort of stuff, I thought I'd take a moment to share some of my opinions and, hopefully in the process, move to dampen some of the dreadful habits these people exhibit.

For starters, if a reporter is doing a story on you (or your organization, or event), you are NOT doing him a favor, HE IS DOING YOU A FAVOR. Therefore, don't treat making contact with him (meaning ME) as if you were the queen consenting to daly with one of your subjects. Unless the reporter is doing a piece exposing you for the fraud you are, happily make yourself available at HIS convenience, and remain grateful!

Another annoying thing is the ridiculous proliferation of "media" go-betweens, who largely do nothing but annoy journalists by consuming more time. I can't say how often I receive press releases that require my calling someone who has absolutely no information to give, except the name of someone else you need to call to get information. It's bad enough that every business, college and government agency keeps a barbed-wire fence around itself with its stable of press-relation idiots, but to have little groups and gathering subscribe to that same stupid way of doing business is completely annoying, and merely makes the reporter (meaning ME) resent everybody involved.

I could go on, but I think it'll be best to ease back into this thing. And pending the response from my April entry, we'll see if I decide to ever do another ...

Seat Warmers

2010-03-18T18:04:00.000-07:00

March 18, 2010: I wanted to take a moment and share about a remarkable discovery I made last month. After two years, I finally realized my car has these little tiny dials that make the seat heat up. Now, I know what you're thinking -- "What could the purpose possibly be?" I mean, we all know modern man has gotten along just fine for over a century with a cold seat. I was cynical too, believe me. But when I happened upon this switch -- you see, I was confused by the little drawing symbol and thought it had something to do with the ashtray -- my whole world was essentially changed. Suddenly the seat started getting warm, and not just hot, like the heater tends to do. (There's never a day, even the coldest, when I don't find the heat overpowering after a point, and I have to then go through multiple gyrations involving an open window, etc., to find my precarious comfort zone.) No, this seat heater just made me absolutely and comfortably toasty, and kept me so. It was dazzling, and I say without hyperbole that it took me to a level of comfort I'd heretofore only associated with a clean, well-lighted toilet.

Now, as the weather gets warm, I'm still finding I adore my seat warmer. I turn it up to 5 right away, and then let my mood and whims resettle the dial anywhere between 1 and 4. It's a lavish, dare I say decadent frill, and while I remain an old-fashioned man at heart, I still truly and wholeheartedly adore my "new" seat warmer.

Beware of the Irish!

2010-03-17T08:56:00.001-07:00

March 17, 2010: So, I see the Irish are up to their old tricks again. I think we all saw that coming. But be honest -- can any of us really put trust in someone with red hair?

I remember the first time I saw a leprechaun. He wasn't happy and dancing, like in the movies. He was grumpy and hungover, which I saw firsthand accounted for a sickly green pallor. And when I asked him about the pot of gold lore had promised, he got all huffy, made some rude Celtic comment and tried to hit me with his Shillelagh.

No, the Irish are a dangerous lot. Don't be fooled by all those tearful songs about roses and lassies. These people would just as soon chase you down and stuff you full of shamrocks, than guide you to Dublin.

So now we're devoting yet another March 17 to the insane drunken escapades of people who can't keep their own country united. (I mean, are they Catholics or Protestants or what?!) Please understand, this had always been my favorite date on the calendar (not because Italy declared independence in 1861, but it's the same date Ringo released "Back Off Bugaloo" in the UK), until the Irish started honing in on it and ruined everything.

As we speak, millions of them are probably swarming down Fifth Avenue in New York, like fervent homosexuals on Harvey Milk Day, smiling Irish eyes and painting the streets green with their vomit, carrying on like the whole world had been scripted by John Huston.

And I'll do you one further -- I have a very plausible theory that the Irish are really just ordinary Englishmen. In fact, I don't believe anyone over in the UK can really tell anyone else apart, and that they even confuse Australians and South Africans with Scotsmen.

Well, I've said my piece, but I warn you to beware. Watch the roads with one careful eye shut for the goings-on of little green men. They're out there, I swear it, and you never know what these "lucky" people are going to try next ...

Why I Hate My Blog

2010-03-11T19:25:00.000-08:00

March 11, 2010: The fun's been slipping with this stupid Blah-ugh! Now, every time I open the site to see if anyone's been reading this dreck, I get a familiar cramp that tells me I hate being responsible for producing regular content that has to not only be intelligent and informative, but also funny.

Granted, there are little tastes of hope and satisfaction -- seeing Terry and S. recently join filled my heart ... for like a minute, then I realized they were just like the rest of you -- a horrible band of bloodsucking fanatics bent on pulling the life right out of my soul (or is it the soul right out of my life) with your merciless insistence that I be funny and wise and tasteful all at the same! Please, people, I can't be all three! Can't you just pick two?!

Anyway, I started this Blah-ugh! to share some of my hopes about life, including revelations around my sexual prowess and hatred of people who wear loafers without socks. (I also wanted to show Matt and Shannon up by beating them to the top of the Internet, but instead they both chose to steal my thunder with their own wordy rant sites.) Now, months later, I'm finding I have less and less to say, even though my mind still rattles on uncontrollably, like a runaway train. And in truth, it's not even really sure I'm doing my best part to improve humanity. To be honest, I've become torn between practicing an evergrowing enlightened awareness involving the spirituality of non-judgment, and simply wanting to be funny.

Anyway, anyway, I guess the real point is that I'm getting more and more lazy about bothering to write things out ... And that's why, going forward, I intend to devote more energy into nurturing the sexual prowess ...

Still More on Toilets

2010-03-08T07:46:00.000-08:00

March 8, 2010: It's a sincere treat when the toilet flushes at work. This because my place of business features these automatic flush toilets, which make the bathroom-going experience a variable and often adventurous one.

I'm still not completely sure why sometimes it flushes and other times it does not. I've developed a few theories, including one involving fast motion. Therefore, after I've peed, I try to make a series of very quick moves in order to trigger the flush mechanism, which hides behind a dark plastic cover in the form of an all-seeing electric eye.

The worst thing is when I'm forced to sit down. Here, the automatic flusher seems to take on a life of its own, flushing willy-nilly throughout my time, frightening me into rushing in order to avoid another bottom-soaking splash of sanitary conscientiousness.

For my money, I'd appreciate an old-fashioned handle, wherein I could control my own fate. I'm not sure if it's that they expect I might not flush for some strange reason. I like to think they're trying to save me that arduous effort of having to reach my hand out to pull the trigger.

Whatever the reasoning, I merely wish I could hold it all in until the day was done!

Ash Wednesday Believers, Don't Read This!

2010-02-21T09:15:00.000-08:00

February 21, 2010: I knew it wouldn't last. Reporting emotional memories is fine for some people, but a nasty-minded cur like myself can't quell the compulsion to simply observe and criticize.

That said, how ridiculous is Ash Wednesday?! I mean, really. These people are all walking around with soot on their foreheads. It's comical. Belief is one thing, but how do you convince yourself it's in your best interests to put soot on your face and walk around in public. Doesn't that strike anyone as particularly strange?

It got me to thinking that if the Catholic church -- (these people are Catholics, right? I can't keep them straight) -- ordered everyone to rub dog feces on their foreheads, they'd do that too. Given the directive, they'd bow solemnly before the head honcho and offers words of thanks in Latin while a schmeer of foul excrement was rubbed ceremoniously below the hairline. "Go in peace ..."

Of course, to be fair, other religions do ridiculous things too, and believe me, I think they're just as stupid. One group still won't let women show their faces in public -- even the pretty ones! One group makes the children shave their heads and grow long, dangling sideburns. There are many others, but I can't think of them, nor do I possess the energy to find out about them, so you'll just have to trust me on this -- almost all religions are precariously built upon some kind of ridiculous ritual or another, and anyone who adheres to these weird practices has some small degree of moron in their soul. (No offense. You know I love all of you unconditionally.)

Someone once asked my friend Rick M. about religion. "I'll show ya my religion," he barked between pulls on a cigarette. "It's on a mountaintop."

I don't know why I find this funny, but I do. Perhaps if more people took the rituals of religion less seriously and the spirituality of humor more so, the world would be a less weird place.

Westport & Me (Part I)

2010-02-13T08:45:00.001-08:00

February 13, 2010: In an effort to be more like Shannon (and perhaps Dan Woog as well), I've decided to focus more frequent entries on the community around me -- Westport, and Fairfield County -- and the many memories I've garnered there -- both pleasant and stomach-curdling -- ones which helped shape this dysfunctional lad and make him the frustrated, under-employed clod you see before you. (Of course, this is only until I become bored with it and decide to write about something else).

Westport, Connecticut, as many of you know (and yet refuse to believe) is my hometown. While I was born at Norwalk Hospital on a salty day in September, my parents quickly saw to it that I was transported back over the border before I developed any kind of small inner-city habits, like a penchant for boccie. Ironically, the Westport News -- I think it was the News, but it may have been the Town Crier, or some now-defunct variation -- actually ran my picture and a cutline announcing that I was the only baby born there that week. This was, of course, largely because it was a slow news week, but at the very least clearly debunks my parents' later claim that there was some kind of mix-up in the maternity ward.

We lived on Easton Road, which even then was a busy thoroughfare. Our home was a 200-year old former tollhouse that still stands today, and remains one of the few dwellings in the area not grotesquely compromised by modern man's fear-driven need to make everything bigger and tackier.

Life was good and simple, at least for me, being only a baby. We had a dog named Pepper, although his full name was Maximillian Pepper Liotta -- an old English sheepdog, the kind that doesn't have any eyes. Some of my earliest memories involve my evil brother locking me in his outdoor pen, where I'd cry and scream until someone -- usually my grandfather -- came and retrieved me. (Since he lived in New York, imagine how long I sometimes had to wait.)

My neighbor across the street was my best friend, Debbie Gilbertie. She was a beautiful, spirited little blonde with a dog of her own named Chipper. How I ever managed to get across Route 136 to visit her at age three I'll never known, although I think my mother may have occasionally brought me. Debbie and I used to take baths together (although I'm sure she'd deny this, despite what a gentleman I always was). I have great memories of us building with these giant orange cardboard box-blocks she had, on her family's kitchen floor, and us running back and forth around my house with my grandfather chasing us with his cane.

One story I often tell my children was of the time Debbie got a cat. I don't remember its name, but when I went over to see it, she explained that cats always land on their feet. She then proceeded to pick it up several times and, standing up on one of those bright-colored beanbag-like footrests so popular in the late '60s, drop it upside down on the floor. "See?!" she proclaimed each time it flipped over. "They always land on their feet!"

I remember her kind father, Mike (who I don't think was any relation to Westport celebrity Mickey Gilbertie), cutting their lawn with his dark-green Locke mower. It seemed like the biggest lawn in the world -- a rolling meadow that disappeared into the distant trees and late-afternoon sun, which set over the rambling little river miles below in that valley just the other side of their lawn ... In the summer there were honeysuckle blossoms and Debbie taught me how to taste the sap from them ... I also remember playing with Debbie's Barbie doll, which had one of those cars, and we'd have her drive to the store naked as a jaybird and shop, and we'd laugh hysterically ... I remember us riding in the back of Mrs. Gilbertie's station wagon, bouncing around in the days before seatbelts, staring out at the quick-passing pavement, "Watching the road go fast," we called it ... I remember her sister, Karen, had those '60s sunflower stickers in her room, and the four portrait pictures of the Beatles from the White Album hung on her ceiling -- a room not far unlike Greg Brady's in the episode when he took over Mike's den ... I remember Debbie and I intended to get married, but somehow it never worked out ...

NEXT TIME: A visit to downtown Westport in 1969 ...

Class or No Class

2010-02-11T03:09:00.000-08:00

February 11, 2010: Many of you (or should I say, the both of you) may have wondered where I've been these past days, and why my blogosity has been so unfulfilling and sporadic. Part of this is my own laziness, of course, but much has to do with my latest time-consuming commitment to a course I'm having to complete (and if you think I'm spelling the word "commitment" wrong, you're wrong, because that's the way it should be spelled, or would be spelled if the world weren't such a backward place and people like Sarah Palin were put in jails or circuses where they belong).

Anyway, I've been blessed with the opportunity to take a class at a nearby university. (I'd explain why in more detail, but it's obviously none of your business, so please stop pestering me, as I'm feeling very overwhelmed.) In fact, the details of this experience are irrelevant, and I merely wanted to take a moment to comment on the state of the upcoming generation as I'm able to encapsulate and blanket-state them given several living samples. (You see, I have that gift of being able to make broad, sweeping judgments based on the most miniscule amount of data. Some would say I'm short-minded, bigoted and perhaps even ignorant, but I like to think of it as a practical efficiency geared toward the computer age.)

Anyway, you'll be summarily depressed to learn that there are a significant number of clods being produced at the Master's level. In fact, I'm dumbfounded to be sitting in a room with more than one "adult" student (and I use the word "adult" in quotes, as you may have noticed) who has their laptop open throughout the three-hour session and their Facebook page up. A few others are more efficient, like a girl who spent the whole last session working on a presentation for some other class on her laptop, only returning her attention to the class discussion momentarily to parrot some crap she'd brought to satisfy the course requirement and make a hearty show of class participation.

It's not all bad, of course, and you'll be happy to hear that the greater number of the students at least seem to be interested, and pay attention. (At the very least, they're much more subtle about their disinterest, and one can only appreciate the class and savoir faire required.) Needless to say, I'm quickly becoming the most vocal, despite my honest pledge in the first week to contain myself. Some of these people really seem to want to get something out of the three hours they're investing there, and have some interest (and perhaps even pride) in what they've chosen to study. The others, they just seem like a bunch of fear-motivated weasels content to worm their way through the world in a vain attempt to fool everyone into thinking they have value. (Needless to say, these are our future Republican candidates.)

Anyway, I just wanted to touch base and catch you up. Maybe now you'll stop harrassing me with your emails and phone calls and fruit baskets. I've got enough psychic pain worrying me right now, trying to sort out what I have to do to get this country (and world) back on course, and the ever-blossoming weasel brigade back into the dark confines of its A hole.

Eight Days a Week

2010-02-03T19:23:00.000-08:00

February 3, 2010: I was thinking about how much I used to love Friday, but now I'm starting to see how that's evolved and it's really not Friday anymore. (And all of this, by the way, is merely symptomatic of my inability to stay present in my life.)

For starters, over the past few years I've grown increasingly fond of Thursday mornings, for I've come to see it really marks the beginning of my weekend. I reason that if I can manage to wake up on Thursday morning and get to work, I've pretty much got the week licked, and merely have to float my way through to Friday afternoon.

On the other end, I've long dreaded Sunday evenings as a depressing time of death and sadness. The weekend's over and the party is ending. All things must return to the grey, unimaginative robotronics of corporate life. (You get the idea.) But now, my fear of Monday begins late Saturday night, when the family's gone to sleep and I sit up in front of the TV trying to suck that last bit of sunshine out of the pomegranite fruit fest that is my weekend. The minute that TV turns off, I'm suddenly shipped sadly off into Sunday and all the depressing feelings that it encompasses.

Today, Wednesday, I suddenly realized that I'm starting to find a great exhileration when Wednesday afternoon finally roles around, because it's become my new Friday, or perhaps I should say my new Thursday. And now with Saturday night falling fast from favor, I'm coming to recognize that Mondays are really Tuesdays, more or less, and by the time Saturday morning comes, I may as well get ready to go to work.

I'm hoping that before long I'll come to see Sunday as the new Wednesday and not dread Saturday mornings as much as I do.

No, I'm Not Dead!

2010-01-28T18:45:00.000-08:00

January 28, 2010: Thanks to the heartfelt outpouring of support and affection following my last Blah-ugh! entry (wherein some people apparently confusingly thought I planned to commit suicide), I wanted to offer something more upbeat, more lighthearted.

Unfortunately, as hard as I've tried to think of something, I keep coming up blank. This may be a combination of things, of course, but a lot of it involves nutrition. (I just don't think I'm eating enough pie.)

Either way, let's talk of things gay and light, like creme fraiche and holographs. Has anyone ever been to Brazil? Don't you love banjo music? Whenever I see a rainbow, it makes me think of God. Whenever I see God, it makes me think of rainbows, especially the really big ones. Speaking of rain, I find walking in the rain an especially delightful pursuit, except when my shoes get wet. And speaking of getting wet, all this talk of happy, light gay things just makes me as wet as a gay woman in a sewing circle. Speaking of sewing, I read where old people have much more trouble see the tiny eyes of needles. Which reminds me of Donald Sutherland, who absolutely sounded like a Nazi in that movie, the one where he plays the "Neidel," which is German for "Needle." Speaking of Nazis, has anyone ever noticed that "Nazis" spelled backward is "Sizan," which sounds a lot like Cezanne ... and while his clouds may have a kind of awkward melancholy appeal, I find his whole style to be fascistic and based in a dictatorial single-mindedness. And do you think that's a coincidence? I don't!

But let's not stray too far from the more important matters of this day, which in a nutshell center on my ongoing survival and all the practices I do to maintain my fine and spritely attitude. Going forward, let's only talk of all things gay, like Groucho Marx would want us to.

Not Tonight, I Have a Headache!

2010-01-21T18:37:00.000-08:00

January 21, 2010: It was with the best intentions that I set out to complete a worthy Blah-ugh! entry tonight, but I'm afraid you won't be getting one. I'm not only feeling overwhelmed and exhausted, but humorless as well.

At the same time, I see the waves and waves of people who've arrived new to this site -- my virgin readers! (Why, there must be five of you!) You come here expecting something, and my inherent ACOA guilt prevents me from even vaguely considering disappointing you. For you I feel the obligation to be funny, to wax pithy, to grow in wit, wisdom, and lovingly prepare a bountiful banquet of glib observations and racist, misogynistic Neandrathal one-liners. My only wish is for you, dear readers, to dine on the righteous goodness of my ... And, see, I'm trying and trying, and I can't even make this funny! Gads, what a night!

So, like Dylan's clown who cried in the alley, I'll do my best to carry on in the best spirit of "The Blog & I" in future entries. But for tonight, when I can't stop thinking about all the misery and pain that surrounds me -- and I'm not talking about Haiti or Wall Street, but my own acute discomforts and agony, which are much more vivid and personal and, therefore, worse -- I'll just slip quietly back into the ether of Cyberspace. (I really like that word -- it's so "World of Tomorrow.")

So try me again later ... Just not tonight ...

Finding Acceptance In My Toilet

2010-01-12T19:36:00.000-08:00

January 12, 2010: Looking back, I've found many things in my toilet. (You'll recall the spiritual discoveries I recounted in my August 29, 2009, entry "Finding God In My Toilet.") Well, I'm pleased to report that the miracles continue.

Once again, the "Church" brand name -- a holy blue inscription painted under the lid of the best toilet seats, or at least the most holy -- followed me to the workplace. Imagine the comfort and joy that came just this week when, in the middle of my daily toil, I raised the lid and found my brand of spirituality there at work, just inviting me to get on my knees and pray (were the floors cleaner).

A cerebral man by nature, this experience -- after I washed my hands -- started me to thinking about what it is that makes the toilet such a wonderful place for me. I've addressed the spiritual aspect on more than one occasion, and have written extensively about the privacy and vital solitude of this most holy of sanctuaries. (For those of you who haven't read it, my novel "TEMPORARY INSANITY" offers an articulate summation of my American toilet, and I'd recommend you buy a copy, except it hasn't been published yet, so be patient and read something else for now.) The conclusion I drew this time, however, is that the toilet is a place where I can go and be accepted unconditionally, and this may be its most giving feature.

I don't have to put on airs in the toilet, if you'll forgive the pun. I can be myself. Where else can I go for such a forthright experience -- to stand before (or sit upon) a veritable sanctuary of acceptance -- one that never judges me, no matter to what foul depths my behavior may deteriorate. The toilet is always open for us -- frank and without criticism, willing to tolerate our ugliest sides, even when no one else will, and never one to abandon us even if we occasionally clog it.

Toilets not only service our spiritual and physical needs, but our emotional ones as well. I'd like you think about this next time you have to go. Sure, you're probably making the trip there to drop something off, but perhaps it's time to thing about what it is that you're taking with you when you leave ...

My Grandparents

2010-01-09T07:34:00.001-08:00

January 9, 2010: I thought of my grandparents this morning, and whether or not they ever brushed their teeth. Not that their collective breaths were ever bad -- on the contrary, their distinct individual aromas all hold wonderful, unique memories in my soul (old cigar smoke and the stink of a sweaty T-shirt among them) -- but times were different then, and even as I sit here edging my way into middle age, I can't necessarily understand all the strength and subtleties that constituted the Great Grandparent Generation.

Nestor, my mother's father, constantly ground his sparse yellow teeth, creating a not-unpleasant, rather musical sound somewhere between a Cuica and someone stepping on a mouse. He ate slowly and regularly, yet looking back I marvel at the fact that those Polish choppers were able to disassemble anything more rugged than a matzah ball.

In honor of my Gramma Manya -- (She always spelled it M-A-N-I-A, for some ungodly reason, but the open-ended depth of the straight joke is too ridiculous to perpetuate in print.) -- I decided to replicate her potatoes this morning for breakfast. (She made the most amazing potatoes, which are nearly impossible to replicate, despite their having only one ingredient -- potatoes.) This got me thinking about how little sleep she seemed to get. What the hell is it with old people anyway?! Why don't they ever sleep? The same was true of my father's parents -- Sal & Jo (Jo being the woman) -- they were like robots that way.

Grampa Sal's capacity to smoke was also remarkable (as was his capacity to talk loud) -- constant cigars and pipes and cigarettes and cigarettillos and all sorts of other esoteric Italian and Spanish-style tobacco products. I think his body composition had evolved so that he was actually partially made of tobacco. (He was brown and wrinkled and looked exactly like Groucho Marx in the "You Bet Your Life" years.) As a former smoker, I sometimes pine for the chance to light up again and bask in the hearty stink of burning carcinogens. And yet my frail constitution has been severely compromised by the terrible times we live in -- so unlike the healthy, pure bodies that were born before the Great, Artful, Awful War.

Gramma Josephine was cool as a cucumber, butchering an enormous purple octopus in the sink as if it were tofu. When she wasn't cooking, she put all her energy into brushing the crumbs before her on the red and white checked kitchen tablecloth, with short deliberate gestures that seemed to go on for the entire evening. (Perhaps there was some revitalizing energy that came of policing crumbs -- a lifeforce benefit brought about by pedantic attention to detail?)

Either way, there was something solid there -- in their teeth, their tireless fortitude, their cell quality ... -- something we don't see that often in these strange peanut allergy-affected times in which we live.

The Mannequin Candidates

2010-01-04T18:37:00.000-08:00

January 4, 2010: Many things are maneuvering for my attention as the new year (2010) gets underway -- financial insecurities, Nazis, my ongoing search for a good literary agent -- but for my first entry of this decade, I'd like to focus my attention on something much more important to me, and much more pressing -- the new and exciting selection of sexy store mannequins.

I've had a hard time trying to decide which store has the sexiest mannequins. Much to my pleasant surprise -- and bothered attention -- several local places met this holiday season by introducing some of the most fetching female dummies I've yet had the pleasure of ogling.

While some stores are still offering the standard attractive, old-style dolls -- Ann Taylor's, for instance, features the classic headless stand-bys, dressed for elegance and artfully crafted to last a lifetime -- others have introduced new, sometimes-provocative, sometimes-alluring, and sometimes-just-plain-dirty dressing dolls on display for public amusement and, sometimes, utter bemusement.

Chico's has started displaying an amazingly sexy torso -- I mean, I couldn't take my eyes off it. While it lacks some of my favorite parts in a lower half, the top is just so spectacular I could understand dating a headless torso with just that certain something.

Gap has gone one better, with a vivid collection of armless naked white bodies that's not to be equalled. (They're just standing there, like you could go right up to them and start small talk!) Just seeing those dandy displays decorating a wide-open window right on Westport, Connecticut's Main Street, made me simultaneously blush and wonder why I traded it all away by marrying a woman with a head.

If this scintillating selection of hand-crafted beauties is any indication, 2010 promises to be a magnificent, hopeful and breathtakingly tawdry year!

Review & Resolutions ... for You!

2009-12-30T08:22:00.000-08:00

December 30, 2009: In lieu of New Year's, I decided to take a long, pensive moment this week to consider my behaviors and actions throughout 2009 -- for the whole first decade of our 21st Century, in fact. I deftly weighed my shortcomings and made an honest appraisal of all my various defects down to the most minute, with a brave and candid eye toward my ongoing improvement and spiritual growth ...

Yet when all was said and done, I realized I was just fine the way I was. It was everyone else who had the problems. So, armed with this proven knowledge, I thought I'd take a moment to candidly fill you, Dear Readers, in on exactly what's wrong with you.

To begin with, ask yourself, "What have I done for Jarret today?" It's no secret that the number of my Blah-ugh! readers ranks high. (Some have told me it's a staggering figure, perhaps topping millions!) Yet only 13 people have taken the trouble to register as Followers (and even some of these louts have been banned from reading my site because they annoyed me for one reason or another). Why is this? Do people not feel comfortable admitting their allegiance to me? Is it not enough that I slave to provide you with a veritable feast of cerebral fodder, yet you can't take the 20-second trouble to register some false identity in order to honor my work and increase my numbers?

More importantly, how many of you loyal readers are actually giving any time to spreading news of my site (and me, for that matter)? How many of you have taken a moment to email all your friends about the keen, culturally relevant commentary that flows from this electronic spinet? How many of you can honestly say you've done your part to tout the value of this enterprise, and perhaps help save its creator from the depressing life of underachievement that looms so precariously before him?

I don't want to harp on all this, however, because there are other faults to address. For instance, I received holiday cards from none of you! What's that about?! You have my email address listed here. Do I not rate some simple (even impersonal) electronic recognition? Are you so busy? Obviously you have time to waste reading this ridiculous website. Come now!

I also wanted to touch on your poor driving habits, which continue to mystify me, as well as your lazy work ethic, your variable hygiene practices, and your political apathy ... but there's only so much one can do in a decade. Let's try to stay focused on the point at hand -- namely, me -- and let's all pledge, as 2010 rolls around, to do our best to help further my aims and those of my most diligent disciples.

On that note, I bid you a Grand and Glorious New Year!

Christmas Closure

2009-12-27T17:07:00.000-08:00

December 27, 2009: Another lovely Christmas season is slipping away from me in a brittle flush of failed wrapping and the diarrhetic cramps of turkey undigested. It was a lovely holiday, despite some awkwardly odd regifted presents I received, and I'll remember it well (at least for a short time, and then I'll possibly forget all about it because of my brain damage).

But before it goes, let me throw out some last-minute thoughts that still clog my mind. First and foremost, kudos to the great Celine Dion, whose breathtaking version of "O Holy Night" has displaced just about every X-mas song out there for me. I don't know how many of you have heard of her, but this woman is a great singer, and I thought I'd give her a plug in the hopes of furthering her career. (I think she's French or Australian or something, but I still really like her.)

On the film front, I can never say enough for some of the most magical movies that make up my holiday playlist: "A Christmas Story," "The Bishop's Wife," and "Miracle on 34th Street." The first story -- you know, the BB gun one -- is just a wealth of low-budget fun. The scene where Ralphie helps his father change the tire is still my favorite, followed by the great Chinese restaurant moment. Try to find better lines than Darrin McGavin as The Old Man shout-groaning, "Sons of bitches Bumpuses" ... and "Not a fingah!" ... "The Bishop's Wife" -- Cary Grant as an angel -- Say no more! Still, Monty Wooley almost steals the show as the Professor ... For me, the whole thing is just plain Wow! ... And of course "Miracle" is such a brilliant story, and gets me jerking with tears, even more than "It's a Wonderful Life," which is yet another holiday favorite (but already gets so much press) ...

I didn't make a church service this year, but I just wasn't in a singing mood. I did, however, manage to keep a good fire burning while my family and I watched about 12 straight episodes of The Honeymooners ...

So now it's time to clench my teeth and fight off the awful fear of having to face another 11 months of reality in a cold, bitter world of rap music, E! Hollywood gossip and drivers who don't signal ...

Happy Christmas!

In Good Taste

2009-12-22T15:00:00.000-08:00

December 22, 2009: What an interesting discovery I made last week. So interesting that I forgot to mention it to anyone ... until now. You see, I don't want the year to end without you -- my ever-faithful reader -- gaining the greater value of my unique daily drama. (Little have I to offer you, you see, but for the more important shreds of my bitter experiences here on the planet earth.)

It all started on the way to work. I regularly meet my morning sustenance with a humble breakfast sandwich involving both peanut butter and jelly. (I'll usually trim away the lower quarter of crust, but I hesitate to mention that, as it makes me sound different from others.) Of late, however, I've re-discovered the joy of the banana, and have replaced my faithful fruit-only spreads with the unique-yet-ever-versatile mush of mankind's greatest fruit.

(On a serious note, it's important to be aware that the banana, as we know it, is in dire jeopardy of disappearing off the face of the earth due to a strange infection that scientists can't cure. I keep hoping to expound at length on that frightening dilemma, but I've been so busy lately with shopping and writing about Nazis, I haven't had time to give the topic the attention it deserves. Therefore, I'd like you to do some research on your own and understand the gravity of the banana situation.)

So it was I found myself ambling along Route 136, poised to bite ... and bite I did! But lo, what terrible poison was this affecting my sandwich. O, but it was bitter and tasted not like the grand peanut butter and banana of the day before. This was some awful anomaly -- a grisly mutation biting back my tongue, it's flavor a cold metallic monotone ...

It took me a minute to realize something, and imagine my surprise when I did. For you see, I had been eating my sandwich upside down. Yes, not literally, in the upside-down sense of having my head where my ass is (if you'll excuse the disgusting imagery), but rather I had foolishly gripped the sandwich so that the banana was on the bottom, and the peanut butter was on top. (If you're a normal person, you know that the peanut butter always gets spread first, and then the banana (or jelly, in some cases) gets put (mashed or spread) on top of it.)

I quickly turned the sandwich over and bit again. Needless to say, I was thrilled and relieved to find my breakfast returned to its former grandeur. It tasted great, in fact, and I ate heartily for the better part of my remaining morning drive.

So, I wanted to pass this bit of new information on to you. Do with it what you will, but I have no doubt its applications are great and far-reaching. I won't bore you with the scientific details relating to the reasons behind this phenomenon -- mainly because I have no idea what they are -- but instead let me wish you a Happy Christmas and a Tasty New Year!

Jewing It Down

2009-12-15T20:20:00.000-08:00

December 15, 2009: In light of the recent unpleasantness infecting my Blah-ugh! -- (You people act like children, and all I ever wanted to do was to make you laugh, and sing, and perhaps take your clothes off and chant my name while writhing on some stone altar somehwere out on a moor at Midsummer's Eve!) -- I thought it best to focus on less controversial subjects for the time being (meaning until you all learn to behave!) ...

That said, I thought it a good time of year to address my fears of being Jewish. Please understand, I'm only half Jewish, but like being half black in modern America, they'll still send you to the inferior restroom as a consequence.

Jews today have, of course, found ever-increasing acceptance amidst the Goyum. But like other often-battered minorities (and Yes, I include the Eskimos here) our comfort is always a precarious one, forever at the mercy of some violent midwestern Redneck, or some well-educated northeast Protestant who firmly believes he has conclusive evidence to support some of the stereotypes.

When all is said and done, I simply feel it makes more sense to lay low. While I'm always one to tout my Jewishness amongst the Chosen People -- Hell, I've even purported to be all Jewish when I knew no one would really have the nerve to check -- I've found it practically safer to keep my Gentile face in front where others are concerned, if for no other reason than to avoid the chipper Gee-Whiz comments of the Christmas crowd. ("Oh, you're Jewish. That's great," the implication being "Better you than me!")

And Yes, it is an arduous brand we bare, as both Steven Spielberg and I know only too well. As a people with ne'er a land to call their own (outside of Israel, Hollywood and what the ever-dignified and articulate Rev. Jesse Jackson so sensitively referred to as "Hymietown), we find ourselves forever faced with the fear of being excluded, ostricized, and, on the worst days, put in ovens.

So, in celebration of Hannukah, I intend to stand by my anonymity and keep the crosses off the lawn. And should, God forbid, things ever take a real bad turn to the worst of human nature, I'll swear we were only using the things because we couldn't find candleholders.

Next Week: Honoring (and taming) the dormant anti-Semite in all of us!

A Tribute to Johnny Mathis

2009-12-13T18:42:00.000-08:00

December 13, 2009: Despite the exquisite joy that Christmas music brings me, I still get very uncomfortable whenever a black person sings "White Christmas." They'll sing, "May all your Christmases be white," and the disturbing racist implications for someone like me -- someone who is, if not necessarily overly sensitive out of kindness, certainly suffering under the shame-based yoke of dysfunctional hyper-awareness -- can be alarming.

But I didn't want to take that tangent today. Instead, I hoped to devote a gentle column of celebration to the remarkable Christmas work of Johnny Mathis, who is neither black nor white, but a kind of seasonal caramel cafe' au lait -- a toasted chestnut, best tasted at the holidays.

Our family prides four of Johnny Mathis's Christmas albums, and each is better than the last. For me, Johnny's vaguely nasal heartfelt melodic enthusiasm perfectly captures all that I love about this glorious season. (And let's be clear -- it has evolved into a season -- a positive celebratory season of good vibrations and comradeship, assuming one chooses to look at it that way. The lingering religiosity is, to me, a quaint, vaguely amusing archaic vestige of mankind's nervous past, but the spirit that it's based in is an ideal one, one which I welcome and celebrate.)

(How odd it was to even see in the story "A Christmas Carol" a subtle challenge to that religiosity, when Scrooge frankly (and not unkindly) questions the Ghost of Christmas Present as to why his "kind" insists on quelling the Christmas-like joy of community by making shops and restaurants and everything close every seventh day. No one ever leaves those lines in in any of the movie versions, but they're certainly striking ones!)

But we were talking about Johnny Mathis, and I did want to point out how silly he sounds pronouncing "Baby Yay-soo" in The Little Drummer Boy song, and isn't that wording itself just ridiculous! Yay-soo indeed! But better still, how much more flamingly flambuoyant could Johnny get than in Sleigh Ride, when he notes that friends are calling "Yoo Hoo!" Gads, you've got to love his unfettered fagginess! ("Gone away is a new bird. Here to stay is a (gay) bird.") The freedom that comes with his heartfelt spirited songs of voices, openly proclaiming words of love and joy and fun. It just makes me want to get up and prance, and not care who sees me. (Woe that more of us don't invest time prancing, especially at the holidays ... But I'll analyze the fatuous ninniness of homophobia another time ...)

So that's my Johnny Mathis -- the great gay (and I mean here in the happy sense) glorious voice of the holidays. What better light to shine upon our blessed heads this joyful season, and what better man than this to pronounce in Voices the Word of wonder and hope and peace that is our lovely Christmas time!

Next Week: A detailed essay on why I hate Ashton Kutcher so much.

Jarret's Frank Film Forum (FFF) -- A Review of "A Christmas Carol"

2009-12-10T12:34:00.000-08:00

December 10, 2009: I've decided that the Patrick Stewart (TNT) version of "A Christmas Carol" may ultimately be my favorite, unseating the very dear version that stars Quincy Magoo. Call it the special effects, or perhaps just seeing Joel Grey wearing that Gregg Allman wig, but something about it buoys my heart and makes me wholeheartedly glad I'm not a Jew. (No offense Bonnie, David, Efrem, Mrs. Goldblatt -- the whole lot of you people!)

No one can deny that Stewart is a very gifted actor (although I'm beginning to suspect that achieving greatness in acting merely consists of being English and orating grandiosely with a shaky timbre). The nice thing about seeing him play Scrooge, however, is that he dances like he means it. I also thought he embellished the role with some keen touches, like a bald head, and while I found his gagging scene a bit confusing and disconcerting -- at first I thought they'd left in an outtake -- overall I found myself carried along and appropriately despising his guts.

Richard E. Grant proves a fine Bob Cratchit, despite his large forehead. (I'm very wary of people with large foreheads for a variety of reasons, and you should be too.) He affects such a striking collection of twisted pathos-ridden faces, you'd think he really was some awful Camdentown wretch with nine mouths to support. His teeth, in particular, play a fine role, and one wonders what work he had done in order to even get the chance to try out for the role.

One thing I didn't like was the outfit worn by Belle in the break-up scene. The hood just seemed so overproduced, and I found I didn't even follow the dialogue because I kept looking at that stupid hood. Looking closer, I think I may have also recast the role of Feeziwig as well. While Ian McNeice was adequate, I thought the bulk of his fat chin and neck weren't matched by a believable girth, and so I found myself -- much to my own disgust -- wondering, for the sake of continuity, what he looked like naked.

I remain a fan of both the Reginald Owen and Alastair Sim versions, although I find the idea that someone created a musical version of this fine tale (which I've read numerous times) despicable. (I won't even touch the idea of Kelsey Grammar recreating the role, and will instead continue to pretend he doesn't even exist.)

To summarize, if you're only going to watch one version of this classic Christmas story this holiday season, try the Stewart version, though it's somewhat hard to find. TNT, which also created the greatest version of Stephen King's "Salem's Lot" has done it again, and while it took me 10 years to finally notice, I'll stand by my record of only supporting the best.

Jarret Liotta on Writing -- Part I

2009-12-02T19:01:00.000-08:00

December 2, 2009: Many of my most loyal readers constantly ask where I get my ideas for essays and stories. (Maybe they don't actually ask, but I can tell what they're thinking from the way they look at me.) As a rule I don't like to talk about myself, but I thought I'd make this rare exception and, per chance, enlighten some of my fans and followers as to the esoteric processes that drive and motivate this complex and -- dare I say -- scintillating young man.

In actuality, I get a great number of ideas when I'm out walking. I like to walk because it gives me a chance to ponder my victories and agonize over my defeats, as well as get a little exercise.

Just tonight, for instance, an idea came to me for creating a lengthy fantasy interview with a car company executive who explained to me why headlights were being made much brighter these days. (The blinding headlights I kept being flashed with also played a role. The exec's name was Milton Dickwad, and in that frustrating politically charged avoidant manner unique to corporate PR men, he tries to convince us that the brighter, sharper headlights, though they hurt one's eyes beyond reason, are actually generating more energy back toward the cellunoid (whatever that is) through a very complicated process we're all too stupid to understand, thereby making the car more fuel efficient and, therefore, more environmentally friendly. And, of course, in the most classic of mass-American-appeal fashions, we blindly take his word for it and exit the interview grateful for the little pine tree air freshner he granted us gratis.)

Another recent idea, which came about thanks to a coworker, after he saw me drinking a bottle of Snapple iced tea, centers on exposing the sham of Snapple's "Real" Facts inside their caps. Very few people seem to know that these "facts" are mostly lies, but not all them. In order to differentiate, you have to visit their stupid website. I find this somehow monstrous, as they're planting stupid ideas in my and my children's heads every time we're stupid enough to read their stupid caps (and believe me, we're that stupid!) It infuriates me, because I know from experience that misinformation, once learned, will, over time, become fact in a brain, unless it's replaced. Therefore, unless we take the time to flush the information out by researching the facts -- and I promise you, we never will! -- we're stuck going through the rest of our lives believing erroneous trivia about bees and Indian monkeys and a whole variety of other stupid things ... Fucking assholes! I wish I'd stop drinking their stupid tea. (That'd show them!)

But I digress. I merely wanted to point out how easily and arbitrarily my story ideas arise. The key is getting them down. In some strange way, once the idea hits, in an instant I can almost feel exactly how the thing is to be written, and yet I still have to discipline myself through the process of doing it. More often than not, as you can see from the above, I flippantly make some notes on one idea or another, then never get back to it. On rare occasions I'll regret it, and maybe even revisit an idea many months later, but mostly those ideas are replaced by new ones which -- upon entering the mind -- simply seem like the best, most vital, most original and engaging idea ever to be thought up ... until the next one replaces it ...

Anyway, the most important point is, Why are you wasting your time reading about these stupid ideas when you should be away from your computer nurturing yourself with ice cream and pornography? Haven't I taught you anything, O favorite readers of mine!

A Practice of Gratitude

2009-11-27T10:02:00.001-08:00

November 27, 2009: Your numerous comments of congratulations and praise following my last posting were a warm, loving and well-deserved tribute to not just me (for really, I merely consider myself the overworked conduit that brings us all together) but the idea -- the concept -- of this Blah-ugh community that you and thousands like you have helped foster. The warmth and love were palpable, and a fitting memorial to this season of gratitude and abundance, which has falled upon us like so many beanbag chairs.

I know I have a great deal to be grateful for, and I thought it appropriate to devote a minute (and let's be honest, also fill some space) with a short look at some of the things that keep me from pulling the trigger. There are many obvious ones, of course -- my kids, my sexual prowess, my ability to juggle -- but let's look deeper ...

Chinese restaurants are routinely open during high holidays, and I really appreciate this. More than once, during my lonely years, I had nowhere better to go than Golden House in Westport's Compo Shopping Center. There I was met by the jovial warmth of people who only speak English as a second (or even third) language, and while the restaurant was usually empty, I was full, mostly from overeating (although the time I found the giant grasshopper-like insect fried into the inside of the top of the silver dish cover still stands out in my mind as the most vivid Golden House memory).

Churches and synagogues also top my gratitude list this holiday, for they always have clean bathrooms. How many times do we find ourselves traveling the roads -- on foot or petrol -- only to be overwhelmed by a colon-cramping need to evacuate. We're not animals, after all, at least not here in the suburbs, where pastoral bathroom options are few and hard-to-find. But a beacon-like house of religion -- one with an unlocked door -- offers its greatest, most vital service by allowing anonymous passers-by the opportunity -- and yes, this is an opportunity -- to spend a few solid, still moments in contemplation and get both their spiritual and colonic needs met. (Please see my August 30 posting = "Finding God in my Toilet" = for more details on this topic.) I can't say enough for these wonderful organizations (even though they don't pay taxes and many of them perpetuate narrow-minded tomfoolery).

Finally, a shout out to records, which after all are light years better than CDs. Despite the crinkles and scratches, the sound is better, but more importantly, the VIBE is better. Something just happens when a record is played. Something comes forth from the speakers that is simply NOT there with CDs. On a whim, we finally purchased a crummy little turntable from Target last month, and I've been introducing my children to my beaten-up record collection. I'm finding myself doing something I NEVER did with CDs, which is just LISTENING to the record -- not doing something else, but just glancing at the big, beautiful album covers and LISTENING. And the sound is different. Mid-career Beatles songs are full, reverberate, echo and fill, unlike their poor CD counterparts. And why shouldn't this be so, as anyone who knows anything about sound knows that records are literally playing MORE of the recording, while the digital process of CDs breaks the recording down, eliminating miniscule parts of the actual piece in between the "pixels," so to speak. I'm very grateful I can FEEL the difference, even when I can't hear necessarily it ... and you will be too!

There's more, so much more, but I grow weary and bored, and I have to get back to work on my second novel, which well may be my first novel, since no one has interest in the first. But as my friend Manny L. used to say, "F*** 'em if they can't take a joke!" And I've got my records, my Chinese restaurants, and my holy toilets ...

Touting "Fray" Magazine ... and Myself

2009-11-24T13:58:00.000-08:00

November 24, 2009: I was surprised to find five new issues of "Fray" magazine in my mailbox this evening -- the kind gesture of a thoughtful editor faced with the guilt and hardship of running a print quarterly in the 21st century. The guilt comes from not being able to enclose a check. While I've made various vows about never writing nonfiction for free -- never letting the fruits of my hard-learned craft nourish the public without fair recompense -- something about the issue's theme -- sex & death -- moved me to put out. Still, I'd be lying if I said my motivation was anything but an addict's interest in seeing his name in hard-copy print.

As many of you know, my professional credits are significant, and my writing abilities -- following more failed attempts than I'd ever want to remember -- have blossomed to the point where I consider myself one of the better writers in America. (No, I'm not trying to be funny. This is one of my serious pieces!) But the market has run dry, and most of the people I used to do regular work for no longer have the budgets, nor perhaps the nerve, to fund my radical, though eloquent, copy. (Bastards!)

Perhaps it doesn't matter. We should all continue to marvel at the frail value placed on the written word, and maybe start to embrace it, like we have television and rap music -- two mammoth blisters on our collective cultural toes, though not without some rare examples of merit. Or maybe we should just marvel at MY failure to achieve any ongoing success. I know it has ME confused. Is this due to my laziness, my failure to be as aggressive and focused as possible? Or is the failure that of the American people, who thus far have been unable to recognize my greatness and adequately reward my work?

I would have to say the latter, and I'm trying to be objective. (Believe me, it's not easy, but I'm a professional.)

Since I started writing this Blah-Ugh! I've let my principles deteriorate somewhat. Let's face it, I'm merely scraping for any glory I might receive by way of my 12 faithful followers (although I suspect that at least nine of you have stopped reading altogether -- Bastards!).

The point is, I'm happy to get my "Fray" copies, which have a retail value of $60. (That's a lot of money in the Sudan.) More importantly, I'm pleased to see my article ("Once Around the Corpse") featured in one of the more lovely nonfiction journals on the newsstand today, obviously run by a thoughtful editor -- Derek Powazek -- who, despite being of Polish descent, has created an intriguing product without resorting to macabre, catch-all crowd-pleasing topics, like violence or eroticism.

Order your copy of "Fray" today, but demand Issue #3, because you'll want to read my piece on getting a hands-on tour of a corpse at a medical school. It's vintage me, for those of you who aren't yet fed-up.

Next time: A shout out to all my new blog Followers!

That Ugly Singer

2009-11-21T18:57:00.000-08:00

November 21, 2009: Has anyone noticed how ugly this woman Susan Boyle is? She looks like someone painted a face on a giant big toe, then put a wig on it. I was just about to start writing a movie review of "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade" when I stumbled upon her picture and felt it was much more important that I report on her ugliness, rather than the film.

In case you don't know, she's that British singer from that British TV show that everyone loves so much. But I suspect it's primarily because she's so ugly and yet can sing fairly well that people like her. I guess she sings alright, but as an Oscar Wildian conoisseur of Beauty and Truth (and their subtle, if fabricated, connection), I have a hard time separating her innate ugliness from whatever chipper art she may produce.

Knowing me as you all do (or pretend to, those of you who merely suck up to me in order to say you know someone who writes a popular blog), you know that I've long maintained that appearances mean little to me. But did you ever stop to think that I was lying? In fact, they mean a great deal, and while I still struggle on a daily basis to even get my face shaved, my cologne applied, and my cuticles sanded, when it comes to looking outside of myself at others, I consider it my God-given American right to not be subjected to anything less than a striking, soigne apparition.

I grew up in a little town called Westport, in Connecticut, and here appearances are very important. Then I moved to Los Angeles, where appearances are vitally important. To now ask me to suddenly separate all of my most fundamental beliefs from what is, in essence, the good-natured choices of those with the luxury to be liberal, seems ridiculous and almost rude on your part. (What's your problem, anyway? Don't I do enough for our relationship without being asked to endure disturbing visions of the dissipated?)

Some of us don't have the luxury of accepting everyone as they are. We've been bred to be intolerant, and so our views and needs should always be given priority, if only because we suffer much more than other people, and at far, far less.

Again, I'm not disputing Ms. Boyle's right to exist, but merely her right to exist so publically. There's a reason God gave her a grand, old voice, I'm sure, and part of it involved His hope that she'd keep that hideous face of hers under wraps.

Stereotypes Revisited: Part I

2009-11-17T19:34:00.000-08:00

November 17, 2009: I don't like the idea of perpetuating stereotypes, but if I don't do it, who will?

These are pretentious times we live in. People are scared to acknowledge the historic truisms of race, nationality and religion, for they fear being perceived as insensitive, rude and narrow-minded. I, on the other hand, have no such fears, and little, if any, inherent shame. Therefore, the task falls to me to, if not simply perpetuate stereotypes, at least clarify them for the good of all people, regardless of what weird religion, race or nationality they might belong to.

Let's begin with race. It's long been understood that the Hispanic people are prone to theft. (Of course, we all know this is a gross generalization and should not be extended to anyone actually reading this, but I did work with a Mexican guy who was always stealing my pens.) It must be understood, however, that the Brown people don't actually steal more than other races. They simply get caught more, because they don't take the time to be as sneaky. This, therefore -- while smashing one myth -- actually confirms another, which is that they're lazy, and would do well to devote more energy to more creative thievery.

Another popular myth involves the superior athleticism of the black-skinned -- or Negroid -- race. They run, they jump, and they tackle better than anyone, by and large. But is this really based in truth? In actuality, most White athletes are scared when going up against a Black one, for they fear retribution via gun violence later on in the locker room, or out at the nightclubs. This stems from another stereotype that is basically true, which is that Black people want to stick it to the White man at any opportunity. And can you blame them? I feel it's a credit to their race that they generally confine their rage to the playing field, or tennis court, where it belongs.

Moving on to another racial group, the Red man (or "Native American," as he's been popularly portrayed) is stereotyped as an alcoholic bum. This is true, of course. At the same time, it could be said of almost all men throughout the world's blue-collar belt. The subtle difference is that the best Indian (and there, I said it! Somebody had to!) stock was butchered during our country's adolescence. The remainder were mostly the cowardly Indians, like the one in that pollution commercial who cries all the time. This is what they left us with, except for a few enterprising brainiacs, who created casinos and, like so many others who've suffered in the White world, continue trying to stick it to Whitey (although I'm still suspicious that some of these so-called Indians are really just Sicilians wearing turquoise).

This brings us to the White man -- the Caucasoids, by strict definition (at least according to this old atlas I have in the basement). These "Europeans" (or "crackers," as they're popularly known) are historically viewed as arrogant, self-righteous ninnies with a flare for genocide. Of course, one can't adequately examine the coarser qualities of this race without considering the impact moronic commitment to religious fanaticism has played in the execution of so many juggernauts, as well as basic fear. (But more on this later. I'm getting tired.) The stereotypes, of course, are mostly true, but have to be looked upon with some forgiveness owing to the fact that all the other races are virtually out to get this one with a potent mix of thievery, sports-related violence and casino gambling.

Next time we'll look at the numerous stereotypes associated with nationality, beginning with all the people who talk funny.

Cologne Associations and Other Pressing Matters

2009-11-10T18:01:00.000-08:00

November 10, 2009: The glut of requests that swamped me this week, demanding new, more-frequent entries into this online carnival I call my Blah-ugh! have been inspiring, as well as just a tad embarrassing. My God, you people are like shameless salivating dogs, begging me to keep up with this terrible electronic forum. My head tells me I should cut you off like the obsessed junkies I know you to be, and yet my continuing codependency makes it impossible for me to refuse anyone, regardless of the personal cost.

That said, I have so many things pressing upon my small mind that I'm struggling to find an appropriate focus for today's entry. My wife, for one thing, is making me so mad, as is my cat (and don't even try to convince me that the two of them aren't in on it together, because you won't!). Work demands remain substantial, as do those upon my very spirit, which, as you all know, is fragile, and even smaller than my mind. But, for the good of the Internet, I have to settle on something, and so I arrive on this weekend's purchase of some cologne. (Am I spelling that right? I always confuse the scent with the Italian city, which I understand also has a distinct aroma.)

Frankly, I couldn't afford to invest in my favorite, so I had to investigate the tacky line of stinks named after famous (though not necessarily fragrant) individuals -- Bob Beckham (or whatever his name is), Elizabeth Taylor, and some weirdo named BoBo, or ZoZo. Who the hell knows!

In true spirit, my codependency prevented me from being too inquisitive with the saleswoman. You see, I suspected she thought I really just wanted to get free samples, would blast myself with a couple of atomizers, and then flee. I couldn't risk having her not like me, so I fooled her -- and everybody in fact -- by not smelling anything, and instead opted for one of those mini collections of samplers -- six ornate bottles of classy stink.

I raced home like a greasy little immigrant stereotype, eager to hide the utter shame of my ethnicity behind a veil of fragrance, hoping to discover that one inviting smell to help make me a better class of citizen ...

And it worked! The results have been terrific, in fact. Already I feel much less of a need to shower. My clothes, also, will not need to be washed as frequently. At work I noticed people looking at me differently -- sort of standing back a bit and admiring my new funk. My kids have even gotten much quieter when I'm around, slightly agog in admiration of their father's new smell.

If you haven't yet, I'd highly recommend you go out and grab yourself some formidable stink perfume to help improve your lot. Be wary not to get something that smells like someone you dislike, as you'll begin to hate yourself, and a cologne shouldn't make you do that.

Anoint yourself with something that brings out those finer qualities, and then watch the results. If you're like me, you'll find yourself in a whole new cloud of utter aromatic possibilities.

Baseball Blah-ugh!

2009-11-05T17:11:00.000-08:00

November 5, 2009: Despite my excitement over the New York Yankeees being in the playoffs, their final victory yesterday left me feeling empty and depressed.

It stands to reason that the greater part of my interest in the games centered on the opportunity to distract myself from my feelings, and let me tell you it worked wonders. Night after night, I glued myself to that stupid blue screen and watched pitch after pitch, as if I could ever differentiate between them. When the Yankees led, I grew bored (and drifted over to the Food Network), sure it was no great challenge for them to walk their way through the playoffs. When they were losing I felt worry and wondered if there would ever again be hope for the salvation of the known universe.

I used to love playing baseball -- softball too -- and it's a sad substitute to be groping for any vicarious fun through a television set. I used to love watching the games, too, but now it's a depressing phony spectacle. There are no Earl Weavers or Billy Martins to vent emotions, kicking dirt on umpires and cursing with rabid zeal. The fans no longer mob the field and bring the lovely spontaneous chaos of reality. Television won't let that happen anymore.

Now when the players win the big game, they jump up and down in a cluster near the mound -- up and down, up and down, hop hop hop. They always look the exact same, no matter what team it is, as if they've studied films of how teams are supposed to celebrate victories and act accordingly. The players all make the same comments after the game. The faces all affect the same humble grit and bonehead spirit.

Another sad thing is the inevitable hats and shirts, which are rushed out of the winning dugouts before the umpires are even off the field -- prepared special hats to highlight the spontaneity of the surprise victory. Surely another batch was waiting in the losing team's dugout, too, but what becomes of those? And if that wasn't awful enough, literally before a minute had passed since the last out of yesterday's Yankee victory, Fox TV ran a commercial selling these same hats and shirts that were being handed out to the players.

Perhaps I'm being too critical. The truth is, the pointlessness of investing all those hours in staring at a blue screen may just finally be catching up with me. I'm beginning to realize that that time may have been better spent doing something more constructive -- playing Yahtzee with my kids, finally cutting my overgrown lawn, or perhaps studying pornography on the Internet.

Halloween: The Real Pinnacle of Christian Values

2009-10-31T07:20:00.000-07:00

October 31, 2009: I'd be remiss in my duties did I not take a few moments to meditate on my favorite day of the year -- Halloween (or, as it's more popularly known, "October 31st").

Contrary to what many of you rabid Bible-wielding fanatics (Shannon & Matt) may think, this is not some unholy celebration of Satan and those surly, disenfranchised minions of the Dark Lord (meaning those chubby people who wear lots of mascara and face jewelry, and listen to Led Zeppelin). No, in fact Halloween is the very essence of Christian community! Halloween is a powerful demonstration of old-fashioned Christian values, and at its best exemplifies the kind of orderly, clear-thinking unity that makes the Right Wing just get all wet down below.

On what other holiday (and I ask rhetorically) do we have such interaction with our neighbors? While 364.25 days of our average year are spent shunning our neighbor -- avoiding looks when we're cutting the lawn, turning our heads when we pass them on the street to avoid having to speak -- (at least this is how I handle it, and I consider myself quite average, despite my dashing good looks) -- on Halloween the excuse comes to walk right up to our neighbor's door and (through our children) demand gifts, (the whole time assessing how good or bad their home furnishing taste may be as judged by their front foyer). If this isn't a perfect opportunity to "love" our neighbor (as Jesus demanded in one of his mad rants), it's certainly a great chance to tolerate their presence because they're giving us candy.

Let's also not forget how good it is to see everyone in costume. Even ugly people can look brilliant in the right ensemble, and nothing brings the joys of youth and exuberance to the elderly or infirmed like a wolfman mask.

I can't say enough about Halloween. To me it was best captured by a certain old photograph taken by the late George Silk. (See the pic below my profile ... On the right, you fool! ... Yes, I know it's too small to see, but I'm a writer, not a computer technician! What do you want from me?!) Also, the movie "Halloween III," with the underrated Tom Atkins, as well as Orson Welles' "War of the Worlds" broadcast, bare trees, deranged pumpkins, and wooden xylophones played in minor keys.

Keep a Jack O'Lantern burning tonight, or throw food in the yard to appease the dead. (That's Halloween 101.) Expect the weirdest, for the barriers are down, and don't trust that the people you're interacting with are even them themselves, for this is Halloween, and it's not like other nights or days.

But most importantly, remember that Halloween is the antithesis of evil. It is, in fact, the real answer to the notorious moral cavity gaping in our society, like a sperm whale's blow hole. For all you fearful and fearing zealous Christian crazies (Matt & Shannon), who like to bash the off-beat celebration, ironically Halloween is the answer of which Ronald Reagan so rabidly dreamed -- a chance for folks to commune in the safety of darkness, and fool their neighbors into thinking they're all part of a loving, happy, magical world.

More on Mating (Geese)

2009-10-27T12:35:00.000-07:00

October 27, 2009: Many of you found my August 27 essay entitled "Squirrels Mating" both informative and vaguely tantalizing (sick freaks!). I thought I'd take another column and revisit more of the subtle psychosexual phenomena that continue to make the animal kingdom such a sleezy place.

To begin with, just this morning I took note of a rather unusual sample of wild poultry down near the library. Amidst the familiar gaggle of dirty, importunate Canada geese that frequent the parking lot and intimidate passers-by with their surly goose glares -- they're like an outlaw motorcycle gang operating on webbed feet -- I saw one strange, deformed-looking bastard goose waddling amidst the greater gaggle. He almost looked more like a wood duck by shape, except he was patched with a cockroach-colored brown, and shared some of the basic structural elements of the other geese. But he was clearly a weirdo and I took a moment to wonder how he came about to be, strutting along in the middle of the group, obviously accepted, despite being much smaller and funnier looking.

This got me to thinking about his parents, and what a strange couple they must have made during their courtship. I began to wonder how their parents might have viewed the union, and whether talk among their goose neighbors might have ever bordered on the vicious.

But more to the point of our scientific analysis, this seemed to be yet another tangible example of the strange -- stupifying, in fact -- sex habits of wild animals. Clearly on some level the Canada goose's motivation in making it with the wood duck stemmed from bizarre social dynamics relating to goose gangs. It's a well-known fact that people in gangs are four-times more likely to copulate with other species, and three times as likely to sire mutants. Obviously the same rules apply to geese, who are a naturally vicious breed, traveling in V-shaped attack patterns and often using their slippery grey-green fecal matter to injure creatures much larger in size.

Discovery of this hybrid goose prompts the question of whether the purest forms of the breed might one day die out, owing to the deviant sexual appetites of the creature. While more research is required, it does not bode well for the fowl, nor for Canada in general.

The Indians Sabotaged My Windscreen

2009-10-20T14:15:00.000-07:00

October 20, 2009: The Indians sabotaged my windscreen. It just goes to prove that the historic resentments driving the Red Man are very much alive and continue to pester the White Man (meaning me) on a daily basis.

It began early yesterday morning when I found my auto's windscreen covered in thick frost. (I don't blame the Indians for this, but who really knows?) It was a thick layer, and I didn't have a scraper. (It's October, for God's sake, and I'm still raking my car.)

At a loss to find a cassette tape box to do the job properly, I hurried in and grabbed the first thing I could find -- a ceramic hot plate from New Mexico -- brown earthenware with a Pueblo-style design. Drawn to any straight-edge in a storm, I hurried back out to confront the frost. (Honestly, I would even call it ice, and I'm not one to overreact to crystallized water, though I've been known to be suspicious of some snowfalls, owing to their variable quality.)

To make a long story short, I scraped vehemently and dynamically. (Some people would have just scraped, but I'm not like other people, as I tried to make clear in my last entry.) It wasn't easy, but I got the ice off and found the view I so needed to make my drive an accident-free one. However, this suspicious brown ceramic Indian hot plate, which my silly wife fatuously purchased in Sante Fe (for I would never pay for such a devilish item unless I intended to send it to an enemy) used some sort of weird sweatlodge-type magic and caste a scratch spell upon my windscreen.

I couldn't believe it! It was black shamanism! It's not like I've ever won so much at the casino to warrant their ruining my car! And yet it's perfectly clear that, by virtue of my heritage -- I've long suspected that someone among my stupid ancestors did something stupid to the Indians and now I'm stuck to pay for it -- one tribe or another (probably those characters from the casino, who don't even look like real Indians but more like Italians) have started on the war path.

Well, this is why I have a blog, to let people know that aggressive acts like this won't pass without a calling for accountability -- at least emotionally accountability.

It's time we take an honest look at exactly what's going on. I, for one, will no longer be sitting still where so-called Indian Art is concerned.

The Lies of Chap-Stick

2009-10-14T18:42:00.000-07:00

October 14, 2009: There's no softer way to put it: It's simply not easy being me!

Sure, you could argue that with my steady brain, uncommon sense, and vaguely debonair, yet boyishly handsome looks, I'm clearly a candidate to hold the world precariously in both hands. Yet outward appearances can be misconstrued. Far be it from me to dissuade anyone's inane compulsion to compare their knotted insides to my questionable outsides, but I want it understood -- once and for all times, on the record -- that it's simply not easy driving this mortal form through the unsteady rhythms and antics of our sordid third dimension.

In particular tonight, I want to highlight my demented baseline perfectionism, which demands a completely unhealthy dissatisfaction with every thought, thing, experience and individual that ever crosses my critical path. You see, I have a zero-tolerance policy, and that's because I can't help but see the cracks in every plan, person, product or piece of plaster put before me.

Mind you, I'm not happy about it. It just is. It's probably not in everyone's best interest -- I'd doubt it could possibly be in mine, because overall I have to spend so much time being annoyed -- and yet it is so.

Now, the reason I'm mentioning any of this is because, for a long time, I've been wanting to write a very cold and critical appraisal of Chap-Stick. You see, when I was a child, it was my habit, on those cold winter mornings when I walked to school -- and no joke, it literally was a mile, and actually uphill one of the ways -- to curiously open my Chap-Stick stick all the way up, so that that little sculpted tube of flesh-colored wax would peek all the way out from the container, almost equaling it in length. (You could even take it out, wave it around, I guess, and insert it back and, gently pressing down upon it, get it again screwed into the tube.)

It was many years later, however, on some random winter day, when I haphazardly decided to once again twist out my Chap-Stick to its full length. Imagine my shock and disappointment when I discovered that, though the tube had stayed the same size, the amount of pink lip balm was nearly cut in half. I was -- I still am -- dumbfounded. (Dare I say, I find myself getting emotional simply recounting the grotesque injustice!) What had happened now?! Was there nothing reliable in modern times? Must every institution pull deceiptful tricks to try and strain more money out of the population? Did every icon fall in gruesome form from its once-reverent pedestal, only to shatter like so many fragile icicles attached to the winter memories of my poor incongruous mind?

But yet ... But yet ... the question became, why did I have to shine such a harsh light of judgment on the Chap-Stick people. Were they not merely a clueless hive of frightened people like me, worried they wouldn't meet each quarter's commitments, and straining their balmy minds to find whatever means they could to stretch each dollar, despite the consequences on the few frustrated fools like myself who had inadvertently found themselves in the know. Was it not still a grand product, with the all the best memories of winter and chapped lips attached (y'know, like the so-many icicles ... Stay with me here ...).

So it comes full circle. And I have to tell myself that Chap-Stick, like all the rest of us, is doing the best it can. I can only struggle to reel in my critical contempt, and find acceptance in the product they produce, for it still smells great and does for my lips what few other waxy substances can.

And yet ... And yet ... sometimes ... I ... just ... can't ... let ... it ... go ...

It's not easy being me! Trust me! It's not!