Content to be Arnold

I was recently reminded of the 21st century necessity to generate crap—I mean content—to continually replenish my rousing marketplace value and keep my awesome name before the unsteady eyes of an adoring but fickle public.

The problem—and you know there’s ALWAYS a problem of some kind—is that I’m not sure it’s humanly possible to maintain the extraordinarily high level of quality that people have come to expect from my intermittent Blah-ugh! pustules. I feel it’s important that I at least try to fool them into believing I’m keeping up with some degree of quality, whether provisions are bright or nye, but given the growing pressures of modern times to make this a veritable joke factory of regularity, I worry that those loyal readers—you guys—will somehow get short shrifted, or short changed, or possibly both, in my zealous attempts to grind a generous helping of delectable pap out of my editorial blowhole.

That said, there is never a shortage of important things to address, beginning with my utter laziness. The good news is I’m coming to see my laziness as a beneficial part of my work pattern—mainly the part where I don’t get anything done. This is actually very important because it makes other things I do seem that much more striking—or at least makes the things other people do seem strike-worthy, and if that’s not public service, I don’t know what is.

But this is about content and I have a lot to get to, beginning with an in-depth analysis of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s autobiography—Total Recall: My Unbelievably True Life Story. People will think I’m being facetious, but I’m actually astounded how informative a textbook it is for me, not to mention an entertaining and rather culturally intriguing pile of pulp. (Kudos to Arnold’s editorial blowhole!)

Still, I want to start with complaints, as they’re more fun. The first—possibly the prime, or even only—is the subtitle, which is grammatically stupid. I’ve spent many minutes wondering if he suggested the title and was then too stubborn to admit that it should be “unbelievable” and not “unbelievably.” (And by the way, if you’re too thick to know why they’re not interchangeable and would need me to explain it to you, you have no business reading a sophisticated Blah-ugh! like mine and I want you to unplug right now and go take an English class!) I imagine him sitting in his sunny office in Venice (CA) with his loving klatch of semi-sycophantic cronies, reviewing the business of the day in his bruised Austrian English, “Dis book, it should be just having a funny, simple title, like ‘My unbelievably true life story,’ because it is unbelievable. Don’ cha see?!”

Despite some of our political separations and his rather cruel treatment of Lou Ferrigno in Pumping Iron and his harsh foreign accent and his crude military haircut and his muscles and his money and his cigar smoke, I really like Arnold. I think his movies are the cat’s pajamas, and I can honestly say—with the possible exception of the third reel of Jingle All the Way—there isn’t a movie of his I wouldn’t call worth at least two viewings, if not many, especially if you have Alzheimer’s and forget things very quickly.

My fond memories of Arnold extend to when he was governor and I was living in California. One evening at a softball game in Brentwood—many of you don’t know this about me, but I was a highly advanced if not particularly well dressed softball player in my day—a cavalcade of very large, ominous black Humvees showed up near the field. The whole game stopped and everyone stood around in a kind of stupid terror, unclear what the danger was, for it certainly all felt very dangerous. A small group of large Secret Service-type men emerged and prepared the way for what turned out to be Governor Arnold, who was apparently stopping in at the adjacent gymnasium to pick up one of his kids, or perhaps watch one of them play basketball or do curling or something.

Everyone stood far away in dumb amazement and fear as Arnold, escorted by his large cronies, paced confidently toward his destination. But being me, of course, I had to jog over—actually putting all the men on momentary alert in what might have been a tense moment had not both Arnold and I handled it with such aplomb. “Hey!” I announced. “You’re the best!” We shook hands and he said, “Tank you!” He was shorter than I reasoned he was supposed to be—6’ 2” my ass!—but I didn’t want to be rude and mention it, though if I’d read his autobiography back then—that is, if he’d written it—I would have drawn a humorous comparison to him insulting Dino De Laurentiis about his height and accent, and we would have laughed … or perhaps not.

But none of that’s here nor there. I can tell you he was very sweet, in spite of his decaying stature. I advised him to start making movies again, to which he declared, “Ha ha!” And now, years later, as I read his book, I think of our moment together, which I suspect he looks back upon with all the acuity he might devote to some forgotten moment he was bitten by a mosquito in his Austrian past.

Now many of you are probably asking why I’m so smitten with this book, and I will say shortly it involves Arnold’s frank description of his Germanic discipline and his steadfast commitment to his vision. He offhandedly describes how he knew he was going to do certain things and at times even imagined them so vividly that it was as though he’d already done them. This is quite fascinating and inspiring, as was his explanation that he likes to go into situation like a “puppy” and not be told any of the negative possibilities that could occur. In fact, at one point when someone was telling him the reason why he couldn’t or shouldn’t invest in his first big real estate deal, he cut him off and said, in essence, “Oh my gosh, I was almost started listening to you and your negativity!”

Arnold offers a variety of great ideas to consider and even, perhaps, live by, provided you don’t get caught boinking your nanny.

It just goes to show that, if you’re open, you never know where you’re going to come across thoughts that could be of value to you—even in some stupid Blah-ugh!

Assessing the Indians

To start, does PREFERRING a particular ethnic group make one a racist? It probably should, to be fair to everyone. In fact, wouldn’t it really be gross prejudice if it didn’t?!

Of course the bigger question rests with why someone who’s so seemingly sensitive to racism (meaning me) is always writing Blah-ugh! entries about race-related stuff. I mean, what the hell’s my problem anyway?!

That said, I really like Indians—the ones from India I mean. Mind you, I have nothing against the indigenous kind—which I believe is where that word comes from, and its original meaning probably sweeps across continents—but today I want to focus on those beautiful nan-eating people we know so well from late-night technical support calls.

I’m not sure what prompted my ruminations for this particular Blah-ugh!, but I’ve always held a fondness for these lovely folks and thought it might be best to examine it in depth. (I mean, maybe I’m deluding myself, and need to break out of my infatuation. And what better time to do it than Valentine’s Day? After all, what have the Indians—or any other national group, for that matter—done for me lately? Plus, as a rule, I’ve never been that fond of people who often go about barefoot, even in summer, because I find feet so remarkably ugly.)

And now I can see I’m already off on the wrong foot, if you’ll forgive the pun, because I’ve just stereotyped Indian people as being barefoot, and I’m sure many are wearing shoes as we speak—my doctor, for instance, and that nice man at the restaurant from whom I buy my malai kofta. Nevertheless, you’re probably going to misunderstand—as you always tend to—because you don’t feel as strongly about feet as I do. Perhaps they don’t taint your outlook as much as they do mine. Well, then consider yourself lucky, for you’re not faced with this constant weighing in of feet and how—like a fungus—they manage to grow over your perceptions of what’s really going on above the ankles.

That said, it speaks highly of my experience with those of Indian descent that I hold them in such high favor, despite their feet (although I could only watch Ravi Shankar play for so long before I’d have to ask him to put some shoes on). With rare exception, all of my dealings with them—be they professional, social or arbitrary—have left me making some mental note about how wonderful people of Indian descent are, and how, given the chance, I would even go so far as to visit their country (should I ever be motivated to leave my town, street, couch or burrow).

Yet while I love the people, I’m not entirely so sure I’m drawn to the culture—or those cows I keep hearing about. In truth—and I can only base this on some old National Geographic articles, a few movies and some related songs, like the Doors’ Indian Summer—I suspect it’s a terribly hot place and I really have limited use for hot weather. I also don’t like the idea of walking around in a nightgown, which I think is very common for the men in places like Bombay and Jabooti, (which I think is in India, but may actually be in Arkansas).

Ultimately we all know I’m deluding myself on some level, even if this is all true. You see, isn’t this really about me projecting my own schema—based solely on my weird perceptions and experiences of life—upon some group or other?! And why would it even have to be a group? Couldn’t it be a musical instrument, or a number, or just about anything that my damaged brain has chosen to hold as favorable for some arbitrary reason?! In all likelihood, some scant past memory—and aren’t all memories really past memories, after all?—is providing just enough positive neural stimulation to prompt rose-colored glasses over my already unfocused eyes.

Therefore, by inverse logic, isn’t this all racism at its worst?! (Cheez, how can you people read this racist Blah-ugh! and still sleep at night?!!) Wouldn’t a fair-minded, healthy , mature individual—which we could all probably agree I’m not—hold no pre-judged perspectives on anyone for something other than their present being (and maybe the kind of car they drive). Hell, if this were Star Trek universe, or maybe San Francisco, I wouldn’t even be conscious of anyone’s ethnicity to catalogue any differences, even if they were positive. (I’d also probably be making it with green women, although this remains more rare in San Francisco.)

I don’t know. Now I’ve forgotten why I started this whole thing—my Blah-ugh! I mean, and not even this particular essay. Perhaps I’m just trying to make a point and, once again, like the quantum mosquito that passes off into future dimensions, it has escaped me.

All I know is I can’t speak to issues about Pakistan or Bangladesh, because I don’t understand them, but I like Indian people, and especially love their food, even though it always gives me fervent diarrhea.

What higher praise could I offer any people?!

I Know What You're Up To!

I awoke this morning completely unsure of anything. This, in and of itself, is not remarkable, but this time my suspicions centered on this brave new 1984 world and how it’s very possibly playing me for the fool I like to think I’m not, (but very well may be, if I’m correct, which actually, if I am, really makes me less of a fool, so you can see why I’m feeling a bit unsure).

You see, I’ve been starting to wonder if the “old friends” I’ve been in contact with through this so-called boon to man—(and gabby women especially)—called Facebook are really who they’re purporting to be. It suddenly occurred to me—in the shower, in fact, as these things are wont to do—that the people who have claimed their connections to me—and have been gingerly sending their familiar communications into my message hole—may very well not be the people they say they are.

How the hell am I supposed to know for sure?! Certainly, it appears they are who they seem to be, but my god, how hard could it be to pull the wool over my bluescreen star-struck eyes?! (Or how easy?!!)

Think about this. I haven’t seen—or certainly heard from—most of these people for a pure 20-year spell, and now suddenly I’m supposed to believe they’re back in my life, like swallows returned from Capistrano, or the shingles?

Let’s work this through logically. How hard would it be for someone to impersonate someone else on computer—someone I haven’t had contact with in all that time? They put up a tiny picture of some vague resemblance, post a reference to my hometown or school or favorite comic character, and they’re in! Some of these people look incredibly different, at least as far as I can best judge from the 4-millimeter-by-6-millimeter pictures. In some cases, it very well could be the same person’s picture, but that doesn’t mean it’s the same person. I mean I can only imagine how many photos have been taken of me when I was unaware—on the street, in the shower …

The more I’ve thought about it, my understandable suspicions have been enhanced by several 2+2 realizations. For starters, why are some of these people being so nice to me? That alone makes me suspicious. They have no reason to be, and I don’t remember some of them being all that nice before. Why this sudden change? I mean, wouldn’t it make sense that they were simply after something? (My rabbit fur hat comes to mind, but it could be anything!)

Who would do such a thing? That’s a good question and one we could contemplate at length. It’s no secret that the government has been very interested in me for years, both for my outspoken editorial writing and my singing voice. Don’t you think these people would like to put some apparati in place to keep tabs on me, to mine my mind for useful information about me and my surroundings, and obviously to impart an occasional subliminal message into my fragile skull, like Eat less foreign food!, or Stop wearing hats!

It’s ironic that we caution the kids about getting involved with Internet interlopers when we ourselves are, in all likelihood, falling victim to the same nefarious scams. I have every reason to believe there are numerous agencies at work here, faux friends, posing as people who seem to know me. It’s quite a disturbing picture, let me tell you.

During one recent contact with a person, I noticed I was asked a lot of questions—personal questions, like about how I was doing and that sort of thing. I mean, What the hell!

Along with government agencies, in all likelihood there are a spate of marketeers involved as well. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that every time we turn around we’re being sent personal advertisements on the things that “coincidentally” link with our interests—pornography, for instance. And how often am I being asked these certain particulars by people who I haven’t been in touch with for decades? (“Hey, how ya doin’? So, what kind of psychosexual fetishes are you subscribing to these days?” And that from a friend of my mother’s!)

I just want to caution everyone that whoever you think you may have rekindled some old flame with, it’s probably all a calculated sham—both on their part and, ultimately, yours. Take my advice—find yourself a book club. At least you’ll know with whom you’re dealing and why, although I'd avoid Internet book clubs if possible.

As for those many people who’ve established computer links with me by way of these various electrical group settings—I’m on to you! Don’t expect me to fall for any more of your inquisitive deception.  It’s not going to work, so find yourself another patsy in my old high school almanac.

From now on I'm only responding to pencils!

Don’t Throw Steven Seagal Out with the Bath Water!

January 5, 2014:  An essay on the great Steven Seagal has clearly been way too long in the writing … In fact, the glory and essence of his work, to me, is well worth the devoting of my first lucid thoughts of 2014.

I’m thrilled to be re-watching On Deadly Ground as we speak, wherein once again he manages to play a white guy who’s simultaneously a lot of other races and nationalities—in this case Native American, or as the Indians used to call them, Indians. He’s an explosives and mayhem expert where oil refineries in Alaska -- and Michael Caine -- are concerned, but he’s also—as you’d expect Seagal to be—the benevolent protector of his drunken native people. He directed this one and I say without hyperbole that he does as fine a job directing as he does acting.

But here’s the shocker—I’m not trying to be yocky. I’m summarily impressed with Seagal—his product and, more importantly, his take on things. This movie, in fact, is quite a thoughtful and noble plea for environmental concerns and anti-corruption, anti-twisted greed, aside from being a great action ride. It culminates with the kind of frank, forthright speech at the end of the movie that I might have written in an editorial, and while it's a tad didactic, I admire it, because why the hell shouldn't we be more didactic when the world is so ridiculously corrupt and polluted. To me Seagal really earns some credit and respect for his vision and audacious care, and while you may simply see him as a one-dimensional action figure—or a serial sexual harassment suit magnet—I just can’t let those claims take away from his work, which I find most enjoyable.

We all need heroes, I continue realizing, at least in fiction where things always work out well. For some, we need a vigilante type who makes us feel safe from the dark forces we feel are roaming our neighborhoods and knocking over our mailboxes. For some, it's enough that an amorphous bad guy gets put away, because it represents a diminution of "bad." For others -- I think me included -- we need someone to stand up to the dark forces wearing suits who profit from the destruction of baby seals and the like. Getting to see them spanked by someone like Seagal gives us hope that the environment won't be obliterated before it's too late, or the CIA won't continue monitoring our brain activity while we're home on the toilet.

You might think I’m joking when I say that I not only re-discovered and remembered how much I adored all of his early work this week, but today (or yesterday, depending on when I finally bother to complete my essay) I went to Fie and bought up a catalogue of his DVD’s. It’s great when you get excited about something that’s not particularly popular at a given time, for you’re able to discover bargains, and so I got the blue rays (Blu-Rays) of both Under Siege I (which actually is one I don’t remember liking that much, but will probably prove rewarding) and Under Siege II (which I like) for only $7.00 each. Also, I scored this awesome four-pack that contains not only On Deadly Ground, but Out for Justice, Hard to Kill, and Exit Wounds. I also got a copy of Marked for Death, which I believe—and as you probably remember better than I—is the one with Screw Face. And of course I grabbed a copy of Above the Law, though I was disappointed that it wasn’t available in widescreen, as all the others were. (I actually passed on Fire Down Below, which you’ll remember as his adventure in Appalachia, but I may rethink that, because there is some enjoyable violence, some of his songs are used, and I think he even square dances in one scene. (Plus, I actually adore hearing him say “Appalachia.”))

You can always tell a Steven Seagal movie because the title is generally a prepositional phrase. This tended to change in his later films, but that’s probably why those weren’t as good. I was a committed fan for a long time, but there were too many disappointments in the 21^st century with his direct-to-video fare, largely due to his weight gain, which seemed to erase his ability to break people’s limbs. The last new movie of his I watched—I don’t even remember the title—he barely seemed involved at all. And while his hairline never seemed to recede (as we all know mine has) he put on pounds as if he might have had some liver damage or something.

To me Seagal is the intelligent man’s action hero, if you can grasp the paradox. (Hell, you’re a Blah-ugh! reader—you’re clearly capable of anything!) From his first movie, in which he lambasted the corruption of covert government antics, he really has strived to make statements, albeit simple ones, that celebrate the downtrodden little guys in their helpless juxtaposition to big business, big government, various corruptions and the like. He really does put some valid political perspective in all these battles (at least in his early movies) and I appreciate that. It helps us savor each groin kick just that much more.

AND THIS JUST IN:  As I readied to post this, I just saw online that Seagal is going to consider a run for governor of Arizona. That's exciting, of course, for the javelina and residents of Tucson. I only hope he lives up to his heroic personas ...

Another Christmas Round-Up

December 18, 2013:  Needless to say, I’ve been neglecting my Christmas duty (which is not to be confused with my Hanukkah duty, which is completely different and involves greasy potato pancakes). Year after year, you lovable fools depend on me to offer my holiday assessments, and being that the big X is a mere week away, I thought I’d better get my tired and curvaceous bottom to it and offer these latest words of cheer.

I know many of you have enjoyed previous Blah-ugh! postings involving Christmas iconography – pieces on Johnny Mathis, Patrick Stewart’s Christmas Carol, and of course Johnny Mathis. This year I’ve decided to again focus on the music, which is of course what Christmas is all about (along with the presents and Lactose-Free egg nog), so I thought it might be of equal—if not inferior—value to share what I believe are some of the definitive Christmas song versions accessible on our burgeoning airwaves (and through telepathy if you’re really, really good).

For me it’s easy to start with Michael Buble (or is it Bubble? None of us are ever really sure) and his incomparable version of “Let It Snow.” (Please don’t make me write that three times!) I was so happy the first time I heard it, and I thought it was Bobby Darin, and it may have been Bobby Darin, or still be, for that matter, but it’s a really great jazzy version and he just sounds so happy singing it … the fool. I especially like that it climbs up a step, or half a step; there’s climbing involved. Just peachy stuff!

I’d be hard pressed to find a better version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” than that sung by the great Jimmy Dean (whoever he is. I just remember he had a sausage commercial when I was growing up). It’s a very good version and has that unsettling overly serious quality so particular to good seasonal music. And as my real fans know, I simply can’t resist anything with the word “ye” in it!

Probably my most favorite holiday performance comes from Celine Dion doing “O Holy Night,” which just floors me. She holds those last monster notes forever and simply doesn’t sound human. I even went out and bought her album after hearing it, but it kind of sucks, to be honest, so I don’t ever put it on, except when I want to hear that song, which I don’t do often now because I’ve become really good at impersonating her in the shower, and when I want to hear the song it motivates me to bathe.

“Sleigh Ride” is one of my very favorites, and of course the best version would have to be The Ronettes. There’s just nothing like it, nor like Ronnie Whateverthehellhernameis’s wonderful churlish lisping voice. But I must say I also love the terrific instrumental Leroy Anderson version, which many of you will recognize from those bizarre old WNEW station identification commercials, where some weird melonhead family members of some WNEW employee would come on and give a video Xmas greeting with a Bronx accent. (It may have been channel 9, but I think anyone growing up in the 1970’s in the tri-state area knows full-well what I’m talking about.)

Tammy Wynette clearly does the best version of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” and it’s such a cold, icy version it just puts me right there outside, like I’m lurking in a pine clearing on a full-moon snow night, watching some Jesus star causing all sorts of trouble. I just love that.

Mitch Miller gets the vote for Silver Bells, as does Moe the Bartender, but that’s another random tangent I can’t get into now.

There’d be no Christmas were it not for the Andrew Sisters, so I have to give them both “Jingle Bells” and “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” Both brilliant hopping versions make subtle cameos in the great movie “A Christmas Story,” both feature that awesome Big Band orchestration so near to my heart and intestinal tract, and while we have to suffer a bit of Bing Crosby in each, it’s worth it to enjoy Laverne, Maxine and Patti at the top of their games.

The Chipmunks probably do the best “Rudolph” version, and feature Rudolph himself singing. But I have nothing that funny to say about it, so I’ll move on.

While I intended to leave him out, as in my mind he is Mr. Christmas, Johnny Mathis’s “Marshmallow World” is beyond compare. But so many of his versions trump others too, I don’t want to go down that road right now, in part because I’m getting really tired and want to get back to watching “Die Hard 2” for the 23^rd time.

And what would Xmas be without mentioning old Nat King Cole, that merry old soul, and his quintessential “Christmas Song” version. But he also has other great versions, such as “Caroling, Caroling” and “Hark! the Herald, etc.” so I wish you people wouldn’t pigeon hole him just because he’s black.

Finally, what song list would be complete without the mealy acknowledgement of Vince Guaraldi and his piano’ed stuff, including “O Christmas Tree,” which has come to represent so much Christmas paste to us all who thrive on the magic of Linus Van Pelt and “5” … (I’m betting that less than five of you will understand that reference, but trust me, it’s a vividly clever one!)

There are many other holiday favorites too, but some are not officially standards owing to the singular recording. Great examples include Paul’s “Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time,” John’s “So This is Xmas (or whatever the hell it’s called)” and of course the Beach Boys’ “The Man with All the Toys.”

Of course, this wouldn’t be the Blah-ugh! if I didn’t focus on the negative, so it’s important to note some of the awfulest Christmas songs and albums as well, which include Madonna’s “Santa Baby” and that “Donde Est Santa Claus” debacle. Other surprising disappointments have been several albums I’ve bought and either returned, destroyed or given away to book sales, from artists I would have otherwise had faith in for holiday fulfillment who failed me miserably – Barbra Streisand, Barry Manilow and John Denver among them.

Anyway, I’m tired of all this nonsense and need to get back to filling my sleigh with nougat and my ears with wax. Please have a safe and happy holiday and if you’re a Jew, I’ll see you over at Chiu Fai Gardens on Christmas Eve …