In Search of Lee Steele

April 24, 2012: Before we did anything else, I wanted to take a moment to acknowledge the righteousness of Lee Steele. This talented individual was kind enough to plug my book Space Case on his website ...

Now, I intended to just mention this in passing, but then I suddenly realized I wasn't entirely sure Lee was a male. You see, while we're on a comfortable first-name basis at this point, it's all been by way of email, and I don't think I've actually seen a specific reference to his (or her) sexuality. (Is that the right word? Somehow it seems so dirty seeing it right up there on the screen like that.)

So, like a good reporter, I decided to search the web -- I'm too lazy to search anything else, after all -- and I didn't think it would be complicated anyway ... but as these things tend to do, it opened up a whole can of worms, and now I'm forced to force you to have to consume them.

For starters, did you know there was a homophobic British footballer named Lee Steele? (At least I think he's British. I should probably look it up, but one can of worms is enough for one day.) Fortunately, HE was canned, following his twitter, or his tweet, or whatever the hell it is people do nowadays, and so there's one less homophobe trotting the soccer fields of the U.K., and that's probably a good thing. (At least I assume he's a soccer player. Hell, he may be a South African nose guard for all I know, but he's giving the name Lee Steele bad associations, and the fact that he met sound justice is all we gay celebrants really care about.)

Meanwhile, another Lee Steele in Chelmsford, Massachusetts, was apparently making $182,853 in total compensation for the year 2010 in his capacity as technology director at Mercury Computer Systems, including over $55,000 in stock rewards. (He's 61, and has been a Financial Leadership Partner with Tatum, LLC, among other business-related things I couldn't even begin to understand.) But learning this, I've become quite sure my time would be better spent in the technology field, and had I known of all the opportunities in Chelmsford, I would have relocated to Massachusetts a long time ago.

INTERESTING NOTE: I think Massachusetts -- or the Nutmeg State, as it's sometimes mistakenly referred -- has a long-standing reputation as either a state for gays to vehemently fear, or a prancing homosexual haven. I'm really not sure which and can't take the time to look it up right now. Irregardless, I know the Irish in Boston really hated blacks in the sixties (or at least some of them did) and I don't think that's right, (although to be fair, it might have been the Italians who hated the Jews; it's sort of confusing at this point, which is another good reason why it's so much easier when we all get along).

Getting back to Lee Steele and her (his) many guises, it's odd for me to think that the supple Katonah, NY, pilates instructor -- inventor of the accredited Steele Pilates Mat Certification Program -- could be the same woman kind enough to do me and my wonderful book this turn. (I do, however, adore her picture, and if anyone is worthy of a "Steele" moniker, it's got to be THIS woman.)

It's a great name, after all -- Lee Steele -- and if I were Ian Fleming and decided to start a new spy series (short of the inconvenience of being dead 50 years), I'd call my main character Lee Steele. But as we see, Lee Steele comes in many guises, and while I might see him as the next James Bond, or the hard-working Stamford Advocate writer who knows a great book (SPACE CASE) when he comes across one, others will know Lee as a sexy pilates contortionist, an overpaid techno-suit heading toward retirement, or a big-mouthed Limey homophobe whose recently found himself on unemployment.

There's probably a lot more I can say on this subject, but just how many worms can we turn in one Blah-ugh! entry?! For my part, I remain grateful for Lee Steele's support, and hope the rest of you can learn from his (or her) example and try to get this stupid book (Space Case) moving.

My new favorite friend Kathy G., by the way, has gone to great lengths to help support my worthy cause, and at this point I'm giving some serious consideration to renaming my Blah-ugh! (or perhaps daughter) after her.

NEXT TIME ON THE BLAH-UGH!: Jarret will either share about his great love of sleep, his ever-increasing affinity for butter and butter-related products, or his new novel SPACE CASE, which is indirectly available through Lee Steele's main website.

Spring in the Air; Fall in the Lake

April 17, 2012: Hurrah! Huzzah! Good Morning! ... The season, like the worm of proverb, has soundly turned! Spring is here! Yes, I'm almost sure of it. And while I detest insects, motorcycles, hot weather and idle chat about the prospects in the Bronx, I love that flowers are out, women are in heat, and I have all this extra daylight with which to watch television.

(Excuse the interruption. My vitriolic daughter is sassing me about making her breakfast. "I'm working," I explained. "I'm trying to make the world safe for democracy!" She just doesn't get it. It's cereal for her!)

With the disturbing thunderous ponderance of tiny, fueled engines -- leaf blowers, lawn cutters, chainsaws -- has come the proliferation of little, square, yellow signs sneakily situated on the corners of the properties around my neighborhood, (which is clearly bug-infested for one reason or another). These signs indicate the spraying of chemicals, mainly to kill bugs. Hurrah! It's bug killing week, and the armies are out in force. Spring is here! The wasps are rallying and those giant centipedes think this is THEIR year to finally reign ... but we'll show them otherwise, won't we! This is, after all, America, and we're not about to let any creature without a backbone come into power.

The trees are another matter. They're like Ghandi-esque buddhists in their benign protests against modern humanity. A fast chainsaw will take care of them. These once-noble giants are now known to be the vicious killers I've always suspected them to be. (We all know about the woman who was attacked and KILLED by a tree just two seasons ago during one of their virulent storms; try and tell me that was an accident! Just try!)

It's good to see that the CT State Highway Department is taking brave steps to abort their operations BEFORE they can get started. More and more trees are being tagged along the Merritt Parkway (which ironically is an "historic" highway, owing to its breathtakingly beautiful bucolic vistas and all -- the concentration of trees, I guess). Well, the state is seeing that this folly gets reeled in, because any one of these trees could reek havoc at any time -- along the Merritt ... Route 136 ... or IN YOUR VERY HOME!

I've long been suspicious of trees, as many of you know. Like certain dogs, and even some people, they've clearly got mysterious ulterior motivations brewing in their bellies. And while they may come off like gentle giants all full of druid kindness and solemnity, they're really little more than a renegade motorcycle gang operating on silent wheels.

This is why it's always a practical exercise to start each spring by cutting down as many trees as possible, if only to show the others who's boss. The same is true for the bugs. For while it's true that we NEED some of them for RESOURCES, like flies making honey and crickets making hors d'euvres, in fact, owing to mankind's smart resourcefulness, we don't NEED any of these slippery little fiendish creatures sneaking into our homes and laying eggs in our ears and brains and giving us welts and heebie-jeebies.

Yes, the season of rebirth is upon us (or birth, depending on your religious affiliation). Time to get out and show the world how pale your upper torso is. Time to start sneezing and rubbing your eyes. Time to stay up late and watch the spring constellation come into sight, like so many tiny stars that form random little pictures in a creative man's mind ... And speaking of stars, don't forget that Space Case is still available at Amazon, to make wrong those of you who actually thought I'd go through an entire Blah-ugh! entry without mentioning it ...

Ah, spring! We hardly knew ye!

Jarret's Frank Film Forum Reloaded

April 11, 2012: Many of you still write asking that I reinvigorate one of the Blah-ugh!'s most talked about features -- Jarret's FFF (or Frank Film Forum). As part of my ongoing pathological effort to make others happy, despite how much it drains me, once again I demurely succomb in a fruitless effort to please and make new friends (who STILL won't plug SPACE CASE, no matter how often I ask them).

Heavy-breathing readers will remember my concentrated analyses of such cinematic variables as Catherine Zeta-Jones's precarious dancing ability, Sean Connery's symmetrical chest hair, and of course Anne Hathaway's inability to act altogether. Toward that end, while I don't have one specific movie I'd like to laud or skewer at this time, I thought I'd catch you up on a few of my most recent filmagraphilogical experientialia.

To begin with, if you've never seen "Death Wish V: The Face of Death," you're closing yourself off from one of the more remarkable offerings in viewing pleasure (and I'm not just talking about the breast scenes). I won't directly speak to the production quality, directing or acting -- although the great Lesley-Anne Down (or is it Lesley Anne-Down?) holds her own -- hands down (or is it hands-down?), and Robert Joy takes a vibrant turn as the demented Freddie 'Flakes,' and appears far more comfortable in drag than I ever could.

More importantly, this is a movie that satisfies on a gut level, especially when bad guy Tommy O'Shea is thrown into a vat of what is either fabric softener or lye, and sizzles to death. Charles Bronson, who plays the legendary Paul Kersey, is clearly exhausted by the role -- he delivers his lines like he's ordering Chinese take-out at Wong Fu's -- yet his stone-carved face -- like a cigar store indian at a poker game -- does most of the acting for him, especially when he actually manages to visibly move a feature (like in the remarkable scene toward the end when he blinks).

All in all, this was a most enjoyable watch, and provided me with all the kinetic film satisfaction of rubbing a double-chocolate brownie on top of my head.

Another recent return to movie magic was my ninth viewing of "The Matrix," which I love very much, even though some of the acting is highly suspect -- I mean, what's with that guy Mouse?! And, of course, Keanu Reeves would be the first to rip his own precarious stylizations, which make even his most intense, intelligent and multi-faceted characters turn into benign California surfer dudes (NOTE: he's still in some of my all-time favorite movies, including "The Devil's Advocate" and "Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure," and I love him dearly.)

But what a great movie is "The Matrix," beginning with the fact that it's all bathed in green. (I love green, and I especially love when people and foods are green, unless they're supposed to be green, or it's envy-related green, in the case of some people, and certain vegetables.) The best scene, of course, is the kung-fu fight, with that awesome music, but my favorite shot will always be the sexy Carrie-Anne Moss (or is it Carrie Anne-Moss?) elf-like in mid-air before she karates everyone and goes running around the side of the walls like a Bugs Bunny cartoon character ...

Needless to say, the two sequels were rotten, but I didn't see them in the theater, so maybe that might have helped make them better. (Although we both know it wouldn't have.)

Speaking of which, I rarely get to movie theaters these days. I used to think it was because I didn't have time -- (what with marketing SPACE CASE, my new alternative experiment in quality fiction, which still could experience the runaway success of that new movie with the kids who kill each other, providing my hapless "friends" start doing THEIR job and talk up the stupid thing! (I want that review, Holly!)) ...

But truth-be-told, I really can't stand sitting next to people in public places (let alone private places). I simply won't go to a movie or theater if I can't have an aisle seat to begin with. Worse, being cramped near strangers (or friends, for that matter) just gives me the heebie-jeebies. (Blame my mother, if you must, who taught me the myriad cautions relating to soiled humanity.)
So I'm more than happy to stay at home, open up a can of Clamato, and watch an uninterrupted (albeit skipping) DVD of my next film, wherein I can pause during naked shots (like in "Death Wish V: The Face of Death") and savor the quality.

Once again, I see I've gone on too long, so I'll put off the rest of this until later ... On a separate note, a special thanks goes out to all the daring individuals who took the time to offer support to this debacle I call SPACE CASE via FB.

Remember -- without your ongoing support, I'd be nothing, and I'm not even that much WITH your support, so imagine how important you are to me! God go with you, but moreso with me ...

A Short Essay on Planned Hopelessness

April 3, 2012: Owing to the abbreviated Connecticut winter, everyone's coming forward with their new and strange predictions for the coming summer. My neighbor, who I don't really know and who I'll certainly take steps to avoid throughout the warm weather, was recently -- just last week, in fact -- expounding on the great number of deer ticks we can expect in the coming months.

"It's gonna be a bad year," she said, eyeing the automobile in our driveway as if she were considering how well it might serve her to develop a relationship with our family.

The thing is, nobody ever seems to predict GOOD years. It's never going to be a great year for people who dislike bugs, or a mosquito-free season of sunshine. These amateur prophets all seem to operate with a Nostrodamus-like leaning toward doom and hopelessness, and never offer portents of positive possibilities.

It's the same with cold seasons and flu. People love to declare, "Something's going around" and "Everyone's sick!" but no one ever observes, "Gosh, have you noticed how well everyone seems these days?!" Aren't there ever times when things AREN'T going around?!! Can we ever marvel at how healthy our community is feeling?

Meanwhile, I'm trying to decide how aggressively I should continue the marketing of my new e-novel SPACE CASE, which as you know is dirty and violent and the perfect book for our disturbed, voyeuristic culture. A friend suggested that I create a "page" on Facebook, and saturate all my "friends" with postings, as this is the way of the present. It all seems terribly rude and intrusive to me, and yet -- as I'm growing more and more fed up with mankind and its failure to save trees, halt text-messaging, and stop making movies with Will Farrell -- I'm beginning to think my noble, self-conscious efforts to save people trouble and intrusion are being wasted on the wrong species.

Interestingly, it may just be my own negative projection that's making this so hard for me. Perhaps I need to stop assuming my marketing scheme is riddled with the tick-like parasites of importunity. Perhaps I should let go of looking darkly toward the future and trust in the process ... and E.J. ... and these in no particular order ...

Hmmm ... Perhaps I'll just go and make another chocolate cake. Ticks and success have waited this long ...

"I Go Out Walkin' ... Before and After Midnight ..."

March 26, 2012: Well, another week has passed and I'm no closer to anything on my "bucket list," except perhaps my death. One difference, however, is that I've stopped putting undue blame on myself and have started placing it squarely where it truly belongs -- on everyone else.

It's been an interesting week, you see, in part because I've started walking everywhere. And if you want to learn anything about the people around you, try walking everywhere and see how many of them pass you by on the street. "I saw you walking this morning," has become an annoyingly familiar greeting at work, and one to which I have to perpetually keep NOT replying, "So then, why didn't you offer me a ride?" Instead, I find it a great opportunity to brood and embrace that certain otherness that makes me the kind of person who can't just sit on his laurels collecting an exorbitant salary like so many disturbed people, but must also continually express his disturbed notions in a Blah-ugh! (or a Blah-ugh!-like venue, such as an e-novel, such as SPACE CASE, which is really nothing like my Blah-ugh! except it was written by the same person, who was me, or IS me ... or Esme ... so anyway ...)

I've always been vastly disappointed by the collective non-response of my Blah-ugh! readers to my infrequent offerings (excepting the few of you who DO respond, and in whom I'll forever forgive everything, including minor theft and periodic body odor ...). Here it is, I commit not only MY thoughts to paper (or could I call it virtual papyrus) on an almost daily basis, but YOUR thoughts as well -- (Come now, you KNOW I do, and that's the POINT!) -- and in responsive gratitude, you merely cast me aside without so much as a glance because I'm no longer driving that Mercedes that Matt lent me ... (and Matt is a lovely man, by the way, except for the fact that I'm starting to suspect he's really Italian.)

The point is, you should all be ashamed of yourselves for perpetuating the myth that Americans are surly and lazy and have to drive American cars and eat at Duchess. It's disheartening, yes, but also vaguely unnerving, because somewhere in the past -- and I think it was 1975, actually -- we took a wrong turn and have never got back on the high road. And yet we all sit around bemoaning how awful things have become and how too many people text message when they drive and do all this terrible stuff, and yet when I mention that I'm on foot, people look at me like I just shit in their oatmeal.

On a parallel note, I was disturbed to hear from my son that they now install front-seat DVD players, supposedly for the passengers. Now this just takes things to a very bizarre new level, for I still can't get my head around how they allow those television screen navigation systems in cars, let alone mini movie theaters. I mean, it's absolutely comical. Do we as a culture -- as a world -- now really believe that it's not ENTIRELY DISTRACTING for a driver to have a giant blue-light screen shining in their face while they drive?!! No, I'm serious!! I'm just mystified beyond all belief. I mean, am I from another planet and just don't realize it. Please, be honest with me. I really need to know at this point. Am I the result of thoughtless inbreeding and too much Lysergic Acid in my developing years?!

Anyway, I hear my wife coming, so I'd better end this before she catches me. This is no time in America to deviate from what we're all expecting to experience in each given moment, and it's especially way past the time where a good American can raise any sort of question that might rub someone the wrong way. Unfortunately in this country it's just no longer safe to rub anything anymore!

I think it was Gary Neuman who so eloquently sang, "Here in my car I feel safest of all. I can lock all my doors. It keeps me stable for days in cars."

(Who am I kidding?! I KNOW it was him, but I'm so scared to SAY I know because I don't know what you'll all think of me for knowing! ... See! THAT'S what it's come to!!)

The Little Furry Creatures & Me

March 19, 2012: A lot of people don't know this about me, but I have a really sensitive side too. For instance, if a small animal is run over by a car, I feel really bad ... Of course, somehow it doesn't seem as tragic if it's a LARGE animal, and especially a dangerous one, like a bear or a deer, or one of those creepy birds with the really sharp beaks. But a small one, like a mouse, gets my heart every time, particularly if it has a family, or a really good job in the community ...

By the way, I've long meant to tell my friend Shannon W. that her ridiculous theory about racing toward manic road squirrels in order to spare their lives just does not work. She claimed that when some stupid squirrel -- and at this point I'm pretty convinced that they're ALL stupid -- begins that spastic dance before your car, jumping this way and that in some strange mankind-induced mad response to its ever-shrinking, ever-decaying natural habitat ... one should aim your car nose RIGHT FOR THEM, because then they'll somehow magically get out of the way ...

Well, it doesn't work, because I killed my first squirrel last year putting that errant theory into practice. ("What was that?" my daughter asked as the depressing, hollow telltale bump of rodent-under-tire echoed softly through the car ... "Oh, nothing," I said, waxing blase' ... "Did you kill that squirrel?" my son asked, somewhat baffled why I'd swerved at it ... "No, no. It got away. Hey! D'ya wanna get some ice cream? Who wants ice cream? Huh? ...) I'd never actually hit a squirrel before (except once on my bicycle, which is a minor story for another day) but after the dozens and dozens of ones I've avoided by braking or simply turning the wheel, my streak was sadly broken when I fell for this deranged homespun southern "wisdom" from a very odd friend of mine ...

This all reminds me about a wonderful and hilarious scene in my novel SPACE CASE, where the two main characters find a dead skunk on the road. (No, this time I'm being serious.) Those of you who've purchased and read the book will remember the sensitive joys, laughter and basic oddity of THAT moment, while the rest of you will, I hope, feel bad that you're being (rightfully) excluded from this reference ... (Of course, you don't HAVE to stay in the dark, as SPACE CASE remains available for e-purchase at a virtual bookhole near you ...)

This, in turn, reminds me to remind you that I'll be making my first virtual appearance in virtually two-and-a-half months, so save the date. (I believe it's June 6, or 6/6, as someone with satanic leanings might point out.) It's at a local library -- I won't tell you which one, so you'll have to guess! I'll be speaking about the book, about writing in general, and, if there's time, possibly about my insatiable need for negative attention. I want to say I'll hope to see you there, but the truth is, I don't know HOW I'll be feeling about you by the time 6/6 rolls around ...

Lastly, all this talk about furry creatures, and my own innate warm fuzziness, reminds me of the time my daughter got two Japanese dwarf hampsters and they ended up eating one another. It's still confusing to me what really happened, for the little crime scene was remarkably disturbing and just sort of baffling beyond description. One of the hampsters was completely gone, while the other was kind of half-eaten ... and parts of the OTHER hampster were clearly INSIDE the one. The lid remained undisturbed atop the cage, ruling out the cat, who's actually so neurotic that her fear of other animals logically prevented her from being a viable suspect ... It was a quick burial, though, and while I strove to hide the ugly truth from my bright daughter, she quickly surmised that something strange and sinister had taken place between her two exotic, far-eastern pets -- something a western animal wouldn't understand!

Anyway, this is why people shouldn't cage animals, but let them run free in the streets, where they can die from more natural causes, like automobile tires ...

In March I Bash the Irish ... In April, Someone Else ...

March 15, 2012: Beware the Ides of March ... and if not that, certainly beware the Irish. They're a crafty lot, as the movie "Leprechaun" demonstrates, and what with Green Vomit Day quickly approaching, it's important we get ourselves ready for whatever strange debacles may lie just ahead in our dark, four-leafed future ...

But before I go into a lengthy rant against anyone's religion, I think it's important I take a moment to remind Blah-ugh! readers that this Blah-ugh! is less about bigotry and intolerance than it is about trying to create buzz around my new e-novel SPACE CASE, which as you all know is the racially tense story of a bigoted earth woman who's forced to mate with a black man from outer space. (Please understand that the term "black" is appropriate in this case, because this alien's ancestors are NOT from Africa, as may be the case for the typical misconstrued African-American earth dweller who is incorrectly referred to as "black," but instead he hails from a region on the planet Visnoid where skin pigments come in a remarkable range of vibrant colors, including one stylish shade of ebony that would put a vain panther to shame.)

Now, I've completely forgotten what my point was, because I began it so long ago, but you can bet the Irish had something to do with it. Or was it the Italians? This reminds me that I meant to get Italian food for lunch today and completely forgot to, opting instead for Chinese. I can only imagine that this sort of experience is the kind of thing that perpetuates the stereotypes surrounding the Chinese and their craftiness. Of course, there's a good chance that Italian laziness also played its part, along with my own Polish stupidity.

The nice thing about the Polish is that the word is also "polish," which has a nice, clean, well-groomed sense to it. It's a much better moniker than, say, Latvians, or Urkutskians. I'm glad I'm not from Urkutsk, which for a long time I believed was only a region in the board game Risk, but now I think may actually really exist, although its natives are probably ashamed to enter the U.N. because it's such a silly name.

Other countries have silly names as well, including ours. In a sense, we don't even HAVE a name, which is REALLY annoying. I wish we were called SOMETHING, like Featherland ... or Vermeel ... or Kasha ...

Which reminds me of something many of you may not have known, or perhaps cared about -- Did you know Soviet Union translates to mean "States United." Now, does that make any sense? It's moot now, but really, what were we all thinking throughout the Cold War, with such comically juxtaposed names?! U.S. / S.U. !! But what kills me is that no one noticed. I mean, even I didn't for a long time, although I was only born in the sixties, so at least I have that excuse for the early post-war years. What about YOU?!

How did we get on this? I was setting out to make fun of the Jews -- the Sephardic, not the Ashkenazi. I mean, what's with Hanukkah?! It starts on a different day each year. Who designed this religion?! The Polish?

No, but seriously, I'm still trying to figure out if my rampant prejudices and stereotyping are a good thing or a bad thing. (If you're laughing, by the way, they're a good thing, but if you're taking steps to have my book banned in schools, we'll need to reshape this post ...)

In a sense, I feel like a valuable museum-like period piece from another era -- meaning the Cold War -- still an example of that strange, sometimes bitter, sometimes hilarious time when fictional characters like Archie Bunker and Fred Sanford were teaching us not only to be aware of our differences, but to celebrate them with humor and embarrassed arrogance, especially if we felt deep down that our differences were better than those of others, or at least not QUITE as different ...

One nice thing about pre-judging people is that it saves a lot of time. And who has ANY time these days, what with text messages to send and millions of emails bouncing each way and Snooky getting pregnant and all the conversations we've got to HAVE ABOUT Snooky and her pregnancy and her being Ho -- (or a Hoe, depending on your stereotyping decisions) -- and all the new facts bombarding us about other television shows and the magazines about people who are ON television shows and ... It's just crazy!

And that's why there comes a point where we have to just cut corners in some area of our lives in order to make a finer showing ...

So why NOT blame the Irish this month? It'll help balance the joyous festivities of their holiday ... And then next month, we can blame someone else for the warm weather -- perhaps the Arabs!