On Global Warming ...

January 7, 2014:  Once again I’ve touched a nerve with my candor, concern and comedy. What the hell is it about me that makes people want to fight or leave the room or cast stones or cast shoes or polish shoes or wash their hands … ?!

People are demanding I make a definitive statement on Global Warming, so I thought I should hit the pause button on my Seagal movies—I just got four new ones from the library, incidentally, including Black Dawn, The Keeper, Into the Sun and Born to Raise Hell—and take time to explain myself (just like I did to the police when they caught me outside that woman’s window watching her make a soufflé).

Based on the wealth of evidence that various parties have been presenting, it seems like there is ample data and so-called authoritative testimony to support any and each view if someone wants to have that view supported. This is what I find so discouraging about these discussions, because they take us down a pointless road. As much as we’d like to believe it, I really don’t think anyone’s opinion is ever going to be swayed one way or the other, excepting in those extremely rare cases where they’re more intelligent than I am, so all it serves to do in the end is escalate emotions. (Jack and Shannon are just one example, but there are others—Shannon and Jack, Jack & Shannon, Shannon & Jack, Jak & Shannun, Sh'nun & Yak …)

So what could I possibly add to any of this, except more stomach acid.

No, I’m thinking logically, as both Mr. Spock and myself are wont to do. I’m thinking about the details that dance on the periphery of this whole discussion, and that’s where I see something worth talking about.

For me—a simple, albeit extremely handsome man—it’s all about what I can do to address environmental issues at the grassroots level. One of my prickly peeves is people who pointlessly idle their cars for lengths of time, despite a state law that limits it to three minutes (and I believe even disallows it entirely outside of school buildings, which ironically is where so much idling takes place—and not just in the administrations).

It seems such a simple and obvious thing to me that the world—at least the town—is a better place when auto emissions are reduced. I mean, who could argue with that? Is anyone in favor of exhaust? Doesn’t it kill hundreds of suicides each year in their garages? Doesn’t it smell awful? Isn’t it just good old-fashioned pollution and shouldn’t we want less of it?

Is there anyone (excepting perhaps C. Montgomery Burns) who isn’t in favor of recycling? I mean, can’t we agree that if it’s possible to create a little less plastic, or use a little less paper, or re-use stuff over, that we’re helping the world at large? I mean, this is what we’re telling kids in nursery school. There must be a modicum of truth in it.

So I think for most of us, that’s all we need to know. It’s probably enough to know anyway. And while I appreciate and admire those who actively work at creating good changes (and I’m not saying what they are, folks!) at the larger levels, for most of us schlubs—even the incredibly handsome ones—it suffices that we perhaps do a bit more walking when we can, try to kill the car engine a bit more often, and try to be a little conscious when it comes to our consumption in its various forms.

(Once again, we return to consciousness and all the glitter it entails. Please refer to other Blah-ugh! posts, like this one … or don’t. What do I care what you do, as long as you shut that god-damned car engine off, you nit!)

Sometimes I wish I had more power to make a difference, but alas I find I’m just an impotent man (though a gaggle of very grateful women would vehemently disagree!) …

But there is that local opportunity to make things better, and since I have such a short attention span, and such an inability to take much of anything that seriously, at the very least I can … Well, you get the idea!

Okay, Seagal Time! Carry on …

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 …

Ode to Starbucks

December 3, 2013:  I like Starbucks.

I feel like it’s somehow wrong to say it, but it’s true it’s true! I like Starbucks. It’s the closest thing I have to a real home. (And isn’t that sad?!)

In fact, I wrote a poem about it:

Starbucks, Starbucks, you’re my home

Regardless of how far I roam

In Westport, Norwalk, Fairfield too

I’m always coming home to you

Your plain black tea is on the spot

It’s okay iced, but better hot

I love to drink it from a mug

An earthy option that I love

I dig walnut banana bread

but sometimes get lemon instead

Espresso’s strong to give me hope

It’s great on ice; I won’t say nope

The music can be sort of cool

I tap my foot—a dancing fool

Of course, some things confuse me so

Like what the hell’s “macchiato?”

And other terms like “venti” too

Make no sense to me; do they to you?

But those are only minor banes

The rest is magic, though one question remains

Why does every store in your lovely stable pride

a dour-faced, pale, skinny, pierced, dark-haired girl with tattoos?

I hope you enjoyed that, and as an important footnote, I hope everyone is aware that by simply ASKING the lovely Starbucks staff, they will gladly serve your drink in a real porcelain mug or glass, the way they do in Europe (or so I imagine). It not only tastes better and looks much, much cooler, but you’re helping your disturbed environment and, believe it or not, also getting a TEN-CENT DISCOUNT!

So spread the word. And don’t be ashamed, like I am, to love Starbucks—my home away from home!

Jarret's FFF: The Most Awful Gatsby

November 23, 2013:  Good Lord!

I’m less than six minutes into the new Great Gatsby movie and I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed such all-out crap! Who, on god’s brown earth, gave this bozo Baz Lurhmann permission (let alone money) to make a movie. It’s a crime!

I never would have imagined anyone could begin with so much and turn it into so little. This is an outrageously laughable production, beginning with a painfully comical performance by Tobey Maguire, who I actually like, but who did his turn as Nick Carroway like a bug-eyed worm with the social poise of Lou Costello. He looks like he’s trying out for an elementary school acting part and some near-sighted silent film actor is directing him and keeps telling him, “Be broader! … Broader!!” It’s horrendous.

I haven’t even seen Leonardo DiCaprio yet, but I honestly don’t want to. And whoever is playing Daisy Buchanan—I don’t even care what her name is—couldn’t be more boring. And I could forgive her if she were drop-dead gorgeous, but all my expectations were dashed in the first millisecond of her reveal. (While I wouldn’t object to being seen publicly with her, I’m trouble to introduce her as my secretary, or perhaps my hairdresser.)

It’s astounding to think how much money this travesty cost—how much Larman was given to waste. (I won’t even do him the meager respect of spelling his weird name right.) I consider it a joke and a crime how anyone could build such carefully architected stupidity and put it before an audience. He could have followed Maguire to a urinal and filmed it and it would have had more merit as both a story and a work of art.

Please understand, while I’m a great fan of the book, it’s not the raping and ruining of that novel that bothers me. Truly, I’m ready for a movie-ing up of the thing. It’s fine. But this is just such a weak example of filmmaking, and simply stings of his over indulgence and tacky style over substance. Really, it’s got me dumbfounded, and I’m not usually dumb, as we all know.

Now, I consider his Romeo and Juliet a colossal piece of kaka. How that ever got made I’ll never know. But what’s so amazing about Lorhman is this bizarre reverse gift he seems to have to make his actors looks completely ridiculous and amateurish. When DiCaprio finally made his appearance, it was stunning to hear him unable to decide on what accent use—a poor conglomeration of Louisiana, British and Brooklyn, all geared to supposedly capture a character from the Midwest. Ouch! The tragedy goes on … And again, the way this amateurish—Yes, AMATEURISH! Completely AMATEURISH DIRECTOR—does his dips and cuts and special zooms and exploding computer-graphic silliness, it’s a wonder that any self-respecting actor would work with him.

Then there was the party scene, with the big bass beat rap music and the 20’s characters gettin’ the yo-yo-yo out. Puh-lease! I can just hear the sycophants standing around praising Blerman’s genuine genius. It makes my stomach hurt. “Oh, Buzz, you’re brilliant! Oh, the way you combine the sensibility of the 20’s sensibility with your own sensibility … It’s just … so … so … so sensible!”

The word pointless is thrown around a lot these days, especially by people who read my Blah-ugh! But I think we have a new dictionary definition of word following the release—I think it just came out; I don’t know; I don’t care; I don’t follow any of it—of this spectacle. Why any time was invested in this monumental crap will join the multitude of twisted human endeavors that will forever baffle me.

But don’t take my word for it! Rent the DVD from the library for free and watch the first seven or eight minutes and try to keep from laughing when Muguire bugs his eyes out … I dare ye!

I Remember Mania ...

October 23, 2013:  It somehow makes perfect sense that I’d have had a grandmother named “Mania,” which was pronounced “Mahn-ya,” but certainly doesn’t look like it. Mania Andrusevich was my mother’s Polish mother, and she’s been on my mind lately in relation to food, parenting and the coming winter …

Just tonight, as I embarked on filling my gaping god hole with a marvelous concoction I’ve created and lately often indulged in that combines mashed potatoes, peas and chicken in a sort of shepherd’s pie filling, I thought of her and her selfless love giving in the guise of food.

This woman loved to make me food, in that old-world immigrant way that somehow seems a lost ghost our kids could never know or imagine. She lived in Manhattan on the Lower East Side and used to come up to Connecticut quite a lot for weekends. And she’d cook and cook. Saturday mornings I remember especially well, when she’d make an enormous pot of these simple potatoes that cooked for hours and tasted like nothing better than you could imagine.  And she’d make mashed potatoes and stuffed cabbage and meatballs and potatoes. (God, everything had potatoes in it.) And chicken soup and pancakes and pot roast and chicken with little potatoes all around it …

But it wasn’t just the awesome quality of this simple fare. It was the way in which she offered it. I lived with her in my late teens in the city, and I would come back to the apartment at one in the morning in a state of wasted gracelessness, trying to sneak in softly so she wouldn’t hear. But she always heard and would come out tut-tutting, would share her scolding comments, and then ask if I’d eaten. Then she’d literally prepare a salad, a fresh fried steak, French fries, and a bowl of frozen peas with those fabulous little pearl onions, and I’d sit like a dope in the living room and with squinting eyes watch Channel 9 Up All Night—this is back when there were less than 10 channels—and stuff my gob with this grand wealth of culinary love (or culinary enabling, depending on how cynical you’re feeling as you read this) …

When she died a couple years later, she left me with a quantum of guilt, for I recognized the extent of her selfless caretaking and love, and I knew I had never repaid it, or even perhaps never could have repaid it. That sucks when you’re like me and sometimes juggle the precarious self-esteem of Charlie Brown.

And so it goes, as my friend Linda Ellerbee always said. (At least I think she was my friend, though I never got a thank you for all that toffee I sent her.) Anyway, it goes … so …

But again today, as I scrambled to get the chicken parmegian made for my daughter’s dinner, and yesterday, when I made my son’s refried bean after-school snack, or this evening, when I was cooking the chicken for their lunches, or this morning, when I made their breakfasts, it got me to thinking about my grandmother …

And yes, one of the thoughts centered on how great it would be having her here so I could sleep in. But that was a passing thought, because—even though it qualifies as work, and I sometimes don’t have all the motivation I can muster—I really love doing it. It’s an honor, really, and a privilege to have them want me to make Glop (the recipe for which I provided in a recent Blah-ugh! posting), or to make a spaghetti sauce, or to bake something, or “that sandwich” I make … or the potatoes!

You get the idea …

And so we pay it forward, year after year, a collection of clueless clowns bumping our heads again the well wall of humanity's clouded stupidity, trying to find something that makes sense ... and it's the food. It was always the food ...

My Flocking Followers

October 13, 2013:  A strange suspicious email from some "feed" people is prompting me to compose an impromptu Blah-ugh! These people are claiming they have Followers of mine, which is both baffling and arousing. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do in response, but I thought if it was really true and I actually do have new Followers (and not just the same 23 I've had for four years), they deserved some new fodder from this virtual crap factory we call the Blah-ugh! If any of them are reading this, I urge you to contact the authorities right away, or just send me an email in 100 words of less explaining why I'm your God! (jarretliotta@gmail.com)

There's so much to talk about. So much to malk about, and yet my ongoing midland blases--a poor, pathetic perpetual indifference to all things--keeps me short on enthusiasm for anything relating to reality. That said, let me tell you about some of the better movies I've watched lately -- "Oblivion," "Star Trek - Into Darkness," and of course "Ed Wood."

Alright, enough about those. Let me tell you about the X Factor. It's this interesting show involving Simon Cowell and shameless people from the heartland who have dreams of glory and songs in their hearts and spleens. I'm enjoying it so much, I'm even able to tolerate watching all these modern hand-gesture performances from people with sideways baseball caps and finger-pointing theatrics. Just grand stuff. Though I find Demi and PooPoo, or whatever her name is, especially vomitous, I'm quite taken with Kelly's level-headed insight, though if she says "Y'All" one more time, I'm going to defecate on my keyboard.

Another thing that's keeping me going these days is pumpkin pie, which as you know is my favorite--ice cold with lots of artificial whipped cream. I find myself sitting naked on the kitchen floor at odd hours eating it with my fingers, listening to Wolf Man movies in the next room. This is living! (At least, this is my life!)

Speaking of living, it was dead last night at my performance, and I'm wondering why none of my so-called Followers ever take the time to come hear me sing. In truth, I can sing circles around some of those X Factor people and have even begun giving some serious thought to entering the competition, once I perfect my ability to cry with efficacious fervency. And despite my awful sick sore throat, and perpetual despondency, I was quite good last night, even after I dropped my pick in my tea. I'll be playing next month, so the hope is that my readership will organize a fitting field trip to support their leader in the heartland of Connecticut.

Speaking of television, I've also been reading a lot, which is good, except some people poo-poo Dilbert books as literate fare. I disagree. I'm also discovering renewed joy in my H.G. Wells, Charles Dickens and a wonderful how-to book on witchcraft, which is very informative and may be the find of the year in the library's discard bin.

So, nothing else new to report. People still seem on the verge of killing me every time I drive down the road, owing to their text messaging, my weight has been staying relatively low, though the pumpkin pie binges promise to change all that, my ears are hairier than ever, my feet hurt constantly, but I'm glad to report my fingernails don't seem to be growing as quickly as they have in the past.

Halloween is coming, by the way, and this is good, except for the goblins and toilet paper.

In closing, with regarding to my potentially faux followers, and in the spirit of the holiday at hand, I can only think to paraphrase Linus Van Pelt in his letter to the Great Pumpkin, "P.S. -- If you don't exist, please don't tell me. I don't want to know!"