Pink Panther of the Apocalypse

Lord Jesus Christ was hit by a car this week. Makes me want to pack it up and stay inside.

Between the taser-tottin' sport-cops gettin' all trigger-happy on the baseball diamonds of America, and the Inspector Clouseau wing of Al Qaeda on the prowl, rigging SUVs with M-80s and fertilizer like a poor man's Tim McVeigh, it feels as though the good guys and bad guys alike might zap me through their exuberant conformance to the rules on one hand or some nefarious incompetence stumbling over accidental "success" on the other.

Now before anyone gets their panties in a bunch, I'm in no way equating the police with terrorists. In fact, I'm all for tasing drunken or just-plain-goofy morons and the fruitcakes who break the rules should be sentenced to spend the rest of the season in the ballpark parking lot in a taser-based "dunk" tank so that tailgating fans can take turns shocking the shithead until he drops into the water (and then it's back onto the blank for you so another lucky fan can have a go).  Nor I'm comparing those who would kill and maim innocents to Peter Sellers' lovably bumbling French detective, except to note that Clouseau and the would-be Times Square car-bomber seem to share a flair for the idiotic.

Even dumb shits get lucky every once in a while, though, so it's probably best to stay put under the bed and wait it out, listening for the galloping hoof beats of the impending Apocalypse, hoping to make the guest list. Assuming the end-of-days aren't canceled because some wing nut mowed down the son of god in their Canyonero.  Wouldn't be the same sort of party without Him.  Sort of like starting a Soc/Greaser rumble without Dallas Winston.   Meanwhile, I'll try my best to stay gold ...

Greed Heads and Tales

I finally caught Neill Blomkamp's District 9 Saturday morning. Brilliant film on so many different levels. Messy and wildly uneven, utterly original. Not necessarily very singular in the story itself, which at its core is as old as the corruption, oppression and racism that fuels it. No, this originality springs from its style and form, its base simplicity. The melding of science fiction into a grim story of slums, poverty, indifference, greed, abandonment, exile, comeuppance, redemption. No storybook ending and with very few truly sympathetic characters. It's not pretty - it made me almost physically ill at one point - but it is in the end beautiful.

I followed it up with a recording my DVR slurped up off IFC: The Source. It's a 1999 documentary on the Beats, covering the scene and people from the 1944 introduction of Ginsberg to Kerouac through 1997 when Ginsberg and Burroughs drifted off this mortal coil. Real interesting mix of historical footage, interviews, and contemporary celeb fans Johnny Depp, Dennis Hopper and John Turturro providing dramatic interpretations of the words of Beat pioneers. I identify with the Beats more than any other "movement" and have always been fascinated with those who forged the philosophical, cultural and creative ideals behind the name. The movement encompassed a mishmash of individualists, none of whom played bongos or sported a goatee or uttered "daddy-o" except in ironic disdain. Great stuff.

Great stuff to come in this vein too!  A movie focused on the 1957 obscenity trial resulting from the publication of Ginsberg's poem Howl the year before makes its theatrical debut on the 21st of this month - fittingly entitled Howl - and guess who has a prominent role in the flick?  None other than my gal Mary-Louise Parker!  I'll be on a break from work and will be lining up to see it for sure (my favorite actress and my favorite poem together in one place - could be a disaster but I'd never know).

Anyway, clearly I believe that digression - not discretion -  is the better part of valor.  What was my original point ... ?

... oh, yeah - lots of philosophical and political similarities between District 9 and the works of the Beats: fear and suspicion of conformity, oppression, corporate and government power, etc. So I worked up a sizable anti-establishment head of steam fueled by the combined energies of this double feature. When success is measured by power and money, the successful will often become so largely based upon their greed. Not always, certainly. But often. So it comes to pass that the greed-heads rule. Not all of them make it big, of course: there are plenty of poor, weak, loser greed-heads (often they end up being the loudest to compensate for their lack of success). No, it's only the most ambitious and driven of this breed who rise to the top. But rise they do. They can't be stopped, it's the human condition. Bummer.

After that one-two punch I changed gears to watch some playoff football. But with the TV sound down and stereo volume up, blasting my latest iTunes playlist "greedheads" (lots of Clash, Rage, Gang of Four, MC5, Sex Pistols, Black Flag, X ...)

I turned off the football last night after the Jets win, deciding to pass on the Eagles demise and instead catch another flick I missed in theatrical release: The Watchmen. It kept to my anti-establishment theme of the day and was dazzling, dark, and supremely entertaining. Good call on my part.

Sunday's turned into a very lazy day. So lazy in fact that I co-opted what was Saturday's post - this one - and made it Sunday's "gem" so that I'd feel the day wasn't an entire waste on all fronts. Well, why couldn't you have simply whipped up an honest-to-goodness new piece, you say? Did I say it was a lazy day? It was that lazy. And I really don't have anything to say.

I'll be enjoying the Simpson's 20th Anniversary special tonight ("In 3D, on Ice!"), but likely not the new episode of the show it celebrates scheduled just before it. It's my opinion that the first 9 or so years of the Simpsons was the best television ever produced before or since (and I include all categories of show and/or broadcast in that equation). It chronicled (and skewered) contemporary society better than any art I've come across (better than the news and other non-fiction stuff too).

The best comedy show from the beginning to the end of its run was also produced in the 1990s: Seinfeld. If Groening and company had pulled up stakes in 1998, the Simpsons would win that prize in my pantheon as well. It's not just a generational thing, either: I've been an ardent student of television my whole life and have seen them all at length. Every episode of I Love Lucy and Your Show of Shows, through the Honeymooners, Get Smart, Barney Miller, Cheers, and so on. They certainly deserve mention, as does Arrested Development in this millennium. Meanwhile, the last 11 or so years have been increasingly uneven for the Simpsons, but I guess that was bound to happen.  It still has more moments as a shadow of its former self than most shows have in their prime.  So - happy 20th, Springfield!

Now it's back to the grindstone for one last work week in corporate IT as a full time employee, at least for the foreseeable future. I'll be sure and soak in the political infighting and typically dysfunctional corporate goings on. Now to be sure, I'll see it all again soon in new settings but from the perspective of a consultant, an outsider, a dispassionate observer. And with the knowledge that this too shall pass (in a few days or weeks when that engagement ends and I can move on to the next happy corporate family with their own unique twists on the typical corporate pain points). But before all that, a break for a couple of weeks. Talk to you then.

'Sunday's best, Sunday's finest. When your money's in the minus.' - Declan MacManus, 1979

I must admit I'm pretty pumped for the new Curb Your Enthusiasm kicking off tonight. Sunday evening is most definitely the cable "must see TV" night (has been for a while now for a lot of folks).

My past love affairs with the Sopranos and Six Feet Under cemented the night for me personally. Add in the Simpsons (at least through the 90s), Family Guy today, and Sixty Minutes since time began. That all makes for a tough act to follow.

For others, it's also the night of True Blood and Entourage. I didn't get into either show, though I admire both. For Blood, maybe it's a genre thing. Other than Lost Boys, I've never been much into vampire lore, though it's obviously in vogue what with the HBO show and the Twilight flick. For Entourage, I like the cast and the premise, but just couldn't get up for it. Dunno why.

For me now, Curb and Mad Men represent two of my top four currently running TV series (30 Rock and Weeds round out this holy quartet). I also dig Dexter, another Sunday night staple, and am looking forward to new stuff there coming soon.  As an aside, I'm going to give the new Bored to Death a spin. It's on HBO right after Curb and I'm lazy - also it looks like it might be pretty funny.

But Larry David, with his Seinfeld "reunion" the central conceit looming in the season ahead, and the continuing trials and tribulations of the gang at Sterling Cooper, as they flaunt their dashing brand of sixties cool, will keep my Sunday evenings percolating for the next little while for sure.

I only wish I could say as much for the remainder of the week.  Speaking of which, I'll likely be slowing down my production of swill here as I take a plunge back into the deep end of the asylum swimming pool at work tomorrow. It's usually mad this time of year for our kind  (retail-centric e-commerce providers).  Lots of features to get ready in time for the holiday season ahead. 

I'd been mostly wading in the kiddie pool this summer, deliberately trying to keep to the shallows and careful to take my Clozapine. Well, that time has past, school's back in session and my pills have been flushed down the drain. In other words, hand me a snorkel and flippers and make way for a big fuckin' splash into the deep, dark world of corporate IT insanity!

Seriously, I still plan to put the brakes on any blatantly excessive workaholic behavior, but some things are easier said than done.

'I was born in a pool, they made my mother stand. And I spat on that surgeon and his trembling hand. When I felt the light I was worse than bored. I stole the doctor's scalpel and I slit the cord'

"A good fuck is much better than TV!"

Oh, Spam, is there nothing you can't teach us?

Words as wise as any fortune cookie just waiting to be cracked open and pulled out of my email filters.  This truism is just the latest in a long line of tidbits, parables and proverbs I regularly receive from the great spam slicer in the sky.  Many are wise in ways the sender likely didn't intend.

Often it's hard to tell exactly what the author's original intent might have been.  For example, the sex/television comparison promised in the subject line of the aforementioned email was in fact not provided: neither sex nor TV is mentioned in the message body (from what I can tell, it's an excerpt from a badly written sci-fi short story parsed from somebody's livejournal entry).

That spells disappointment for this television addict, with so many questions unanswered. Better how?  Better than Mad Men?  Better than Weeds?  Better than the mid-90s-era Simpsons?!? What defines a 'good' fuck? Is there a 'bad' variety?  Sadly, I got a no-such-address bounce-back when replying with these follow up questions to the originator, one 'Candice Farrell '.  Oh well. Pity.

Even as I was pondering all this, a friend let me know that Jim Carroll died on Friday.

The news hit me harder than I would have thought.  After all, I hadn't heard from the man regarding new material in quite awhile (to the point where I'd been re-re-reading his earlier work for lack of the fresh stuff). When did he last release an album?  A book? I couldn't tell you (though I could look on his Catholic Boy website, had I been of a mind to).  And frankly he'd been admittedly living on borrowed time since his first days as a prepubescent junky.  Making it to the ripe old age of 60 was quite an achievement, given the appetites he was loath to deny over the long term (he was, as he put it, more inclined toward shadows).

But as I said, Jim's passing hit me hard.  I read Basketball Diaries when it was first published in 1978 and it ignited this Seattle boy's love affair with New York City, along with my latent discovery of Mean Streets, Ramones and Velvet Underground that same year.

Jim's prose had an immediacy and sly intelligence to it that spoke to me like nothing I'd read to that point (I hadn't yet discovered Hunter Thompson or Lester Bangs).  It was Carroll's 16 year old voice coming at me from those pages, remember. It felt like he was talking to this 16 year old as though 1965 was 1978, instantly obliterating the 13 year gap from pen to publication.

It took Jim's death to bring back my adolescent memories of a lasting epiphany: a realization that words themselves were pure joy when you put them down to paper in interesting ways.  Paper might have given way to bits and bytes, but the feeling remains. 

Why had Mr. Carroll slipped off my radar in ways that Thompson and Bangs hadn't?  I guess the fact that he wasn't the most prolific writer had something to do with it. Working on a novel since at least 1991 (the year he first performed public readings of material from it), it was finally due to roll off the presses this year, at least as reported by Catholic Boy back in Feburary. Boy, that was fast! :-)  I'm crossing my fingers that it was truly 'done' enough to be published posthumously. And that's the thing too: this is his first novel. Apart from Basketball Dairies and Forced Entries, Jim's output was pretty much exclusively poetry with maybe the odd short story, while I've tended to prefer the narrative form.  But still, he's right there on my literary Mount Rushmore beside Thompson, Bangs and F. Scott Fitzgerald. It took his passing for me to climb back up there and kick the dust off his likeness to recognize the face again.

Oh, yeah - let's not forget: Jim also put out some pretty good music with the Jim Carroll Band.  Catholic Boy is still one of my favorite records.   When the City Drops Into the Night and the title tune - songs rarely get better than that.

Rest in Peace, Jim.

God said to Abraham, "Kill me a James"

The wise philosopher and contemporary of mine, one Abraham Simpson, is credited with a wealth of sage advice, a few of which resonate especially strongly for me today:

• The metric system is the tool of the devil! My car gets forty rods to the hogshead and that's the way I likes it!
• Grover Cleveland spanked me on two non-consecutive occasions
• I used to be with it, but then they changed what "it" was. Now, what I'm with isn't it, and what's "it" seems weird and scary to me.
  

Contrast this wisdom with the garbage coming from the vacuous idiot who just defecated into my TV in the form of yet another of his endless parade of quackery advertisements.


Am I the only person who has an overwhelming urge to drop kick James Lehman in the nuts and tear that goofy handlebar mustache off his face, mailing it back to Porn Valley, 1977 where it belongs?

That's what ol' James reminds me of - some old out of work porn star from the 70s who somehow finagled a "masters" shingle in social work from a fly-by-night mail order paper mill "college". Every time I catch him mumbling about his Total Transformation package on the tube, I mentally Photoshop in a big ol' Tonka Truck full of pharmaceutical grade horse shit backing up to him slowly then unloading, burying him up to his eyelids. Filling up that pie hole physically with what it's already stuffed full of metaphorically.

"Lying, acting out, blah-blah-blah ... I'll bring peace and sanity back to your home."

Really, James? I find it's quite the opposite: your mere presence on the screen compels me to act out by plastering you with lye (at least in my mind's eye). That doesn't sound like either peace or sanity.

As Abe would say, "Who are you? Get off my lawn!!"