He was a Head of his Time

In his new book 'Frozen', author Larry Johnson alleges that employees of Alcor Life Extension Foundation regularly abused the frozen head of baseball great Ted Williams, even using it for batting practice, attempting to knock his noggin off the tuna fish cans (!) it was often mounted on. Icy decapitated humiliation for perhaps the greatest baseball player ever to strap on a pair of cleats.

That's just wrong on so many levels. Ty Cobb or Barry Bonds, yeah: knock yourself out, snowball fights all around. But not Ted Williams, for crying out loud. He was one of the good guys. Come 2195 when they thaw him out and slap a new body underfoot, his first glance in the mirror at the new Ted will be marred by a fucking Starkist tin jutting out of his frontal lobe!

Of course, there may be worries for The Splendid Splinter beyond simply a few dings in the membrane.  It seems the boys at Alcor lopped off Ted's head with something like a chain saw, the 'surgery' performed by a crew whose combined medical education consisted of high school biology 101 and a CPR correspondent's course. I imagine the procedure resembled that one scene in DePalma's 1983 Scarface remake (you know the one; if you don't, you don't want to).

Johnson was the Chief Operating Officer of Alcor for several years before turning tail to become a whistle-blower against his former colleagues. He claimed to fear for his safety after allegedly receiving threats of reprisal, penning the expose in hiding for the most part. He goes on to write that families of employees would come in regularly for photo opps with the batting champ.  They'd take Ted's head out of storage and toss it around while they took turns snapping pics, sometimes involving Williams' cranium in bazaar and 'unnatural' poses (as if there were 'natural' ones for such an occasion).

I'll certainly be picking the book up when it hits the stands this week.

Johnson's allegations are vehemently denied by Alcor, who attempted unsuccessfully to block publication of the book. I can't imagine why Johnson would fabricate such over-the-top outrages in the detail he did, for such a lengthy period of time, if there wasn't at least a kernel of truth there. Well, I can imagine why: the usual and obvious reasons of money and ego. But there has been more than enough corroboration since he first raised these concerns to tell me something's fishy in cryonics heaven.

Who really cares?  I mean really cares, beyond the ghoulish entertainment kind of caring that folks like me indulge in.  There are those cryonics believers, of course, and I would think Ted's family might have more than a passing interest.  But anyone else?

In the end, I find the whole thing supremely silly given everything else going on in the world. I'd find the whole thing supremely silly even if nothing else was going on in the world. It's a frozen hunk of inanimate matter that'll never be anything but again. Even if we have the technology to reanimate it at some distant future point in time, it's high likely by then we'll be able to transfer the thawed out neurons into a 'fresh' artificial head for him.

In the end, this is nothing more egregious than finding out people were desecrating Archie Bunker's Chair at the Smithsonian. Actually, I'd be far more disturbed to hear of chair abuse allegations (shuttering to think what some museum workers might be up to after hours when they get bored). That's real Americana you're messing with, punk! I'd be calling for congressional investigations and the whole nine yards.


But a dead baseball player's head? What can you say? Chin up, Ted!

Bowels and Bras and Gas - Oh My!

Today the mind is wandering as I reflect on my porcelain friend and better days gone by.  How long has it been since we last danced cheek to cheek?  Three days?  Four? No.  Five.  Five shitty days of shitlessness.

And no, I don't need your sage advice.  I've tried it all: exercise, bushels of dried fruit, oceans of spring water, enough Activia to make Jamie Lee Curtis herself run for the can, Metamucil by the shovelful. 'Super Colon Blow'-level fiber in the diet. Roughage to the point where the contents of my stomach could be used to peel paint off your walls.

Nothing.

Liquid Plumber is next on my shopping list.  I'm usually full of shit on several dimensions but I try (and lately, fail) to restrict them to the metaphorical variety.  As you can see, at the moment I'm failing.

So in search of online diversion from my offline malady, I stumbled across this wonderful article on an invention that deserves more notice than it has gotten to date: the bra that converts into a functioning gas mask!  I almost shit my pants laughing.  If only.  Sigh. I wish I had one of those bras here with me now because although my bowels may be dysfunctional, it doesn't mean they aren't functioning at all (Jumping Jack Flash, it's a gas, gas, gas).  All smoke and no fire.

But I imagine you didn't tune in to listen to ruminations on my digestive woes.

Indeed.

But I just let fly with whatever musings come running out of my head down onto the keyboard, happy I have the runs somewhere.

What really backs my pipes up is the shitstorm deja vous going on in Congress with healthcare.  I'm sick of the whole lot of them. The Democrats couldn't get a law passed against roasting baby kittens in public parks if they had a 100% majority in both houses.

Far too often the resistance is due to a bunch of unrelated pork that slips in.  But when the resistance is due to right wing rabble-rousing or even just philosophical differences (as is the case now), why can't the Dems just say, "fuck you, we won, deal with it!"  They're not going to get any support anyway so why not pass something useful?  But nooooo, that's just not their way, the weaselly worms.

A healthcare bill of some sort will pass in the end, without any support of the Republicans and without any of the provisions that would make the legislation useful (that is, actually providing healthcare to those who cannot currently afford it). The right-wing fearmongers did a great job in dredging up a small but vocal outcry by those who live in terror that any sort of government expansion means the drum of Soviet-style communism beats not far behind.  Strangely, these same folks have no fear of the expansion of the military (in their eyes, the DOD can't grow fast enough).   They know people in the military.  They aren't government!  They're 'us'!  All said without a trace of irony.  Yo, Charlie - the government is us.

I'm a libertarian liberal (some would label that an oxymoron but I've been called worse).  That means I believe there are hundreds of government entities that should be disbanded (many, but certainly not all of them, belong to the DOD).  That said, a public option for healthcare is both innocuous and essential, in my opinion.  I'd have some respect for the Dems in congress if they disagreed with me but the fact is they don't - they just haven't had the political spine to follow through on their own convictions.

I only wish Hunter was still around to riff on all this idiocy.  Guess I'll just have to be satisfied with Maureen.

But enough focus on these swine, time to watch Washington dismantle the Rudy-less Notre Dame Drunken Irish.  Go Huskies!

A Harvey Wallbanger with a side of General Tso Revolutionary Chicken and a slice of Crazy Bread

I can't wait to see the just-announced remake of Harvey, directed by Spielberg and set to star Robert Downey, Jr. as Elwood P. Dowd. I just caught the original on HBO this morning and had forgotten how much I really did love this movie growing up. HBOSE is showing classic cinema from the first half of the 20th century during the early morning hours all this week - perhaps it's a regular thing and I have just been ignorant of it (it was dumb luck that I had shut the TV off last night tuned to this channel and there it was when I flipped it on again upon waking up).

Harvey reminds me of my father.  Not because the character of Elwood is anything like him (though they do share a powerful taste for strong drink).  Elwood is a friendly loony tune whose best friend is an invisible 6 foot tall rabbit named Harvey and I don't believe my Dad had such a companion (though he likely made friends with a number of pink elephants and creepy crawly things in his day).   No, it reminds me of Dad because he enjoyed the movie so much.  I recall him getting jazzed when he saw a listing for it in the TV guide and remembered watching it on a few occasions with him.

Harvey is a sweet, whimsical story and Spielberg would seem to have the right sensibility for it (as long as he avoids the sappy side of his nature; the story has enough of that built in).  Downey also in theory should be perfect as Elwood, the lovable lush.  He didn't get all those second chances (in career, in court, in life) without having an extraordinary reserve of charm.  And Elwood sort of had a Chaplinesque quality to him that Robert knows well.

Still, remakes are in the end remakes: they're rarely anything but a dim reminder of how much better the original was. And it speaks to the dearth of original, quality stories out there that those holding the purse strings want to take a chance on.   Since they're making it regardless of my objections, let's hope this is an exception to the remake rule.

Speaking of China (well, I am now), I see they just celebrated 60 years of Mao-style Communist rule.

Why is it that totalitarian regimes always put on parades featuring missile-toting trucks and tanks, along with a shit load of goose-stepping soldiers?  It doesn't matter if they're dictatorships borne of the left (Soviets, Cuba, North Korea) or the right (Iran, Libya, 1930's Nazi Germany and Fascist 1930's Italy).

No Macy's Float, no flying Snoopy balloons, no Mickey Mouse, no Regis Philbin and Kelly Lee GiRipaford waving from the grand marshal's convertible.  Usually it's the 'el Presidente' waving from safe inside a bullet-proof vehicle with tinted windows (funny how most dictators seem to have the title of president or chairman, how corporate).  I'll give it to China: their pres was waving out in the open (riding Regis-like in a rag top).  Of course, when all the parade participants are armed to the teeth and parade watchers are way off in the the distance, you can afford to be a bit bolder.  In a novel twist, our future eastern overlords threw in a female militia packing machine guns and dressed in red miniskirts and shiny white go-go boots to entertain the throngs.

But that didn't cover the gaping hole that separates freedom from tyranny. How do you spot a democracy? Regis and Kelly Lee (+ Mickey), of course. Sans missiles.

Speaking of Glenn Beck (can I really have a post that mentions Mickey Mouse but not Glenn?), I see on his show yesterday he was playing some sort of game in which he strings various convoluted leaps of illogical lunacy together in order to link the Obamas to various shadowy corrupt individuals who are working the presidential puppet strings behind the scenes in order to line their own pockets.

According to Glenn, "they" directed the Obamas to Denmark in order to lobby for Chicago in the bid for the 2016 Summer Olympics.  "They" are various commies, terrorists, liars, cheats, and outright criminals. "They" apparently include Oprah (because she really needs her pockets lined).

Glenn tied together his "think piece" by holding up a can of Copenhagen snuff.  Copenhagen, Denmark and Copenhagen tobacco - see the connection?  He then reads off the cancer warning on the side of the tin before putting up a big "may cause cancer" sticker next to Michelle and Barack Obama on the 1970's era chalkboard he was using to map this conspiracy of 'Olympic' proportions. His "map" on the chalkboard was set up as a sort of nefarious organized crime org chart - the kind you see in RICO trials, with Michael Corleone's photo on top.  Similarly, Glenn had both Barrack and Michelle looking down from on high atop this organization of evilness.

Ah, Glenn.  Just when I fear I'm not getting my recommended daily allowance of 'Coocoo for Coco Puffs', you fill me up with crazy goodness.

Who let the dog in? Woof, Woof, Woof, Woof

Michael Vick re-signs with Nike, eh?  They're obviously convinced he's rehabilitated. And they would certainly know. Because they're fair minded people.  Sure, they want to make a buck; however, they'd never compromise their core principles in that pursuit.  I believe that.  The problem, of course, is their core principles. It would be refreshing for them to compromise them for once, let a little good old fashion dignity in there. Or maybe just a little tact.  "But gosh, Steve," you say. "Michael made a mistake, America's all about second chances!"

A mistake?  Okay, sure.

Oops! Didn't mean to hold that dog's head underwater so long! Or the one before that and then there were those others - see the pile of rotting mistake carcasses up against the garage? 

Darn! The electrodes slipped!  I didn't mean to place them around Laddie's gonads with live current runing through them! Sorry, Rover. Excuse me, Rex.  Apologies, Rin Tin Tin.  Man, did you see those sparks?!?  Sniff. Sniff.  What's that odor?  Is somebody barbecuing?!?  Throw another dog on the grill for me!  Extra ketchup!

Perhaps Nike is branching out yet again.  I mean they make everything from golf equipment to clothing to watches.  Maybe they're coming out with a whole new line of Nike branded merchandise:

• The 'After Party' Canine Corpse Handling Gloves ("keeps the blood - off your duds")
  
• Loser Doggy Drowning Tubs, with attached swoosh emblazoned leather head brace!
  
• High voltage Maimed Mutt Electrode Testicle Teasers! 
  

"Need to put a few Rovers down?  Have fun as they fry or a blast as they drown!   Shoooossshhh!"

A mistake?  There are certainly more than enough of those to go around.  Were his crimes that heinous in the grand scheme of things? Perhaps the effect was fairly low on the totem pole of atrocities.  But the intent was right up there with the worst of them.  And in the end, in my book, that's what counts. 

Hey, PETA, time to dust off those Nike signs of yore ...

Okay, I'm done with ragging on Vick.  You can only beat a dead horse so long, so-to-speak.  But a dead dog?  Well, just ask Mike ...

[Postscript: Vick, it turns out, didn't re-sign with Nike.  Nike simply gave him free clothes and equipment for the honor of having him use and wear the stuff, cause God knows you want your brand associated with sadism. Which changes nothing, since it means the same from an ethical point of view (it simply means they not only have no morals, they have no spine either).]

Sarah in the Sky with Rougeness

Our lady of the midnight spotlight on Russia has already finished her memoirs!  Four hundred pages written faster than she can read.  Going Rogue: An American Life (actual title!) will be on the book shelves in mid-November and I'll be among the first in line to snatch up a copy.

Perhaps she should have coordinated the release with one by Richard "Rogue Warrier" Marcinko for some good old fashion synergy (he didn't know when to quit, she didn't know when not to; they have so much in common besides being all rogue).  I smell the 2012 Republican dream ticket cooking here (I'll leave it to The Architect to work out the details; however, Karl, credit where credit's due, eh?).

If her tweets are any indication of the content - perhaps they *are* the content - this book'll be a page-turner unlike anything since William Burroughs was perfecting the art of the "cut-up" style in the early 1960s.  Perhaps she can convince Shatner to do the reading for the audio book (he's already adept at the interpretation of her work, after all).

Shatner Recites Palin Farewell Speech:


Shatner Recites Palin Tweets:

It was perhaps poetic that the real life inspiration for Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds died today.  A sign to our Star Spangled Lady of the Great White Northern Hope to look to Shatner as Her One True Voice. Her Metatron, the wings to lift her linguistic flights of scribbled down maverickosity (maverickness? gooseness? icemanesque?) so all can behold.

After all, Shatner's reading of Lucy stands as the definitive version of the song, far surpassing the pedestrian effort Lennon and the boys put forward on Sgt. Pepper.  And I really mean this.  With Lennon and the mop tops, you felt they were always at least half kidding with the psychedelic window dressing. Shatner was stone serious, though; his rendition dug down into your spine.  You felt as though you had been dosed with three sheets of the best blotter acid just listening to the guy.

"Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes and she's Gooooooonnnnneeeeeee!!!!"

Food for thought, Sista Sarah ...

Diamonds in the Dogshit

Before I get to work (my procrastination instincts are acting up), I thought in honor of my 96th post (er, make that 97) I'd dig through this steaming pile of shit and see if I could find at least a couple of earlier posts I thought were perhaps mildly amusing. It's all subjective of course. What isn't subjective is the fact that most of this blog is crap and some of the better bits get lost in the morass. So, in keeping with my odd milestone numbering choices, my personal top 7 in terms of self-amusement (and in no particular order):

• Rod Blagojevich Depends Diapers for the working professional
• Musing on Manson, Dr. G and the Washington Huskies
  
• Healthcare Satire
• Sarah In the Sky with Diamonds, our Queen of the Yukon meets TJ Kirk
  
• Michael Jackson as the New Timothy Leary
• Infomercial Gang on a Coke Bing
• Fear and Loathing on the Autopsy Table

'No future for you' - J. Lydon, 1977

Mad Men marathon! Ah, but it's just the 3rd season stuff.  Dr. G marathon! It's Sunday - what's new?  I'm torn between watching these and the Eagles game (the latter only in anticipation of someone taking a cheap shot at Michael Vick and rooting on Kansas City - thus far it's not working in my favor).  
The thought of these choices is depressing on a level I didn't think possible.

Miserable rain, a goddamn cold - I already had the flu over the summer for crying out loud - and here comes another fucking Charles Schwab commercial to further rattle my brain. Why didn't 'Chuck' go under with the financial industry collapse? A clear sign there is no God; if there is, he's surely a sadist. 

I think it's time to get it over with: pass me the Plum Smart flavored Activia, cover me with a Snuggie and hand me the number of a good nursing home (time to check myself in).  That or hit me upside the head with a wet sock full of dogshit. Whichever is easier.  Is there some irony in the fact that I have the TV sound off and the Sex Pistols on the stereo?  Probably not irony, just a bit of pathetic sadness. Meanwhile, somewhere in the world, John Lydon's prostate is acting up and the self proclaimed anti-christ is cleaning his dentures in a glass while watching a Madlock marathon.  Or maybe he's enjoying Dr. G like me.

Back in the real world, apparently our long national nightmare may finally be over as I see the crafty Swiss have snared international super villain Roman Polanski in a 'career retrospective film festival' sting.  He fell for that old chestnut?  I recall it failing miserably when the CIA tried it with Bin Laden a couple years back:
"The Tora Bora Terrorism Follies featuring the works of Osama and the Not-Ready-for-72-Virgins Players" was quite an embarrassment to the boys in Langley when only Momar, Oliver Stone and then-Senator Obama bothered to show up, though Bin Laden did send Glenn Beck to accept the lifetime achievement award on his behalf. (Who would have thunk that last one? I would have.)

BTW, the CIA really shouldn't have advertised a 'Saturday mini-retrospective on Kenyan Terrorist Romantic Comedies' for this 'festival' if they wanted to keep the audience clear of American officials for a clean bust (they had to have known of Barack's Muslim Socialist Fascist Kenyan inclinations).  However, that Obama not only attended but kept breaking out into Arsenio Hall "Woof Woof" gestures during the Kenyan flicks should have at least raised a red flag with regard to the nefarious intentions of our future dear leader. That'll teach the CIA: now they have to translate the daily presidential briefings into Swahili and soon all agents not otherwise in the field will have to attend the four week government-grade medical school and do double duty as federal healthcare physicians.

Tonight is a busy evening for tube watching, what with 60 Minutes, Dexter and Californication kicking off new seasons + Curb and Mad Men.  Thank god for DVRs.

Now I need to stop typing garbage into this infernal blog and start studying (the alarm went off a month or so ago on what seems to be a recurring every-two-years new job itch and I'm in serious talks with a couple doctors who can treat this outbreak for me but only if I prepare).

[Postscript: The Sex Pistols gave way to Groovelily on the stereo and Dr. G/Mad Men/Football gave way to the Wizard of Oz (all the other shows will just have to cool their heels in my DVR until I finish this journey down the yellow brick road).  I haven't taken this trip for a long, long time.  It was my very favorite movie as a young boy and perhaps the most anticipated television day of the year for me when they replayed it annually on ... well, whichever one of the three networks that had the rights - I could google it if I wasn't so lazy.  Oz was, to me as a kid, a world apart from the shitty one I was living in.  

Little did I know Judy Garland's life was hell and she had already long since undertaken a daily regiment of booze, pills and tobacco that would have put Janis Joplin and Billy Holiday to shame by the time she filmed Oz at age 17.  Still, that knowledge doesn't hurt the movie one lick; in fact, it adds some poignancy to the mix.]