My unbaked thoughts and self righteous commentary on politics, pop culture or whatever else might slip out of my fingers onto the keyboard. For tech stuff, visit my technology-related blog and for bad poetry and stories, my poetry/story blog. Actually, both of these other blogs are updated much more frequently these days.
The Academy of Motion Pictures is going to honor Roger Corman with a lifetime achievement award. This is, to me, a very welcome if surprising decision. Welcome, because I grew up loving Corman's work on the late show (back when that term signfied not a Letterman gabfest but rather the screening of a "lesser" movie or two prior to the channel signing off for the evening). Surprising, because Corman specialized in these "lesser" low budget / b-movies, with plenty of gore and cheesy special effects. Not usually the pretentious Academy's cup of tea, unless they're convinced it's "ironic" or "artistically reverential" a la Tarantino. That attitude reminds me of a Simpson's throwaway gag in their Viva Ned Flanders Vegas episode where the Mirage Hotel events sign blares the headliner act "A TRIBUTE TO THE MOODY BLUES" and in much smaller print below it: "opening act: the moody blues".
Corman's heyday ran from the late 1950's through the end of the 60's, a catalog constituting a style both singular and powerfully imaginative, squeezing every ounce out of their shoestring budgets.
Speaking of influences, Quentin Tarantino should pony up a percentage of the box office take to Roger for every flick he's put out.
Corman also discovered and nurtured such then-unknown actors as Jack Nicholson, Dennis Hopper and Robert De Niro, to name just a few. Nicholson was a Corman mainstay in the 60's.
Good to see Roger's getting a bit of respect from the Hollywood suits. I look at him in the same light as I do the Ramones and Velvet Underground: their discographies do not in and of themselves reflect their importance; rather, it was their inspiration to and influence on scores of other young musicians of note who went on to hall of fame careers. I'm paraphrasing, but somebody once wrote that the Velvet Underground probably only had a few thousand fans during their time together; however, every last one of them formed a band. That's Corman in a nutshell to me.
Sesame Street turns 40 today, eh? So Google tells me, anyway. Is there no end to notable 40th anniversaries this year? Obviously, 1969 was a year of consequence, more than just the summer of Bryan Adams' first wet dream. I was 7 when Sesame Street rolled onto the scene and a bit too old to really get into it (by that point, I was more into superhero cartoons and just starting to grow out of my J.P. Patches phase). But who am I kidding? I never grew out of my love for the world of J.P. Patches, as god awful as it may have been. Awfully good, that is.
For those of you who didn't grow up in the Seattle/Puget Sound area in the 60's or 70's, you're not likely to be familiar with J.P Patches. Let me enlighten you.
J.P. was a tramp/clown played by Chris Wedes who presided as "Mayor of the City Dump," a world that was vaguely Sesame Street-like, in its own low-rent way. The show took place almost exclusively at the same, single-set location (appropriately made to look like the grimy corner of a city dump). J.P. held court there, showing us cartoons and interacting with the wacky gaggle of heroes ("The Swami of Pastrami"), villains ("Boris S. Wart!"), lovers (J.P.'s "girlfriend" Gertrude the Clown), and friends ("Ketchikan the Animal Man") who rounded out this alternate universe of magic and filth.
Except for J.P., virtually all of the characters on the show - whether they be male, female, human or otherwise - were played by Bob Newman wrapped in sundry cheesy, cheap costumes and bad vocal gymnastics. So of course, J.P. could only interact with one at a time since Mr. Newman didn't have a twin or clone and was thus bound by the laws of physics (and trapped in a time and with a budget that did not allow for even the most primitive of special effects).
Wedes and Newman, both now in their eighties, made an appearance last year to witness the unveiling of twin bronze statues of their alter egos on the 50th anniversary of the show's debut (that's them at the ceremony on the left). Of course, these two are still regulars at county fairs, supermarket grand openings and pretty much any other public gathering you can imagine, almost always in full costume (though Newman confines himself to playing just Gertrude these days). The end of the show on television merely meant that they were freed up to take the act on the road up and down the highways and byways of the Great Northwest.
When I was a kid, J.P. was on for an hour and a half on weekday mornings before school and again for an hour in the afternoon. And he popped up for still more on Saturdays. Jeez, that's a lot of show! His morning time slot led up to the national Captain Kangaroo program, but I never got into the Captain all that much. Too polished for my taste, I'm guessing. J.P. was raw, the production values non-existent, with "acting" that would make Keanu Reeves proud. I mentioned that it was a lot of show? Well, it took a City Dump's worth of bullshit to fill up all that air time and the dynamic duo of Wedes and Newman could shovel it steaming and thick while still making you want for more.
Despite - or perhaps because of - all the cheese and really, really, really bad costumes, the world J.P. Patches and crew created seemed very real to me as a young boy. And actual honest-to-goodness people stopped by "The City Dump" nearly every episode to reinforce the suspension of disbelief: local scout troops, CBS Seattle affiliate news and weather personalities, local politicians, national celebrities that happened to be in town, etc. All were welcomed to the Dump by His Honor, that ultimate clown prince of bums. (With apologies to Chaplin, his Little Tramp wouldn't even rate a meal from J.P.'s trashcan, fuckin' silent English twit.)
So, it's not their anniversary or anything, but when I think of Sesame Street, my mind turns to J.P. Patches.
For those interested in more, and aren't satisfied by Wikipedia's entry, visit the J.P. Patches home page.
For those who are baffled by this post, well - ya hadda be there, I guess.
Michael Vick. What a punk. The guy's an unrepentant sociopath (I guess to be a sociopath sort of implies that you're incapable of being repentant). I didn't buy his crocodile tears or his 'heartfelt' regrets. I couldn't swallow his vow to turn his "mistake" into a crusade for good. It was clear that this was all (poorly) rehearsed, born from the best spin-meisters money can buy. Years spent torturing dogs for pleasure do not add up to "a mistake."
But I finally begrudgingly said that I'd give the guy some time. I didn't root for the Eagles like I had in the past, but I wasn't necessarily always rooting against them. Well, a few months have gone by and Vick's having a hard time keeping the sociopath in his core from bubbling up. It makes an appearance in every interview I've seen him in. And played a starring role in the one I caught on ESPN tonight.
Now, I'm not a card-carrying PETAvegan (though I happen to agree with their many of their core beliefs). I'm a carnivore. I like a tasty steak and dig a decent burger. I also try not to be hypocritical: dogs are not inherently better than beef cattle simply because I live in a society that keeps the former as pets and kills the latter as food. Slaughterhouses are grim means to an end. But the difference is that we generally don't treat them like Disneyland, where people come and get their jollys watching animals die. And though far too sizable a percentage of these places do cause more suffering than is necessary, but that's the bottom line driving that. Not an excuse - in fact, I personally find it reprehensible; an example of money as the root of all evil. Still, the suffering itself is an unfortunate by-product, not their reason for being. That's the difference between slaughterhouses and dog fighting. Dog fighting is pure, unadulterated sadism.
Well, eight more games to the season. Eight more opportunities for the opposition to really lay the hurt on Vick. I'm not a sadist, I don't want him to suffer unnecessarily. I'll take the least painful route to a career ending injury for Mr. Vick.
Speaking of sociopaths, I see one of my favorite childhood television characters is featured in a movie newly arrived to Cinemax. I speak naturally of Ron Howard's Frost/Nixon. Though he never made an appearance himself, Nixon was nevertheless omnipresent during the Watergate Trial that played out for me after school on the tube (hey, kids: in those pre-cable days, you couldn't simply switch to the Cartoon Network). Nixon is the primary reason I became interested in politics, and is perhaps the greatest influence on my current political bent (that's right, Tricky Dick molded me into a liberal).
Frost/Nixon is great theater and Frank Langella really embodies the man in all his complexities. (Is it just a coincidence that Langella also embodied Dracula so well 30 years ago?) Let's remember that for all of Nixon's warts (and god knows the guy was virtually one big wart), he was cunningly intelligent and we shouldn't minimize the progress he made in our relations with China (our future overlords given the rocketing monetary debt to them we've been amassing).
Who am I kidding? China was Kissinger's doing. Nixon could have cared less about "The Red Menace" - he was too busy doing lines of coke off the floor of the oval office while ordering hits on the heads of the Girls and Boy Scouts of America for subversive activity. Or so I heard ...
Well, Vick and Dick. The evening started watching an interview with Dick on ESPN, which precipitated this rant, and is ending switching between the Broncos/Steelers game and Frost/Nixon. Who could ask for a better Monday?
It's Sunday in Drexel Hill and oddly quiet in my neighborhood. A gorgeous autumn day here - the foliage at its technicolor peak. This is probably my favorite time of the year, and yet it doesn't feel that way this go round. Things are muted somehow, less sharply in focus.
Meanwhile, even as fall has only really just swung into full tumble, the Holiday season has already kicked into high gear on my TV and Web Browser. Both mediums are rife with sticky sweet holiday cheer. Ba Humbug.
But thank god for Discovery Health, my "go-to" network. They have a Sunday marathon of Skeleton Stories. Not sure what this has to do with "health" (I guess it's the forensics angle, much like Dr. G). Still, fascinating stories. Fuck football, skeletons rule this Sunday. Nothing cheers ya up like an afternoon of skeletons, I always say. Well, I don't always say that, but perhaps I should.
Meanwhile, back in the real world, the house managed to (just barely) pass a watered-down health care bill last night that might provide perhaps just a little bit of good but just as likely won't do much at all. Except, that is, to give its opponents some "see, told ya" ammunition.
It gets so I just can't stand the Democratic leadership in congress. They're a bunch of lily livered, mealy mouthed jack asses. Politicians in the worst sense of the term. And I'm one of the few left in this country that happens to think "Politician" can be a noble profession. But I'd love to have residency in Pelosi's 8th Congressional District in CA, just so I could run her out of office. We need people in there with a spine. Also, people who are not yet embalmed. Nancy misses the mark in both categories.
If the right is going to demonize any healthcare legislation passed, let's get something through that might have a shot at doing some good, rather than a weighty sprawl of diluted compromises. The #!*? compromises are made for the people who nevertheless still railed against the thing. Fear and loathing, indeed.
Alright, alright. Enough soapbox stuff.
And enough stuff, altogether. Time to sign off for now. Until next time ...
Whatever happened to Mr. Yuk? I recall him clearly from my childhood and he's apparently still out and about, but keeping a mighty low profile since his glory days in the early 70's. Not sure why: there's far more poisons to strike fear into the hearts of parents today (or at least we recognize more of them as such now).
I hadn't had a conscious thought of the poster boy for the dangers of poison since his hey day until earlier this week when I inexplicably dropped his name in a discussion on new process adoption ("old way, bad like Mr. Yuk; new way, good like Mr. Pibb"). Never mind that Mr. Pibb doesn't conger up visions of wonderful, I don't have an explanation of why Mr. Yuk slipped from my lips.
Ahh, is there nothing better than 70's TV Commercials? They just don't make 'em like that anymore.
Though I must admit I'm quite fond of the Halls Refresh Commercial making the rounds, if only for its high octane creep factor taken to a degree I'm sure its makers did not intend. Or maybe they did. Either way, it has an effect. It's certainly nowhere near as creepy as those horrid Charles Schwab commercials (I blame them for the collapse of the financial industry).
This post is obviously going nowhere - at least I'm consistent in that regard. When I was churning this garbage out daily, it didn't matter as much; however, seeing as though I'm only getting around to it on the weekends, I outta try a bit harder. I just don't have the energy.
I'm enjoying the umpteenth viewing of Unforgiven, one of my very favorite flicks. I never liked most of Eastwood's 70's and 80's Dirty Harry-centric action flicks (though they were sort of entertaining in a 'B' movie, guilty pleasure kind of way). His spaghetti western stuff was classic, though not my cup of tea (and his follow-on cowboy movies through the 70's followed suit, albeit without Leone's style or the cheesy dubbing). I love the work he's done over the last twenty years, though. Both in front of but especially behind the camera.
Unforgiven is my top pick of Eastwood's fine 90's/00's litter (fighting neck and neck with Million Dollar Baby and Mystic River). I'm not a big Western aficionado but Unforgiven turns the genre on its head, mocking all the stereotypes with a jaundiced eye biting on a raw nerve. And the music's perfect. If you ever shied away because you don't dig Westerns and/or disliked Eastwood's earlier work, do yourself a favor and give it a go.
But now it's over and that means Bedtime for Bonzo, drifting off to a re-run of Kill Bill, Vol. 1 (my favorite of the Bill flicks, though most who like them at all seem to opt for Vol 2). Not Tarantino's best in my view but entertaining, funny and great tunes all the same. A glorious mess. Volume 3 was recently announced for release around 2014. That's certainly planning ahead (or maybe wishful thinking).
Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day. I won't have to go to work, so that already makes it a step up from every day of the past three weeks. But I probably shouldn't jump the gun on that (I think I thought the same thing each of the past two Friday nights).
And finally ... I'm looking forward to the season finale of Mad Men on Sunday, as well as the final episode of the "Seinfeld" story arc on Curb Your Enthusiasm.
Wise words last night from 30 Rock's Jack Donaghy: “Small towns are where you see kindness and goodness and courage of every day Americans, the folks who teach our kids, run our prisons and grow our cigarettes, people still living by core American values.”
That would make a great bumper sticker. "Small Town Americans: they teach our kids, run our prisons and grow our cigarettes."
Indeed. The things that made Johnny Cougar so proud. It might be added that they mash the grains that make our booze and cook the pseudoephedrine that makes our methamphetamine. Not a whole lot of big city folks doing that.
I come from a smallish town, a hick from the sticks of the great Northwest. So I was bursting with pride as I watched 30 Rock's tribute to us salt-of-the-earth types.
Now I'm going to make me a Carp Po' Boy with Extra Chuckle ('that piece of the pig between the tail and the anus') and hit the hay, small-town style.
I fell off the workaholic wagon this past week. And I'd been doing so good! I'd been keeping to no more than 60 hour weeks, etc. Then I got sucked into emergency production support land on the 18th and suddenly I look up and it's the 29th.
That news dragged me out of my working bender and back into what's most important in life. And in plenty of time for the holidays. I can start my Christmas shopping early!
Those of you with young ones are likely already worrying about how best to satisfy their toys-from-Santa jones this holiday season as it kicks into gear yet again. Little Suzie and Jimmy are surely even now starting to feast on an increasing diet of self centered materialistic tis-the-season greed, and you'll only watch it grow in ignorant anticipation as the big day approaches. This narcissism reaches its apex as they race out of bed on Christmas morning, scrambling for the living room to see what Santa has left for them under the tree.
Selfish little pricks.
This year, teach them the true meaning of Christmas (and life). What is that, you say? Why, suffering and death, of course. And what says death better than a casket from Walmart, wrapped up in a bow?
Remember, caskets aren't just dynamite gifts for the terminally ill or elderly. Oh, no, not at all. Murder, accidents, suicide - everyone can use a stylish casket or urn, because you never know. Think of it as the last bedroom set they'll ever need and that need can't be met soon or young enough. The topper is that you can do your shopping for these festive cadaver cocoons from the comfort of your home computer now, brought to you by that behemoth brand you know and love.
What are those massive items propped up next to the tree, kids? Boy, Santa brought you both something pretty big! Go on now, tear off the Christmas wrap so we can all see what they are!
Oh, gosh! What are they, you ask? Caskets! That's right kids, your own Junior Caskets - go ahead and try 'em out! Never too early to be prepared for the grim reaper! I think Santa's helpers must have had some help themselves - from our neighbors at Walmart.com!
What's wrong, children?!!?
Sure, an XBox or Barbie Playhouse might have given you more immediate satisfaction; however, that kind of fun is fleeting. Time to put away that ignorant, obnoxious joy of yours and trade it in for some good old fashioned informed security. Depressed? I hope so! That's what the Pharmaceutical Industry is for - they'll fix ya up! But that's for Christmases to come. Let's focus on the here and now. And look: Santa left you each twin bottles of pine and peppermint embalming fluid in your stockings! Mmm, smells Christmas-y! And see, Jimmie - your casket makes a super soap box derby racer while you're waiting to kick the bucket! Maybe "kill" two birds with one stone - eh, son? Wink. Wink.
Now who wants some eggnog while Mom and I help you fill out those wills your older sister got you?!?
I toil in the murky world of software development and architecture for my supper, a frustrated writer who fell into the technology game quite by chance.
My humor is usually parched and pitch black (if you don't squirm, it's not funny), aimed often at the brilliance and sublime idiocy in politics and pop culture.
Finally, at the end of the day I'm really just a devoted student of life with failing grades who keeps registering for new classes with the fervent hope that he doesn't get expelled this semester.
The opinions expressed here are my own (and they usually don't qualify as that for very long). They are not to be construed as opinions of my employer, my dead dog, the Pope, Richard Nixon's ghost, or Paris Hilton. (Well, maybe on occasion, Paris. I think that - like me - she's student of life at heart.)
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